Itwasgoing to be in four months. I’m not going through with it. I’m numb, in shock.
I’m not getting married.
All the plans I’ve made over the last year, the relationship I built for the last three, dissolved like a wisp of cotton candy.
People probably bought flights. Booked hotels. The caterer will have to be called. I’ll have to explain to our wedding planner that it didn’t work out.
With shaking hands, I unzip the garment bag, my fingertips coasting along the back of the dress and unfurling the skirt. I push the garment bag to the floor and hold the gown up to my body, still on the hanger. My hair, blown straight today, swishes over the front of the dress as I turn my head. Rob wanted me to wear my hair straight for the wedding. I wanted my natural curls, knowing September in Raleigh would still be roasty hot and humid.
But Rob always points out how my hair looks more “grown up” when it’s straight. A lump rises in my throat as I consider that. Late afternoon sunlight streams in through the open blinds, leaving shadowed stripes across the gown.
Still, it glows. Elegant, simple satin makes my hips and ass vie for attention against my boobs, but it’s not a showy dress. Just made for me. Perfectly tailored to my every curve.
Glamorous.
Made for the life I have here. A life that I’m throwing away. I hunch forward, covering my eyes with my hand as another wave of tears hits. What am I doing?
My phone buzzes with an incoming call from Aunt Maggie. When I answer, I can’t clear the tears from my voice.
“Oh, honey,” is all Maggie says. Her voice is home. It sounds likehah-nee. “It’ll be alright. Bill and I have an idea, but I don’t know how you’ll feel about it. Whyn’t ye come on home and we’ll talk it all out?”
Whatever it is, it’s bound to be better than what I’ve got here.
TWO
JAKE
I need this job.
I dust off my shirt before I get out of my truck, checking to make sure there’s no mustard stain from my stop at the hot dog stand. At least I had the good sense to not get onions. I don’t need onion breath on top of reeking of desperation. This isn’t a date, but it’s probably more important.
A date might be nice, though.
I’m running out of options. I can’t graduate without testing my robot, and I can’t test my robot without some fruit to pick. I chose to not take or teach any classes this summer so I could focus on building my robot. Then, I can test it at a farm and be well on my way to graduating in December.
But not teaching puts me in a position where I don’t have a ton of cash, so my best case scenario is to double dip: work on a farm where I can test my robot. Ideally, I’d even triple dip by finding a farm I can live on for the summer.
Could I go home and test it on my family’s farm? Yes, but there are reasons why I’m here and not there, and I don’t want to deal with going home if I don’t have to.
I palm my cowboy hat sitting on the dash, the black felt one that was my dad’s. I’m not sure if I want to wear it to this farmers market. I peek behind me to see what the farmers are wearing, and it’s unanimously ball caps. It’s too hot for black felt anyway. I’d look like some city boy cosplaying as a cowboy. Still, I touch the cowboy hat for good luck, choose the snapback trucker cap on my dash, and lift my arms to make sure I don’t have pit stains in the late May heat. Sweat’s a given, but I’d rather not show it.
I get out and swing my truck’s creaky door shut, an aging F-150 that I fight tooth and nail to keep alive. They don’t make them like this anymore, and I’d rather scrounge for ancient parts than deal with a car payment. Even as a graduate teaching assistant with a full tuition ride, I’m scraping my way through grad school.
I have a target at this market, and a backup if need be. The Paint County Farmers Market is twice a week, but I chose to come on a Wednesday, assuming it would be quieter.
I stroll through the stalls, declining offers of mustard samples (you won’t get my shirt this time, Mustard Satan), pepper jellies, and banana bread. I lay eyes on the vendor I’m after: Rossetti’s Peach Farm.
Based on my research, it’s a multi-generational family farm with a three-acre orchard, not so different from what my family has in Virginia. When I did a driveby to scope the place out, it looked like there was a decent-sized cabin and a main house. I’m hoping one of those buildings is for seasonal workers. My current lease is up next week, and it’d be nice to not have to beg one of my few friends here for a spot on their couch until I figure out something else.
I stride up to the peach stall, taking in the hand-painted sign and baked peach goods on the table. Makes sense since peaches aren’t in season yet.
“You Mr. Rossetti?”
“Please, that’s my father. I’m Bill,” the gray-mustachioed man says, extending his hand. “Can’t claim to be number one. What can I do ya for?”
I both cringe and grin at the old-timey phrase as we wrap up our handshake. “I’m Jake. I’m hoping you’re looking for some summer help.”
His bushy eyebrows rise and he cocks his head to the side. “Matter of fact, I am. I’ve got two people, but might could use one or two more. You got farming experience?”
