I didn’t want to. I hadn’t since that dinner when everything felt too intense. Again.
But I looked anyway.
His eyes searched my face. “When’s the last time you slept?”
“I slept fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He took a protein bar out of his pocket and held it out to me without speaking.
I unwrapped it, grateful he didn’t make a thing out of it.
I took a bite and another drink of coffee, then walked to the next row. Behind me, I heard him sigh.
The crew arrived as the sun broke over the hills. Eight men my father had known forever.
When they got to work, I grabbed shears and a bin and headed into the first row.
Snapper followed.
The vines were planted close enough together that we had to work single file, passing the bins forward as they filled. Cut, lay, move, repeat. My hands knew the work without thinking. Which was good, because thinking about what I was doing, why I was doing it, what would happen if this didn’t work, made each breath take effort.
“Hand me that bin,” Snapper said from behind me.
I did.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said.
“I haven’t.” I cut three more clusters and laid them in the bin. “We’re harvesting. Can we not do this right now?”
“Do what?”
“Talk about things that don’t matter.”
Silence. Then so quiet I almost didn’t hear it: “I didn’t realize I didn’t matter.”
I caught myself before I crushed the cluster in my hand when my shears slipped. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then, what did you mean?”
“Not that,” I said under my breath.
We worked without talking after that. The only sounds were the shears snipping, the leaves rustling, and the low conversations from the crew in other rows. My back started to ache, and my hands cramped. The sun climbed higher, and sweat soaked through my shirt.
By midmorning, I’d changed into a tank top and still couldn’t cool down. I grabbed a water bottle from the cooler at the end of the row and drained half of it.
Snapper appeared beside me, reaching for his own bottle. His shirt was damp too, sticking to his chest and shoulders. He lifted the bottle to drink, and I watched his throat work as he swallowed.
“Have you eaten today?” he blurted.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask if you were hungry.” He stepped closer. “I asked when you last ate.”
“Yesterday. Maybe. I don’t know.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah, it matters.” His jaw tightened. “You’re running yourself into the ground.”
“I’m fine.”
