And then—a moment I’ll never forget—she leans in just a fraction, gets in Diana’s face, and says, low and clear, “Fuck off and never come back.”
Diana stares at her like she’s just been slapped. Her eyes burning with humiliation, she practically bolts.
The front door slams shut behind her.
I stare at Mia, still stunned. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
She grins. “You’re not on it…anymore.” And then she squeals. “That was so fucking satisfying.”
I laugh, my heart full to the brim. “Yes, it was.”
CHAPTER 37
Mia
It’s apple and pumpkin season in Vermont, that time when farms throw open their gates and invite you to wander through neat rows of trees, filling bags and wagons with fruit until your arms ache.
Pumpkins glow in every shade of orange, corn mazes twist and turn, and little festivals in Montpelier and Stowe celebrate everything beautiful about fall in the Green Mountains.
The hills around Burlington are ablaze in red, amber, and fiery orange. Leaves drift down like confetti as Katya and I drive to the pumpkin patch.
Since Anya passed, Katya’s been caught in a kind of stasis, so on weekends I coax her out of the house.
Today, I’m taking her to Applecrest Hollow—a name straight out of one of the storybooks I read to my school kids.
Katya and I have been coming here since we were in kindergarten, and I’m hoping it will spark memories forher, the kind that warm rather than wound. That’s how I coped after losing my parents—by clinging to the happy moments. Sometimes, they’re the best defense against grief.
We’re wrapped in coats, with knit hats tugged low over our ears. It might be a sunny day, but the air is crisp.
Winter is coming.
“I forgot how beautiful fall is here,” she murmurs, looking around. “Like the trees are trying to give us one last miracle before everything sleeps.”
I squeeze her hand. “She would’ve loved this day.”
“She would’ve told us to buy too many pumpkins.” A small laugh escapes her. “And she would’ve shamelessly tried to fix me up with the cider guy.”
We walk into the patch, and it’s like entering a memory you don’t know you’re about to cherish.
The place smells of hot cider, cinnamon, and hay.
Children are everywhere, running between rows of fat pumpkins, and climbing on hay bales shaped like dragons.
Couples take selfies holding lopsided pumpkins.
A scarecrow leans lazily against a maple tree.
We get cups of warm cider, and stroll toward the cornstalk archway framing the main field.
“There’s something about apple cider.” I take a long sip. “It warms you from the inside.”
Katya bobs her head in agreement. “It’s a panacea.”
Two kids, one in a bee costume and another dressed like a sunflower, tumble past us, their parentschasing them.
“Where’s Aiden today?” Katya muses.
“I think he and Hux had plans to go hiking. Why?”
