Prologue
KENNA
“Kenna,if you stare at that list any longer, it’s gonna catch on fire,” Rina says, leaning over my shoulder.
“It’s not that deep,” I mutter, scanning the grocery note my mom shoved into my hand. “She wants peachesandstrawberries. Who even eats that much fruit?”
Natalie snorts. “Your mom. The woman who makes smoothies that taste like regret and spinach.”
We all laugh, the sound mixing with the lazy hum of a summer afternoon. It’s the kind of day Cherry Falls is famous for—sunlight dripping through the trees, cicadas screaming like they’re in a competition, and that sweet smell of asphalt and ice cream melting too fast.
Rina tugs on my sleeve. “Okay, boring errands are done. Beach later?”
“Can’t,” I say, shifting the paper bag in my arms. “My brothers’ll freak if I’m not home by dinner. Again.”
Natalie groans dramatically. “Kenna, you’re fourteen, not four. Tell Asher and Reuben to chill.”
I smile, but it feels half-hearted. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”
We split at the corner—Rina and Nat heading toward thepark, me toward the market. The quiet feels heavier once they’re gone, like the air itself exhales.
The market hums with small-town rhythm: the squeak of wooden crates, the soft thud of peaches being set out, the smell of sun-warmed fruit curling through the air. I grab a basket and move through the aisles, pretending I know what I’m doing.
I’m inspecting a pile of peaches when a familiar voice breaks through the hum.
“Didn’t peg you for a market girl.”
I turn, and there he is.
Cole Parker, leaning against the fruit stand, hands in his pockets, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. His hair’s sun-bleached and a little too long, the kind that probably annoys teachers but looks perfect anyway. There’s something easy about the way he stands—like the world never rushes him.
“Hey,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “What, do I not look like someone who buys fruit?”
He grins. “You look like someone who avoids it.”
I laugh softly. “That’s fair. I’m just running errands for my mom. She’s on a smoothie kick again.”
“Ah, the famous smoothie phase.” He steps closer, picking up a peach and turning it in his hand. “So what’s the verdict—are these any good?”
I shrug. “No clue. I’m just going for the ones that smell like summer.”
He leans in slightly, mock serious. “Summer smells like sunscreen and saltwater. Not fruit.”
“Depends who you ask,” I say, taking the peach from him and holding it up to my nose. “This one smells like my mom’s backyard in July.”
His smile softens. “That’s a good answer.”
We move to the next stand, the one overflowing with berries. The air here smells sweeter, stickier. He plucks a strawberry and twirls it by the stem.
“These,” he says, “are the best. Always strawberries.”
I arch a brow. “No way. Raspberries win every time.”
“Too tart.”
“They’re supposed to be tart. It’s character.”
He chuckles. “Strawberries have balance. They’re sweet, but not too sweet.. Reliable.”
