“Okay,” he'd said, not pushing it. But I saw the doubt in his eyes.
I know now, with the kind of brutal clarity that only hindsight provides, that I was lying. To him, but mostly tomyself. I'd been so desperate for it to work, so desperate to prove that I could have that kind of “successful” partnership, that I'd ignored the gaping, hollow feeling in my own chest.
I turn off the ignition. The car's engine ticks in the sudden silence. This is different. My anxiety, this time, is flipped. I'm not worried my friends won't like Maya. How could they not? She's warm, funny, smart, and kind. She’s... everything. I’m worried about whatshe'llthink ofTim.
My stomach does a nervous little flip-flop. Tim is the best person I know, hands down. He's loyal, brilliant, and has a bigger heart than anyone I've ever met. But he's also... not exactly conventional. He runs this place, a non-profit apple farm that doubles as a summer camp for underserved kids. He spends almost every dollar he makes on rescuing animals—the farm is a sanctuary for a motley crew of three-legged goats and retired plow horses. In the spring and fall, he lives in a 1980s Airstream camper van parked by the pond, and the rest of the year he's in the small apartment above the camp's mess hall.
He's a Deadhead, a philosophy major, and a shrewd businessman all rolled into one. He's a modern-day hippie with a surprisingly sharp portfolio. But I worry she'll just see the “camper van” and “rescue animals” part and write him off as a flake, a burnout. I worry she won't see the man I trust with my life.
“You okay?” Maya asks, her hand landing on my arm.
I look at her. She's watching me, her head tilted, a small, knowing crease between her brows.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile and covering her hand with mine. “Just... haven't been back in a while. It's a lot, you know?”
“I get it,” she says softly, her thumb rubbing back and forth in gentle sweeps.
“C'mon,” I say, squeezing her hand and taking a deep breath. “Let's go find Tim.”
We get out of the car, and the air is crisp, smelling of woodsmoke and ripe apples. Maya grabs her tote bag, the one I saw her packing her crochet stuff into this morning. The simple, domestic act of it makes my heart ache.
We walk toward the main farm building, a large, rustic red barn that houses the shop and the cider press. I spot Tim instantly. He’s standing near the large wooden press, wearing his uniform of a faded flannel shirt, paint-stained jeans, and worn-out work boots. He's laughing, his head thrown back, talking to a family with two small kids. He sees us and his face breaks into a grin so wide it looks like it might split his face.
“Zach!” he bellows, striding over. He pulls me into a hard, one-armed hug that thumps the air from my lungs. “Man, it’s so good to see you.”
He releases me and turns to Maya, his smile just as warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “And you must be Maya,” he says, his voice softer. “It is so, so good to finally meet you. I've been hearing...a lotabout you.”
I feel a flush creep up my neck, but Maya just laughs. “It's so great to meet you, too! This place is incredible, Tim.”
She’s holding her tote bag, and Tim's eyes snag on the colorful yarn peeking out of the top.
“No way,” he says, a look of delighted recognition on his face. “Are you a crocheter?”
Maya's entire face lights up. “I am! How did you know?”
“My brother, Blake,” Tim says, laughing. “He's completely obsessed. He's practically yarn-bombed our entire house. He, uh, he actually set up a little crafting nook in the main building, if you want to see it. It's his ‘zen zone’ or whatever.”
“I would love to,” Maya says, her enthusiasm radiating off her.
My anxiety, that cold, heavy stone in my stomach just... dissolves. It vanishes. He's not judging her. She's not judging him. They're just two people connecting over a shared hobby.
“C'mon,” he says, gesturing for us to follow. He leads us into the barn, past the bustling shop full of jams and pies, and tucks us into a quiet alcove I never knew existed. It’s got a big, squishy armchair, a lamp, and shelves overflowing with skeins of yarn in every color imaginable. Curled on the armchair is a sleek, completely hairless cat, who blinks its large green eyes at us.
“And this,” Tim says, “is Sphinx, the actual queen of the castle. She's got a better heating system than my van.”
Maya melts. “Oh, my gosh. She'sbeautiful.”
She drops her tote bag and moves slowly, holding out her hand. The cat sniffs her knuckles, gives a little sound of feline approval, and then leans hard into her touch, purring like a tiny motor.
“Well, you've made a friend for life,” Tim says, looking impressed. “She usually hates everyone but Blake.”
Maya looks from the chair to Tim, then at me. “Would it be... would it be terrible if I just...?” she asks, gesturing to the chair.
“Please,” Tim says, his smile huge. “Make yourself at home. Blake will be thrilled someone's using his stash. I'll tell him he has a new yarn-friend.”
Maya looks at me, a silent question in her eyes. “Go for it,” I say, my heart feeling about three sizes too big. “Seriously. We’ll just be right outside catching up.”
“Okay,” she says, a look of pure, unadulterated bliss on her face. She settles into the chair, scoops Sphinx onto her lap, and pulls her crochet hook and a ball of soft, blue yarn from her bag.
