“Because you’re right. You’re absolutely right. Romance is one hundred percent formulaic. It is absolutely predictable. There is always a happy ending. In fact, there has to be one—or at least an ending that’s hopeful—or it can’t be marketed as a romance. Did you know that?”
Sawyer shook her head. The rest of the table was riveted, the three other women eating their lunch but clearly enjoying the discussion, watching raptly as they chewed.
“Did it ever occur to you that romance is predictable because that’s what the readers want? I told you when we first discussed this subject: Romance is an escape. From home. From work. From reality. When a reader picks up a romance, she knows she’s going to be safe. Yes, it might be a harrowing journey for the characters. They might make horrendous choices and stupid mistakes, but by the end, they’re going to be together, in love, happy. That is why the genre is so popular. It keeps its readers safe and warm and loved, and they know that when they pick it up.” With that, she popped a bite of her own salad into her mouth and chewed, holding Sawyer’s gaze the whole time.
A beat of silence went by before Sawyer finally said, “You’ve had this argument before.”
Jenna grinned. “Only about five hundred times.”
“Okay. You make a very valid point. I concede.” Sawyer nodded and shifted her attention back to her food, and for a moment, Jenna worried that she’d gone too far, that she’d embarrassed Sawyer in front of her family. In her head, she was formulating an apology for later, but just as Ally changed the subject over to what she intended to make with all the apples they’d picked, Jenna felt a warm hand on her thigh. She turned her head and met Sawyer’s gaze, and she was smiling softly.She gave Jenna’s thigh a squeeze, then went back to paying attention to her mom.
And just like that, everything was back to normal.
“I vote for apple turnovers,” Sawyer said. “You haven’t made those in forever.”
Ally nodded. “You’re right. Might be time to bring those back.”
“I just want pie.” That was Courtney, whose plate in front of her was so completely cleaned of food, Jenna wondered for a split second if it had been delivered to her empty, straight from the cupboard. “All the pie. Mom. Seriously. Will you make me pie?”
As Jenna looked around the table, listened to the conversations, and laughed at the teasing and joking, she felt completely at ease. Like she belonged. Not that she didn’t belong in her own family, but it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t tight and warm and intimate. No, this was new for her. And she liked it. A lot.
An hour later, after saying goodbye to the others, Sawyer pulled her Accord into her spot in the driveway and cut the engine. She and Jenna got out, opened the trunk, and hauled their baskets of apples up onto the porch, where they moved to their separate doors.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with all of these,” Sawyer said with a soft laugh as she slid her key into her door. “Every year, my mom insists I take a whole basket home, like I have a dozen apple recipes I’m dying to make.” She lifted one shoulder. “I just eat them with my lunch until whatever’s left goes bad.”
Jenna grinned. “Well, I have a few things I’m going to make. If you leave some in the basket and put them in the basement, I’ll make some for you, too.”
“You will?” Sawyer’s smile was wide, and she pushed her glasses up her nose.
“Absolutely.”
“It’s a deal.”
“Good.” Jenna slid her own key into her lock. “I had fun today. Thanks so much for letting me hang with your family.”
“Please. I think they liked you better than me.”
“I mean, that’s probably a given.” But Jenna winked at her to show she was teasing. “Have a good night, okay?”
“Yeah, you too.” Sawyer pushed her door open, picked up her apples, and went inside.
The wind had picked up a bit, cooling down the air, and Jenna shut the door behind her. She gave a light stomp of her foot on the floor, and Arnold lifted his head from his spot on the couch. When he saw her, he jumped up and hurried toward her, his tail wagging furiously, like he hadn’t seen her in days.
She sat on the floor and let him put his paws up on her chest so he could lavish her with kisses. “Hi, sweetie,” she said, hugging him and scratching his throat the way he liked it. “So, that was actually fun. Sawyer’s family is super nice, and they took me right in like I belonged there. I picked lots of apples. Do you want a bite of one with your dinner later?” Arnold watched her talk as if he could not only hear her but understood exactly what she was saying. There was something so incredibly heartwarming about having his attention, and she hugged him close. “I missed you,” she said into his fur.
After their little lovefest, she hauled her apples into the kitchen, let Arnold out to do his business, then plopped onto the couch and texted Shane to see if all was well with the store. She never really worried about leaving things in the hands of her employees—they were more than competent. But BookLove was her baby, so she checked in often, even when she didn’t need to. She opened a bottle of a smooth Cabernet and poured herself a small glass. Once she was assured all was fine, she set the phone aside, kicked off her shoes, and stretched out on the couch, the latest advance reader copy of a new book in her hand. Arnold curled himself up between her knees, and it only took a couple minutes before both Wallace and Gromit joined her, Gromit stretched across the back of the couch and Wallace parked on her chest, his purr vibrating through her rib cage.
She opened her book, glad she’d poured the glass of wine, because Wallace wasn’t going to let her up any time soon, and never once focused on the pages in front of her.
Her brain was too busy replaying the day for her.
Watching Sawyer stretch her long body, reaching for the higher, brighter apples.
Sawyer lifting her to reach the higher apples.
Sawyer’s laugh echoing through her head as her sister said something funny.
Sawyer’s hands on her waist, steadying her as she stood on aladder to pick a bunch that was too high up in a tree for her to reach, even standing in Sawyer’s hands.
