I hug him back, pressing my cheek to his chest. My dad gives the best hugs. He almost makes me forget I’m hungover. “Now we just have to convince him to not sell the farm.”
“He’s bluffing on that, I think,” Dad assures me as he lets me go and grins down at me. “Just don’t tell him you’re partying with an Adler.”
I laugh but it quickly catches in my throat and disappears when I glance across the parking area and see Tate. He and his little brother are hauling bushels of apples out of his truck. It looks like it’s their last load, not their first, which means he got here extra early. And he looks well-rested and perky and I hate him even more.
Seven minutes later we find the booth in the long row of booths and I frown. “Are you kidding me, Adler?”
From the other side of the booth Tate looks at me innocently. “What?”
I point up at the tent awning above the booth. “Adler’s Apple Farm?”
He rolls his eyes like I’m some overdramatic girlfriend and that starts to make my blood boil. “What? You want a coverless booth? So we can get rained on or sunburned? Your smelly cheese will melt if it isn’t in the shade.”
“Our cheese is not smelly. Except the garlic one but it’s supposed to be. Well, and the blue goat cheese but…” I huff and now I’m equally as frustrated that my cheeks are starting to pink. “Listen, the booth can’t just say Adler’s Apples because it’s not just Adler’s Apples.”
He shrugs and his little brother Jace, who is arranging apples in baskets on one side of the table is smirking like a little shit. Because he’s a little shit. “Maggie, we don’t have a co-branded tent. Too bad.”
“You could just take your stinky hippie cheese crap and go home.” The voice comes from behind me and I turn and see George Adler walking up with a heaping basket of baked goods I assume all have apples in them.
“Hi, Mr. Adler. You gonna hit one of us like you did Clyde?” Daisy asks, smiling sweetly as she walks past him to the empty side of the booth and drops a cooler of cheese down with a thud. She spins and faces Tate and his brother, copper hair whipping around from her ponytail and almost slashing George across his throat. I smile. “So here’s what’s gonna happen boys. My uncle is going to throw our tent topper over your tent topper on the one side. Okay? Great.”
“Good idea, Daisy,” Dad says and Daisy puts a stool down behind him as Uncle Ben is wheeling over the display coolers on a dolly, the wheels squeaking angrily. The sound makes it feel like a cat is actually sharpening its nails on my brain. Ugh. I can’t help but wince and Tate notices and grins. I hope he gets incurable jock itch.
We set up our side of the booth, Dad sitting on his stool arranging stuff as we haul it over from the parking lot. We ignore the Adler clan but talk amongst ourselves about what cheese to display where, how to stack the honey jars, whether the goat’s milk soap will melt in this heat. “Why are you all so chatty? So much noise,” George grumbles.
“Gramps…” Tate mutters in a warning, which surprises me a little.
“Those girls are so chatty. Yak, yak, yak,” George growls. He turns to my dad, who is standing at the back of our side of the booth. “You should teach your girls to be seen and not heard.”
“Sorry, we don’t live in the Stone Age old man,” my dad says calmly. “I’m pretty sure my girls have more intelligent things to say than you do.”
“Are you gonna stand in my booth and insult my intelligence?” George growls and takes a step toward our side but Tate and Jace both jump in front of him.
“If you’re going to stand inmybooth and insult my daughters then you bet your ignorant ass I am,” Dad declares in a calm, firm voice.
“You piece of—”
“Walk it off Gramps.” Tate’s loud voice overtakes anything George was going to say.
“Did you hear what that punk said?”
“Yeah and I heard you tell him his daughters shouldn’t speak,” Tate replies coolly. “I’m not taking sides here but you never say that to Raquel. Or Louise. They both talk more than I’d like.”
Louise is his aunt and Raquel is her daughter, Tate’s cousin. I went to school with Raquel and I was not a fan to say the least. Louise isn’t my cup of tea either, but for Tate to challenge his grandfather like that in front of us, and more importantly because of us, shocks me. George mutters something under his breath that I can’t hear, rips an apple fritter off the stack Jace was making on the table and storms off.
“Great. Now I have even more work to do since Gramps won’t be helping,” Jace complains and turns and glares at Daisy and me. “Thanks a lot.”
“Yes because your grandfather’s anger management issues are my fault,” Daisy mutters.
“Let’s all just stop talking and keep working,” I say and wish I could have found the Advil this morning, but I couldn’t and my head is still pounding.
An hour later, we’re fifteen minutes from opening and everything is perfect. Dad got our topper folded and clipped on top of one side of the booth. Now you can see the Adler logo and ours. The table looks really good, on both sides if I’m honest. The Adlers have their apple products displayed nicely, Tate even polished each apple before he wandered off somewhere while Jace artistically stacked the jars of apple jelly and caramel apples. Our side has all the different goat cheeses on display in the cooler, the soaps stacked nicely on one side and the jars of honey from our beehives on the other. On top of the mini cooler is what always sells out the quickest, our goat’s milk caramels. And now, instead of taking a moment to snack on the food Mom gave us or drink the coffee she sent, like Daisy, Ben and Dad are doing, I decide I need to hunt down some headache medicine and a Gatorade or this hangover will most definitely kill me before the end of the day.
I tell my family I’ll be right back and head out of the market down the road toward the gas station because they usually carry those travel-size packets of Advil. Of course they’re out—just sold the last pack to someone not ten minutes ago, the attendant told me. I buy a bottle of Gatorade and am on the sidewalk debating whether it’s worth walking another block to the drugstore when I notice Tate coming out of the bagel shop across the street. He doesn’t look as perky and fresh as he did earlier. In fact, his shoulders are slumped and he’s wiping his brow with the hem of his shirt like he’s sweaty. Alcohol sweats? He’s got his own Gatorade tucked under his arm and a big paper bag in his other hand. I watch as he takes something out of his pocket and tosses it into his mouth. He looks up and I notice his skin is paler than normal. I start walking crossing the street but he tries to pretend he doesn’t see me and starts marching off, back toward the market.
“Not so fast!” I call and lunge forward, grabbing his forearm. He’s way too easy to restrain for a big burly hockey player. “Youarehungover!”
“Whatever.” He yanks his arm free and the effort makes him look like he might barf and that brings me such joy.
