When I step out of the truck, the air feels different here, crisp enough that my lungs stretch a little deeper.
Rows of blueberry bushes spread out in neat lines across the field, thick with fruit in shades of deep purple and dusty blue. Makeshift tents sit near the entrance, attendants moving between tables stacked with buckets and empty crates. People laugh somewhere farther down the rows, voices carried lightly by the breeze.
It feels alive without being loud.
As we walk toward the tents, an older woman looks up and immediately lights up.
“Aiden boy!” she calls, stepping out from behind the table and wrapping him in a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”
He laughs softly, hugging her back. “Good to see you too, Mrs. Gibson.”
He steps aside, motioning toward me. “This is May, my neighbor. Mrs. Gibson owns the farm,” he adds quietly to me.
I reach out my hand politely, but Mrs. Gibson waves it away and pulls me into a hug instead.
“Well, it’s about time you came with a pretty lady,” she says loudly enough that I feel my face heat.
Aiden laughs it off, shaking his head.
I smile because the whole thing feels so genuine that I can’t help it.
There are two teenage girls working at the table, watching the interaction with wide eyes. When Aiden says hello to them, both blush immediately, giggling under their breath.
I can’t really blame them.
He’s wearing jeans that fit like they were made for him, work boots, a blue T-shirt stretched comfortably across his shoulders, and a backwards hat pushing his hair up just enough to look effortless—the definition of the boy next door.
Mrs. Gibson and Aiden start talking about orders and crates, and I step slightly to the side, watching.
There’s an ease between them that makes it obvious he’s been coming here for a long time.
As she turns to grab a crate, Aiden reaches for it first, lifting it with ease and setting it beside her while the conversation keeps flowing. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t make it a gesture. He just anticipates what’s needed and keeps moving.
The same quiet instinct he’s had with me since the day I got here.
“Take your time,” he tells her. “Just come get me when everything’s ready. We’re gonna pick some while we wait.”
Mrs. Gibson nods and turns to the girls. “Get them buckets.”
One of the girls looks at me. “Do you want a picking bucket?”
“A… maybe?”
She smiles and shows me a small bucket with a strap attached. “You wear it around your neck so you can pick hands-free. Then you dump it into a big bucket when it’s full.”
“Oh,” I’m immediately interested. “Okay, yeah. That sounds smart.”
She helps me adjust the strap while another girl waves us forward.
“I’ll show you where to go.”
We follow her down one of the rows, large blueberry bushes rising on either side.
“Here you go. This row’s Berkleys, and that one’s Jerseys.”
She gestures to two bushes right next to each other before heading back toward the tents.
Aiden thanks her, and suddenly it’s just us again.
