FINALLY, IT’S WEDNESDAY EVENING—TIME FORmy date. I dare to exchange my daily T-shirt and jeans combo for a matching boxy brown ribbed sweater-and-skirt set. I’m not sure if “sexy tree” is a look, but if so, I’ve nailed it.
Hanry greets me at the cemetery gates with a broad smile and an empty jute coffee sack thrown over his shoulder. Up close, he also carries, enticingly, the scent of pine wood shavings. This is an improvement over Old Spice, which is what my high school boyfriend smelled like. Granted, whatisn’tan improvement over a purloined fragrance from CVS?
Said boyfriend, Andrew Tsai, was a closet kleptomaniac. The fact that he wanted everyone to use his full first and last name should’ve been a red flag. In my defense, he was a defensive back on our high school varsity football team, so he probably stole those flags right out of midair when I wasn’t looking. Maybe I should spend some time reflecting on why I keep finding myself attracted to quasi-criminals.
It’s happened more than once. My first college boyfriend, Blake, got caught plagiarizing his English essay and was placed on academic suspension a few days after taking my virginity. As far as I know, the next, Marcus, never did anything unlawful—if anything, he was too good for me. Too good at making me feel appreciated and seen, both when we were in bed together and when we weren’t. Butespeciallyin bed. And on rugs. And countertops. Which once led to missing class,and my one and only late arrival to a catering shift. When my manager chewed me out, I got defensive. And had a weird flashback to Mom losing her job after forgetting to call in while on another spontaneous trip with a boyfriend. I knew after that I’d have to cut Marcus from my life. Clearly, I couldn’t juggle a boyfriend with work and school. Maybe I could reconsider once I graduated and got a steady job.
Maybe I’m reconsidering now.
The point of all this is, I’m not into bad boys. No, my type is this: someone who doesn’t mind me taking the relationship slow if I need to. Who’s big and strong and conscientious. Who seems nurturing and stable, like a house.
Not houses like Grandma’s, but, you know, more functional ones.
“Ready to desecrate some graves?” I ask Hanry in greeting.
He seems confused as I approach. “Would you do that?”
“Wouldyou?”
I’m genuinely asking, but Hanry’s expression clears, and he laughs. I guess he’s taking my weird greeting as a joke instead of a sign of nerves. Okay, cool. More than cool. The way Hanry smiles into his thick stubble is stomach-melting, and happiness wreaths his face like a goddamn autumn miracle. I really hope he isn’t a stalker or a colluder with my grandmother. The vibes he gives me couldn’t be further from that. But just in case I’m wrong about the former, I’ve packed Grandma’s unwitch hazel spray in my chest-bag, locked and loaded.
“I thought this might be a familiar place to meet,” says Hanry. “Then we can walk. Sound good?”
He draws my attention to the friendly-looking gravel path that runs alongside the cemetery. It’s got red-orange leaves lolling beneath warm lamplight like a happy dog belly-up in front of a fireplace. Artfully fallen acorns ripe for crunching. Not a speck of trash or unseasonable gloom.
Suspicious.
“I’m not going anywhere yet,” I say, rooting in place.
“Uh. Okay?”
“There are a couple things I need to know. Two of them. First, did you set up a job listing for me?”
Surprise shows on Hanry’s well-illumined and high-cheekboned face, but not too much, which makes me want to trust him. Unlike this path, which is trying too hard with its rustly fall charm.
“No,” he says. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you said I needed an assistant.”
“It’s your business,” says Hanry. “You can run it however you like.”
“Exactly.”
“So… someone set up a listing for you? That sounds sketch,” says Hanry, shifting to a concerned tone. “Where was the job advertised?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Hanry’s off the hook, so I’ll shove that concern aside to worry about tomorrow. Or never. I plan to find my way back to New York next week, after all. “Second question. Can this be a casual thing, not a date?”
“Can it be both? I was thinking apple picking.”
“Ripping genitals off plants?”
“A classic,” he agrees.
Sure, for some people. James’s family made an annual tradition of marauding as far as Maine in search of a frankly mediocre doughnut. Last year I went with them. My key takeaway from the event is that picking fruit at a grocery store and on a farm aren’t so different. You need to pay attention to what you’re grabbing. Specifically: you need light.
“Any reason we’re picking apples after dark?” I ask.
Hanry laughs instead of taking my grumpy belligerence at face value.
