Page 37 of Almost Rotten

As a kid, I loved cranking the big handle, turning the machine as fast as I could and watching the honey splatter the sides of the container.

Hell, who do I think I’m fooling? I still love harvesting honey.

As the golden essence coats the bucket, an idea occurs to me.

I pull out my phone, open the camera app, and try to line up a decent angle.

I’ve seen Sawyer do it dozens of times. In the almost twenty years I had with Meg, she shot thousands of pictures with her DSLR. It can’t be that hard.

My first picture is blurry. The next three all have a weird dark spot. Only after I take another photo do I realize that dark spot is actually my shadow.

Dammit.

I’m shit at this. Clearly I need to leave the actual content creation to the students. Or I need to get serious about hiring someone to do the orchard’s marketing, like Mercer’s been bugging me to do for years.

Crouching, I try a different angle, this time zooming in and focusing on the spout, where the honey is slowly dripping from the centrifuge into the collection tub.

The image I capture this time isn’t half bad.

Standing, I navigate to my text thread with Sawyer. I add the photo, then pause with my thumbs over the screen, racking my brain for a message to go with it.

I type outthinking of youbut quickly delete it. Does dripping honey really make me think of her?

Yes.

But I probably shouldn’t admit that.

I typeWish you were here, but that feels stupid, too. What am I, an outdated postcard?

Annoyed with my indecisiveness, I hammer out a short, sweet message. Well, not entirely sweet.

Noah:Can’t wait for you to taste this.

Once I’ve clicked Send, I close the thread and lock my screen.

A heartbeat later, I turn it back on again and tap on the Messages app, eager to see if she’s opened it. Or if she’s responding.

But it’s still marked as delivered, and there are no gray dots bouncing on the screen to signal that she’s typing.

Impatiently, I wander toward the apiary, checking my phone every three seconds.

Was I too forward?

Was that too suggestive?

Shit.

Maybe I should have run it by Mercer first. Asked for a suggested caption. He’s better with words.

I huff out a frustrated breath, willing the device still clutched in my hand to vibrate with a notification.

As I’m scowling at it, the sound of the bees cuts through my runaway thoughts. They’re buzzing louder than usual.

My chest constricts. Christ. Of course they are. They can sense my anxiety.

I blow out another breath, this one more slowly, then inhale deeply through my nose.

I survey the land around me. The trees my father planted with his father. The wildflowers my grandmother tended to as a little girl.