Page 28 of Spicy Ever After
Me: The day we met, you were pretty upset. How are things? With your family, I mean?
She takes her time responding, the dots jumping and disappearing for too long, and I wonder if my question is too intrusive.
Hattie: IF I WERE A MAGIC 8 BALL, I WOULD SAY “BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW.” MARGARET HAS APOLOGIZED FOR KEEPING HER MOVE A SECRET, BUT MY PARENTS HAVE ONLY APOLOGIZED FOR HURTING MY FEELINGS, NOT FOR KEEPING THINGS FROM ME, WHICH MAKES ME VOLCANIC . IF YOU ARE SORRY FOR SOMETHING, YOU HAVE TO MAKE AMENDS. TO CHANGE YOUR WAYS, BUT THEY DON’T SEEM TO THINK THEY NEED TO BE MORE OPEN WITH ME. THEY PROVED THAT BY REFUSING TO BE OPEN ABOUT OTHER IMPORTANT THINGS.
I frown at my phone, remembering her mother’s behavior in the alley. Hattie is twenty-three. She’s intelligent. She’s capable. She’s a college student, for Christ’s sake.
Why don’t her parents trust her?
I want to know, but I won’t ask. Not tonight, anyway.
Me: Instead of saying “I’m sorry,” I’m going to say, “I wish you didn’t have to go through that.”
Hattie: HUZZAH!!!
Just like that, my frown is gone. But it’s getting late, and as much as I don’t want to, I need to say goodnight.
Me: I have to get up early, but I’m really glad we connected. And I’d like to see you again.
A moment passes.
Hattie: YOU WOULD??
There’s a good chance my face will be sore tomorrow from all the smiling.
Me: Like you wouldn’t believe.
I wait for her response.
And wait a little longer.
Long enough to ask myself what the hell I think I’m doing.
Early October is our busiest time. Our harvest is cascading, so we dig up the first of our crop in August. They’re healed and cured, now ready for market or delivery to the cannery in Opelousas.
But we’re in the middle of harvesting our second planting. So when we’re not harvesting, we’re preparing the fields for our rotation crops and planting soybeans, corn, and alfalfa, depending on the date. And then we’re moving sweets from the cure sheds to the store sheds. And then we're delivering. And it goes on and on until the temps drop and the days shrink.
And then there’s my micro distillery and all the unfulfilled plans I have.
And then there’s looking after Pop.
My defeated sigh punctures night’s silence.
Hattie is beautiful and funny, and texting her for just a few minutes feels like intravenous Cotton Candy Bang.
But where the hell can I squeeze in the time for her?
Even if she wanted me to—which, judging by the radio silence, she might not.
And I need sleep. Maybe it’s better if?—
My phone lights up.
Hattie: OKAY.
Okay?
Me: Okay, I can see you again?
