At night, I’m so tired, I don’t have time for much past dinner. I’ve texted Mindy a few times checking in, but everybody in Harristown knows how harvest is—grueling.
Noel supervises the teens during the day, and in the evening, she works on her all-natural, peach-themed cosmetics line. I’ve already eaten crow about that one. I honestly didn’t think it would be as successful as it is, but she’s making enough money she doesn’t have to stay here.
“What’s this?” I stop by the table where she’s filling small, round pots with what looks like pale peach goo.
“Sugar peach lip scrub.”
“Sugar peach?” I hold up one of the small pots, and she takes it right back out of my hand.
“Don’t mess with my inventory. I need to make at least two hundred of these.”
“Two hundred, shit.”
She put Dove to bed an hour ago.
“It’s one of my hot items. That and the coconut peach lip mask.” She’s holding a large sheet of stickers, carefully peeling them off and applying them to the jars.
“Need some help?”
She squints a light brown eye up
at me. “How steady are your hands?”
“Pretty steady.” I pick up a small jar and a sheet of labels.
“Hang on.” She jumps to her feet, which only puts her head at my shoulder. Her dark hair is all on top of her head the way girls wear it now. “I’m going to watch you do one. If you screw it up, you’re fired.”
“Damn, you’re a tough boss.”
“I don’t have time to redo them.”
Taking my time, I peel the white label with a line drawing of the sun coming over a tree from the sheet and hold it over the small pot. “Just like this?”
“Like this.” She holds up a finished one, and I nod. I’m on the right track.
“You’re making me nervous.”
She chuffs a laugh. “You’ve never been nervous a day in your life. Quit stalling and let me see if you can do it.”
Resting my finger against the glass, I apply the label perfectly around the tiny jar. “Boom.”
“Okay, you can help me.” She drops back into her chair and resumes filling the waiting pots. “What’s got you so interested in helping me?”
“Actually, I wanted to talk.”
Round eyes flicker to mine, worried. “What’s wrong?” She lowers her hands, and I shake my head, placing a hand on her smooth knee.
“Nothing’s wrong. Jesus, can’t I talk to you?”
“You never do.”
“That’s not true.”
Her chin drops, and she gives me a look from under her lowered brow. “You barely talk to anybody.”
“I talk to you about things.”
“You didn’t even talk to me about Taron.”