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They climb into the old oak tree in the backyard, Roy going first to make sure that the branches will support her. It’s not as though she hasn’t climbed this tree before, but it’s nice that he looks out for her. They climb a little bit higher than the house, which Riza thinks has shrunk since she was younger. Maybe that’s what growing up is about: things that were once so daunting feel much smaller.
He picks a solid branch to settle on, and she sits next to him, their hips flush. She can blame the flush on her cheeks on climbing. She settles the bag next to her and she pulls out the box of cherries that she’d bought with the leftover grocery money, knowing her father won’t notice if he’s a hundred cenz short. It’s early afternoon, the sun leaking into their hideaway between the drapes of leaves. Now would be a nice time for a nap, but instead she and Roy take turns grabbing the little fruits from their box, tossing the stems and pits back in. Roy eats his differently, by cutting them in half first to remove the pits. She simply bites one half and pulls the pit from the second half before eating the rest. He doesn’t say anything, simply watching her when he isn’t pitting them neatly.
“Begonia says you’re not someone to eat cherries with,” she tells him as she picks at a particularly stubborn pit. “That’s why I bought cherries.”
“Is that a saying here?” Roy asks. “I haven’t heard it before.”
“No, she’s from the South. But I think I like it better than calling you a bad egg.”
He pouts at her. “You think I’m a bad egg?”
“If I thought you were a bad egg, I wouldn’t’ve shared my cherries with you.” Plus, he’s charming. And maybe a tiny bit handsome. All the boys in her class are the same boring boys she’s known her whole life, and they all just want to take over their fathers’ farms or businesses. There’s nothing exciting about any of that. He sets up her bottles to shoot, she makes them dinner. Equivalent exchange, she thinks.
“Thanks.”
She flushes again, but she can’t blame it on climbing this time. “You’re welcome, Mr. Mustang.” He isn’t more than two years older than her, but the same has stuck over the years. “Someone has to help me with my bottles.”
He flashes a quick grin at her. He’s always been charming to her, full of enough intrigue and wit. No, everyone would think him a wonderful person if they knew him like she did. To hell with her classmates, to hell with their opinions that mean nothing to her. “Is that all I am to you?” He asks. He abandons his knife and joins her in eating half before picking out the pit.
“I could make you my moving target,” she chirps.
“I’ll continue to help with the bottles.”
She laughs, something that she rarely does, but it’s always him that causes it. It’s always a quick joke or something of the like that causes her to snicker or giggle.
“Even if you don’t, I’ll still share my cherries with you.” He throws a cherry pit at her, and she tosses it back. So much for keeping things neat and tidy. They have a small pit fight, tossing them at each other until they run out. It’s not as though it matters if they put the pits in the compost or if they fall to beneath the tree; nothing grows under the giant oak but grass anyway.
“I ought to head back in,” Roy says sadly, handing her the wooden box the cherries had came in. “What’s for dinner, magic chef?”
“Lamb stew, probably,” she answers, since stew is easy, but it takes time to chop everything. She looks over his face once before he begins to climb down, and she leans forward. “You should wash your face. You have cherry stains.” Before she can stop herself, she wets her thumb with her tongue and swipes at the corners of his mouth, and he grins under her touch.
“Trying to save your own ass, huh?” He muses, and she can’t help but smile.
“Something like that.”
She watches him climb down the tree and head into the house, but she stays for a while longer, watching speckles of the sun fall through the tree.