The Language of Cherries

by Jen Marie Hawkins

  This time, she would tell the truth.

  Beneath her paintbrush, a girl emerged. But not just any girl; not a carbon copy of Abuela, nor an intentional opposite of Rhona. Not Alberto’s daughter or Loretta’s ex-best-friend or Ben’s one-time kissing target or Oskar’s summer love. This girl was all of those things, but she was also so much more. She was Evie: a girl scared to fail, but willing to try. A girl who loved art, but on her own terms. Hours passed, and as her paint soaked the canvas, her tears soaked her shirt.

  With every brutally honest flick of her wrist, she captured the flaws and let the brushstrokes show.

  A knock interrupted her as she put finishing touches on the painting. Rhona peeked her head inside the door.

  “You doing okay?”

  Evie wiped at her eyes. “I’m fine.”

  Rhona stood in the doorway, teetering—seemingly unsure of whether to come in or leave. She finally decided on coming in. She wore pajama pants and a sweatshirt, fuzzy socks on her feet. It was as casual as Evie had seen her since she’d come to New York.

  Rhona stopped beside her, staring at the painting, mouth agape. Evie took a deep breath, but she didn’t attempt to hide her work. She tried to remember what Abuela said about forgiveness instead of being irritated by the interruption.

  “It’s really you,” Rhona said, awe in her voice.

  “It’s me,” Evie repeated. A long moment of silence passed between them until she looked up and met her mother’s gaze in the mirror in front of them.

  “I’m so sorry,” Rhona said. It surprised Evie more than if her mother had handed her a bag full of hundred-dollar bills. “I know I’ve been a terrible mother. I was real sick for a long time. I can’t change all the mistakes I’ve made, but I can do my best to be here for you now.”

  Evie didn’t know what to say, so she just nodded.

  “I want you to be happy. To make better choices than I did. I didn’t have anyone to guide me when I was your age. But you… Evie, you have so many people who love you. You’ll never be alone.”

  Evie racked her brain for a few moments, trying to think of a way to respond.

  “Thank you for helping me talk Papá into bringing Abuela here. It makes me happy to see her every day.”

  Rhona reached down and patted Evie’s shoulder awkwardly. “Your abuela needs you, just as much as you need her.”

  “I agree.” Evie thought for a moment. “You know, I miss Miami, but I think I’d miss it even if I still lived there. Does that make sense?” What she missed couldn’t be recovered with geography alone. Things changed, and she couldn’t stop it from happening.

  Rhona nodded. “I think so.”

  The two of them stilled in the silence of each other’s company. Not all change was bad, Evie realized.

  “Well.” Rhona headed for the door. “If there’s anything you need, I’m here. Okay?”

  Evie looked up at her. “There is one thing.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Oskar’s Journal

  The heat of the lights prickle

  against the back of my neck

  as I set up.

  Eight pairs of eyes bore into me

  from the judge’s table.

  My hands tremble.

  I’ve never played on a stage before.

  Never in front of a team of foreign professionals

  or in a sparsely populated dark theater.

  The velvet seats of the audience are red.

  The curtains at the edge of the stage are red.

  Everything is red

  and it reminds me of her.

  I clutch my dad’s old guitar against my chest

  and step up to the microphone.

  Give me strength, Pabbi, I think.

  I look past the lights as I speak,

  searching the seats with bodies in them.

  When I speak into the mic,

  my broken strings echo through the auditorium.

  This is an original co-co-comp-composition,

  called M-m-m-magnetic M-m-midnight.

  My head isn’t in the game.

  I’m still looking for her.

  Begin when you’re ready,

  the judge in the middle says.

  I nod.

  She isn’t going to show.

  I draw a breath and play for her anyway.

  With every chord I strum,

  every lyric I sing,

  I imagine she’s there,

  offering me forgiveness.

  I saturate every part of the song

  with the longing I’ve felt for her

  since that day in the orchard.

  I didn’t mean to cause trouble, she said to me.

  But she upturned my whole life.

  She made me feel alive again.

  At the end, I open my eyes,

  look up,

  and there she is

  in the back of the auditorium.

  Everything stops.

  The air between us becomes a live wire.

  I’m suddenly glad

  I didn’t see her before I began.

  I would’ve fucked the whole thing up.

  She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  Long dark hair curtains her shoulders,

  and I remember the precise way it smells.

  Like some perfect combination of flowers and fruit

  that’d make a perfumier a fortune.

  A cherry red shirt clings to her body.

  Red.

  Always red.

  Like the orchard.

  The color of passion.

  The color of the blood surging

  through my veins now

  at warp speed.

  It throbs and vibrates

  at my lips, my fingertips, my throat

  and especially in my chest.

  Her dark eyes shine with so much light

  that the current between us

  is unmistakable.

  Even from here.

  Even in the dark.

  A smile

  that could redefine smile,

  because it tells me she sees me.

  She has always seen me.

  She came because she wanted to,

  and she doesn’t hate me, after all.

  My heart is a timpani.

  This trip

  was worth it,

  even if her face in the crowd

  is my only reward.

  My feet tingle with the need to run.

  But in her direction this time.

  Suddenly, I know

  it doesn’t matter where I am

  as long as she’s there.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Evie

  Evie recognized the lyrics the moment he’d started singing.

  That’s because she had read them in his journal over and over since Friday. The fact that he’d turned the most romantic moment of her life into a song, that he’d use it as an audition to get into a prestigious music college, rendered her completely speechless.

  From her dark seat in the back of the theater, her knees shook. If the judges had felt even a fraction of the intensity from him that she did, he’d get in, no problem.

  “Thank you, Mr. Eriksson,” the judges said to him when he finished. But he wasn’t looking at them, he was looking at her.

  Evie stood and walked down the velvety carpet toward the right-side stairs leading up to the stage. Everything that happened between them, everything she felt as she listened to his voice, his beautiful voice, made her stop a few feet short of him. What if she’d built it all up in her head? What if things weren’t the same now that they both knew the truth about each other?

  Maybe he wouldn’t even get in to school here, and he’d go back to Iceland and she’d never see him again. The doubts piled up in her head as he descended the stairs.

  He stopped in front of her. She’d never seen him dressed so nicely. He wore dark dress pants, a white button-up, and a red skinny ti
e. She glanced down at his shiny black shoes. New, for sure. Much different than the rugged brown boots she’d always seen him wear.

  She glanced up. He was smiling. Dimples showing, left deeper than the right. Crooked teeth on display. Stormy eyes stormier than ever. Messy hair somewhat tame, with the help of some hair gel. For once, she was the one who couldn’t speak.

  He stuck out his hand.

  “Huh-Hi,” he said. “I’m Oskar.”

  Hearing his voice, the depth of the baritone, the way the cadence vibrated across his lips, shook some emotion loose. Her eyes watered—God, just great, she was going to cry.

  “Evie.” She smiled, taking his callused hand.

  An awkward silence followed. She had to say something. “I loved your song.”

  I loved you, she wanted to say. Maybe still do. But that would be going too far. Not yet. Not today. One thing at a time.

  His smile grew wider. “I loved your p-p-paintings.”

  She swallowed the clump of nervousness threatening to choke her up. “I’m painting again. Those cherries you sent me, and the wine…”

  “They inspire, d-d-don’t they?” Hearing his voice like this, in regular conversation, was surreal. She nodded.

  “How long are you here?”

  “Until Wwwwednesday.”

  She could work with that.

  She realized she was still shaking his hand. That whole time, they hadn’t let go of each other. They both glanced down at their joined hands at the same time and dropped them, laughing.

  “You wwwant to—” Oskar pointed at the door at the top of the auditorium.

  “Yes,” Evie answered without letting him finish.

  They walked side by side toward the exit, and Oskar waved to Edvin, who was sitting in the audience, grin plastered on his face.

  When they opened the theater doors and stepped into the fading afternoon sunshine, she turned to him. There were a million things she wanted to say to him, but she blurted the first thing that came to her mind.

  “I’m sorry I hit you.”

  He laughed then, a hearty, full-bodied laugh. It was music to her ears, the same way it had been every other time she’d heard it. He stepped closer to her, too close, and before she could finish saying I’m serious, he lifted the words right off her lips with his mouth. Right there on the busy sidewalk outside the theater, with college students passing all around, he kissed her.

  She was certain that meant he forgave her, the way she knew she was going to forgive him. The way she had already forgiven him. When he pulled away, she asked him, “Have you ever been on a subway before?”

  He grinned and shook his head.

  “My mother gave me some money to come here and show you around. I mean, if you don’t mind getting lost. I still don’t know my way very well.”

  He took her hand. “We’ll find our wwwway.”

  Those were the only words she ever needed to hear.

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve always believed in magic. It’s the people who believed alongside me, though, that made my debut novel a reality.

  My sincerest gratitude to the magic makers of Owl Hollow Press: to Hannah Smith for seeing the potential in The Language of Cherries and for making it possible to share with the masses; to Oliva Swenson, for waving an editing wand over my blunders and sparing me from Ben Benson levels of shame; and to Emma Nelson, for going above and beyond on all fronts. A huge thanks for my beautiful cover—it’s a spellbinding work of art that captures the heart of the story. It has been a pleasure and an honor to work with each of you.

  To my literary agent dynamic duo, Kate Testerman and Hilary Harwell: thank you for championing my work, helping me improve it, and steadfastly pursuing a path for it. Your unfaltering enthusiasm made it impossible to give up. I cherish our partnership more than you’ll ever know.

  Sonia Hartl, my goddess-level original critique partner: without you, I’d still be introducing coyote people at the 11th hour. Your critiques have been priceless, both for what they’ve taught me about writing and for your comment bubble comic relief. I owe you my most heartfelt thanks and foouuuurrrr wwwaaaaatttteeerrrrss for reading this book in every single one of its iterations over the past few years. DEP! I love you big.

  Kes Trester, the most glamourous mentor a girl could hope for: thank you for your belief in me long before this work was fully formed, and for always being there to walk me through conflict, whether in inconsistent plot beats or real-life social anxiety. You’re a Hollywood Starlet of a friend.

  Kristin Reynolds, enchantress poet and human totem: In the words of Murakami – ‘There’s something about you. Say there’s an hourglass: the sand’s about to run out. Someone like you can always be counted on to turn the thing over.” Thank you for turning over my hourglass each time it ran out. I will always do the same for you.

  My beloved writing den—Kristin Wright, Elly Blake, Mary Ann Marlowe, Summer Spence, Ron Walters, and Kelly Siskind: thank you for being the angels on my shoulder (or the devils, as the situation sometimes warrants). You are a vital part of my writing process and my every day life. You each inspire me with your master class writing talent and your capacity for kindness. The love and acceptance you’ve shown have helped me power through many hard days. I’ve learned so many crucial elements of craft from you. This book would not be the same if you hadn’t been there from its inception. I adore every single one of you. I’d list all the ways in which you’ve made me better, but it’s too risky!

  To Rachel Lynn Solomon: I am so grateful I’ve had the opportunity to learn from you. Your debut novel is still one of the most beautiful, bittersweet books I’ve ever read. Thank you for being such a lovely and generous fellow writer and friend.

  Roselle Lim, thank you for being my go-to on all things art related. You helped me shape Evie into someone almost as cool as you. You are a brilliant writer and a human cupcake.

  Janet Wren, I’m so glad we met all those years ago. Thank you for being there for me, from honest critiques to late night laughs to kid birthday parties. We are long overdue for a pool-plotting sesh.

  Anna Birch, Tracie Martin, Carlee Karanovic, and Margarita Montimore: thank you for your early reads and brainstorming huddles. I’m so fortunate to have each of you in my life!

  Thank you to Brenda Drake for creating the Pitch Wars community, because without it, I would’ve never met any of the amazing people listed above.

  The Writing Barn in Austin, Texas holds a significant place in the journey of this book, as well. In 2015, I workshopped a very rough, incomplete draft of The Language of Cherries there. That 4-day intensive workshop was a game changer, because it made me believe I might actually be a writer. Much love to Bethany Hegedus, Matt de la Peña, Cristina Adams, Rebecca Maziel Sullivan, Gail Shepherd, Shelli Corneilson, Varsha Bajaj, Shellie Fault, Lindsey Lane, and Heather Harwood for outstanding notes that helped shape this book from a wee little scribble to a more complete body of work. And to Carrie Brown-Wolf and Claire Campbell, fellow wine shamans: out of all the amazing things that came from the workshop, my favorite is still getting you two as critique partners.

  This book would not be possible without the generosity and expertise of Cristina Adams, Evie Knight, and J.R. Yates, who provided thoughtfully critical sensitivity reads. Thank you to Mara Rutherford for sharing your inside knowledge of Iceland. You each taught me something important and expanded my understanding of experiences beyond my own.

  To April Simmons, my soul sister, without you I’d never have written any book. It was you, in 2011, while we were confined to desk duty in that awful clinic who said, “You want to be a writer, so what are you waiting for?” You gave me the courage. And free therapy ever since. Please hereby accept my undying love and pumpkin spice flavored kisses.

  To my brother, B.J. Prince, who is far more talented than I am in almost every way, NEENER NEENER I WROTE A BOOK AND YOU DIDN’T! Just kidding. Mostly. I love you.

  To my nieces, Gracie Schildmei
er and Caitlyn Gordon: I hope my main characters are always as strong, smart, and beautiful as you two are. You make excellent muses!

  I truly believe that behind every successful woman is a squad of successful women who have her back, and these are mine: Rima Joffrion, Angie Holliday, Julie Walsh, Shawna Parker, Kim Collins, Jennifer Schildmeier, Crystal Morris, Becky Blanton, Gwen Blanton, Rebecca Yates, Amanda Wick, Melissa Speary, Hailey Moore, Jamie Gordon, Julie Machin, Kristy Wyatt, LeAnn Carver, Annette Bassett, Tamara McGuire-Hall, Amy Redd, Robyn Bivens, Ashly Harris Coggins, Julie Carter, Joy Stringfield, Summer Carter, Jess O’Neal Bayne, Joanna Diamond, Melissa Rhodes, Shelly Walker, Rachel Cernogorsky, Jessica Watson, Dawn Mahaffey Gramling, Katrina Russell, Sereen Aiken, Courtnie White, Jamie Durham, Kim Authement, Sarah Gross, Tamara Small, and Jenn Bussell. Thank you all for your enduring friendships and your professional and emotional support. You have kept me sane and encouraged me in every aspect of my life for many years. I will love every single one of you forever.

  Speaking of forever love—to my boys, Jonathan and Jackson: I am enchanted as I watch you grow up. The two of you are living, breathing proof that magic exists. I’m so lucky I get to be your mom. There is no job title in the world that will ever be more important to me than that, but I am so grateful you don’t mind sharing me with my characters. You both inspire me with your compassion, wit, and excellent taste in music. You keep me young. I love you so very much, and I’m so proud of you both.

  And to my husband, Jeremy: you are the love of my life, a super dad to our boys, and an absolute ace at everything you do. If I hadn’t already given you my heart, I’d rip it right out and slap it in your hands, comic-book-style. You’re the Joker to my Harley. The passion between my characters will always be a direct reflection of the passion I feel for you. Thank you for supporting my dream and never once questioning its viability, even as we pay student loans for a nursing degree I no longer use. You believed in me first and best. I look forward to these seventeen years becoming seventy.