Roots [Completed]

Chapter 2 - Part 5

Tana meets us in the square of flat dirt Mr. Delgado uses for a parking lot. She's leaning back against the orange truck she's perpetually borrowing from her uncle. She's wearing sunglasses, but I know when she sees Christopher because her eyebrows hike up over them appreciatively.

"Will you grab the baskets from the back for me?" I ask. As he ducks out around the back, I race to Tana.

"Yo," she greets, tipping her sunglasses down her nose like a pervy suburban mom in a bad romcom.

Together, we watch Christopher lift the baskets from the back of the car, his shirt hiking up a little. I stifle a romantic sigh.

"You didn't tell me he was a himbo," Tana says out of the corner of her mouth.

I turn all of my attention to Tana, gaping.

"He's not a himbo," I argue in the same shouty-whisper. Tana gives me a look.

"He is not a himbo!" I insist.

Tana looks from me to Christopher, who has just stepped within arms reach, holding the baskets in one of his hands. He takes in our whispered exchange with a nervous twitch in his fingers.

"Hi," Christopher says softly when we both look at him, a confused smile on his face.

Bad timing. He looks like a himbo.

As Tana and Christopher introduce themselves, I look more closely at him. Wavy blond curls cut close on the side - broad shoulders - not dumb. Handsome, nice, strong, but not dumb ≠ himbo. It's that simple.

Christopher looks at me and flushes a deep rose, then his eyes darts away to take in the orchard. Tana raises her eyebrows like unequivocal himbo behavior. I shake my head.

We check in with Mr. Delgado. He points us towards the fourth field, so we're on our way there, carrying two extra crates that we would fill for him.

"You normally do this alone, Jane?" Christopher asks. His voice has taken on a softer quality around Tana that makes me remember how shy he was when we were kids.

"Nah," I answer, "If I don't come here with my moms, Preston usually comes with me."

At Preston's name, Tana's step skips a beat. Otherwise, she appears unaffected.

"Preston?" Christopher asks.

"Preston McBride," I say. "I think you guys met when we were little."

Christopher's expression is hard to read. He hums a little confirmation.

We pick up ladders on the way from one of the tool sheds. Tana, bless her, discreetly says she's going to start at the other end of the row from us, giving Christopher and I a few dozen feet of privacy and a basket. As soon as we're alone, Topher seems to relax, become a bit more himself.

The trees aren't very tall, more sprawling, but to get all of the fruit from the top branches, a ladder is best.

"Here," I tell Topher, setting up my ladder methodically, "I'll climb up, then you hand me the basket and I'll get it in between these branches before you come up."