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help.
    The hair on the back of my neck rises in defensive awareness. This is why I don’t talk. Every time I open my mouth, someone takes it as an invitation to get me to “open up.”
    “I don’t need this crap from you, Ryan. You don’t know a thing about me,” my words bite.
    Ryan looks at me wearily but continues like I didn’t just rip off his head.
    “I hear you are a big music fan.” He turns his attention back to our task. “There are some great bands coming to the Iowa State Fair this summer.”
    Sitting back on my haunches, I watch him place the last of the cherries back in the basket. Where is the sharp-tongued tormentor I am accustomed to? He catches me sizing him up, trying to figure out his angle.
    “I’m not going to talk about anything else, Beth.” He reaches over and I flinch as he pulls a leaf from my hair. “We will only talk about the things you want to talk about, okay?”
    I cast my eyes down, unable to look at him. I don’t want him to see tears and almost make a run for the house.
    “Why?” my voice is small and pitiful.
    “Because, you could clearly use a friend. If we can convince the masses that you aren’t as fragile as they’re thinking, we may just see the shore of Lake Panorama sometime this year.” He rolls his eyes dramatically and it makes me laugh. It feels so good to laugh I don’t bother with a defensive retort.
    “Trust me,” he pleads, and there is sincerity in his tone that has me believing him. With a faith I didn’t know I still possessed, I lift my head and smile.
    “Ok, Ryan. I’ll trust you.”

 
    Chapter 7
     
    We enter the house through the kitchen door with our cherries, carrying on about the Iowa State Fair concert series. As I make my way to the kitchen sink, a trio appears in the doorway. I know it’s Tommy with Pops and Gran, but I ignore them and keep talking to Ryan.
    “Don’t you think they should have stopped at the last tour?” I ask while I busy myself with washing cherries. “What’s that line? It’s better to burn out than to fade away.”
    “Go Beth! Way to quote one of the greatest hair bands of the ‘80s,” Ryan shoots his hand up and down invisible frets, while strumming his fingers across his stomach. Air guitar quickly turns into head banging. I watch him thrash around the tiny kitchen.
    “Oh my God, you are such a tool!” I giggle, throwing my dishtowel at him. It lands with precision on top of his head, covering his face. Howls of maniacal laughter rip from me, and I grip the countertop to keep from keeling over.
    “What in hell are you hanyaks doing?” The emotion in Pops’ voice silences the room. He looks at me with disbelief and wonder playing across his wrinkled face. Before I can overanalyze every possible answer to his question, I blurt out the first thing that pops into my head.
    “We picked cherries, Pops.”
    It takes two steps for him to cross the kitchen and grab me in a fierce hug. My arms don’t reach all the way around him, but I squeeze him as tight as I can, inhaling his scent of tobacco and Irish Spring. I have to will myself not to cry, to allow my grandpa to savor this moment after all the pain I have caused him.
    “Baby girl, it is so good to hear your voice,” he whispers, his breath catching.
    “It’s ok, Pops. I am ok, Pops.” I can’t hold back my tears any longer. “Everything will be ok.” Delicate hands grip my shoulders and I feel the gentle pressure of a kiss on the top of my head.
    “There’s my blossom.” Gran whispers.
    I peel open an eye and find Tommy and Ryan leaning against the chipped red linoleum countertop staring. My eyes lock with Ryan’s and I am surprised to find affection in his gaze.
    “Thank you,” I mouth to him silently.
    He crinkles his brow and shrugs, confused. I give him a watery smile and wonder how foolish it is, thanking him for caring. 
    “She’s something else, isn’t she?” Tommy nods his head toward me.
    “She sure is.” Ryan shakes