I want to wrap all my limbs around him, but I shouldn’t. Can’t. Especially since I can only imagine what he now knows. “Knowing what?”
He shakes his head slowly, his eyes taking me in like he’s been assigned to map my face. “That I love you. That I’ve had a crush on you since we met on Trivia Crush, that I’ve been obsessed with your body since that night last year, that I’ve fallen head over heels for you over the past two weeks.”
“But Sam—”
He raises a hand to stop my objections. “I know. I know it’s only been two weeks. But it’s not just about the sex, and it doesn’t matter that I don’t know everything about you. I get you. You get me. We care about the same things, you challenge me to be a better person, and you inspire me.”
The sky really opens up, and Sam’s not even wearing a raincoat, but he doesn’t seem to notice that he’s getting soaked to the bone. “And it’s okay if you’re not ready to say the same to me. I’m learning to be patient.”
It’s my turn to look at my feet. If I don’t, I think I’ll cry. How can I say no to this man? Worse, how can I say yes and then watch that love turn to hate when he learns everything about me.
Unless…
“Did you talk to Ginny?”
“Ginny?” His brow furrows like he truly doesn’t remember the woman who drove me out of town, before it dawns on him. “You mean Ginny Quick? Diane, I told you, there’s nothing between us. There never has been.”
“So she didn’t tell you anything? About me?”
Now he looks really confused. “What would she tell me?”
It wasn’t enough, obviously, to sneak away. To hide until the Bedds forget about me. To hope that their memory of me would never be tarnished by the truth.
“She threatened to tell you who I really am if I didn’t leave town. But I guess that was cowardly of me. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you myself. I was just afraid that if you found out, you’d hate me.”
“Hate you?” He takes a step closer, and it takes all of my strength to stand my ground. “Who you really are?”
Nodding slowly, I make myself say the name I legally changed when I turned eighteen. “My real name is Diane Mayer. Growing up, everyone called me Didi. Didi Mayer. And my grandfather’s name is Hermann Mayer.”
I see the moment that it clicks, and as I predicted, Sam takes a step back. “As in, the Hermann Mayer? The father of the GMO? The guy who betrayed his research partner and sold out to SynAgro?”
“Now Mayer-SynAgro. But yes, that’s him. That’s my family. That’s what I come from.”
“Why the heck did Hermann Mayer plant an heirloom apple orchard in West Saugerties?”
It takes me a moment to catch up with his logic. “That was my other grandfather. Sean McCarthy. The one who passed away. Dr. Mayer’s still living. In a fancy retirement village on Long Island. He’s never planted a tree in his life as far as I know.”
“Ohhh. That makes more sense.” His brow furrows even more. “So why am I supposed to hate you?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I scoff. “Because I’m not poor little Diane McCarthy just scraping by with her little video channel and nonprofit salary. I’m debutante and trust-fund baby Didi Mayer who was raised with every privilege you can imagine and more, all funded by investments seeded by the money my grandfather made selling out to SynAgro.”
“But I still don’t get what this has to do with you and me.”
My arms flap at my side like the chicken I just captured on film. “Because I’m a hypocrite? I vilified you for just working for Congento, while my grandfather made its existence possible.”
“Exactly,” Sam says, stepping closer and reaching for my hand like I’m a horse who might shy away at the slightest provocation. “Everything you’ve told me is about your grandfather. Not you. As far as I can tell, you’re not living high on the hog off of what he did. You didn’t choose to be handed a trust fund. In fact, you wouldn’t even let yourself buy Kaaterskill Orchards back.”
“Not that it would’ve made any difference. I was too late.”
“Yeah, about that,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Remind me to tell you something.”
“Tell you what?”
He places his free hand over his heart. “I need to tell you this first. I get how heavy guilt can be, even if it isn’t all yours. I’ve been carrying its weight since I quit Congento.”
“You felt guilty for quitting? Why?”
He drops my hands and places both of his on his hips, blowing out a breath. “Because it led to a fight with my grandfather. By quitting, I’d wasted his investment in me. Our last words to each other were angry ones because he died less than a week later.”
This time I reach for his hand to hold in both of my own. “I’m so sorry, Sam. That must’ve made you feel awful.”
He meets my gaze, his blue eyes dark with pain. “It gets worse. A couple weeks ago, I found out that he lied to me. He offered to cover my college and grad school expenses, to fill in the gaps between my scholarships and stipends and the actual cost. He told me I didn’t need to take out student loans because he’d had a banner few years and could afford it. But he just took out another mortgage on the farm, putting us even further in debt.”
I squeeze his hand. “But you didn’t know.”
Flipping my grip, he squeezes back. “Exactly. It took a couple weeks of beating myself up, but I finally got it. It was his choice. Just like your grandfather’s choices were his. Not yours.”
The moment he finishes, the rain stops. Looking up, I watch as the clouds overhead lighten as a ray of sunlight slants between them.
“Oh, also, I’m probably neurodivergent,” Sam says quickly. “Autism or ADHD, or maybe both. In case that, um, makes a difference.”
I shake my head, dizzy from the zigs and zags of Sam’s confessions. “Um. Not really. I mean, I guess it makes sense?”
He nods. “I think it does. And I’m going to investigate further.”
I can’t drag my eyes from his beautiful face, and I find myself nodding along with him. “That’s good.”
“One more thing?” Sam asks softly.
