To My Romeo, with Love novel · Chapter 22 of 24

Chapter 22: The Plum

"Pink," Fraser said around the plum.

"Romeo."

"Open the window the rest of the way."

I did, and a branch of the rose snagged my sleeve, and he hauled himself up by his elbows and came over the sill.

He had come the old way, hand over hand up the trellis.

It took him ten minutes now, because he was twice the boy and the trellis was twenty years older.

He stood in the yellow room, panting.

He took the plum out of his mouth.

It was dark and glossy, with a bloom on it.

"I stole it from the widow's tree on the corner," he said. "The same tree."

"She's moved to Florida, Fraser. The tree belongs to the bank now."

"Then it's a victimless crime."

He put the plum in my palm.

His hand was shaking.

"Come out on the roof," he said.

"The porch roof?"

"There's a view."

I climbed out of the window behind him, in my socks, onto the flat gray shingles over the porch.

From there you could see the whole of Pembroke Lane, the maples and the rooftops.

The McCracken house with Marge's wind chimes, and the cemetery oak, a dark smudge on the horizon.

He sat down with his boots against the gutter.

I sat beside him and bit the plum.

It was sour and sweet, and juice ran down my chin, and I laughed.

"You're crying," he said.

"It's the plum."

"It's a really good plum."

"It's the best one I've ever had."

"Pink."

He turned.

He had something in his other hand that I hadn't seen, a small box made of walnut, with a tiny brass hinge.

His jaw worked.

"I made this in March," he said. "In the shop. Between your fourth cycle and the biopsy."

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