#cherry replies

cherry ; Lonely, widowed, Joel seeks company where he knows he shouldn't.

late nights ; You never expect Joel to come back, let alone to search for you.

offers ; Joel comes back to you like clockwork. He has a proposition for you.

resolve ; Joel gives you a credit card. You're hesitant to use it.

interlude ; Joel grapples with guilt and shame. But there's no quitting you.

even just that ; Joel calls you; you call Joel.

more than, twice as ; Joel is different than all the other men you've slept with. . .Right?

warmth like... ; A promise is fulfilled. Joel takes you horseback riding.

best laid plans ; You attempt quitting with variable results.

only in quotes ; Things can't keep going on as they have, can they?

in effect ; Going it alone isn't easy.

of my own name ; Joel doesn't cope well without you.

belief ; Joel makes sure you get home safely.

the b-side ; There might be a future for you, if you and Joel are brave enough to grab it.

post-series drabbles:

cherry's first morning at the ranch

cherry is confronted by a stranger about joel

joel and cherry get ready for bed

joel takes cherry to the state fair

cherry tells her parents she's engaged

'do you still have my nudes?'

cherry and joel's third anniversary

cherry's 25th birthday

extras:

cherry playlist

how cherry evolved as i wrote her

cherry edit by @yougavemeeverythingandnothing

cherry edit by @totallynotastanacc

Luckily, though you still aren’t totally used to it, there’s a hand to catch you. 

You laugh and press your fingers over Joel's fist clamped around your elbow, currently keeping you upright. “Joel,” you gasp, giggling despite yourself, drunk on champagne and sangria, a violent smear of bubble pink fruit on your tongue. “You caught me.” 

Joel hauls you against his side and wraps his arm around your waist. “Cher,” he answers, something deeply amused in his voice. “I’ll always catch you, darlin'.” 

You sway against him, the ground beneath you tilting wildly like a ship on rough seas before smoothing out again. “I think I got it, sweetheart,” you laugh, digging the soles of your cowboy boots into the gravel firmly until you hit the dirt beneath just to be sure.

“Uh-huh. Why ain’t you lettin’ go then?” He counters, hand a warm imprint on your waist through the thin material of your dress.

“You want me to let go?” You ask, looking up from your feet to his eyes, widening your gaze as you shove your hand into his back pocket. "I'm hurt."

He grunts and tightens his hand on your hip. “Now I didn’t say nothin’ like that.”  

The sky is cotton candy pink, the white wispy scraps of cirrus clouds little daubs of cream floating on a rose sea. The edge of the horizon is a deep, aching purple with the threat of an oncoming summer storm. 

The air smells of rain, thick with the scent of diesel and fried ozone, grease and crushed peanut shells and spilled cheap beer. 

You don’t stumble once as you and Joel cross the bar’s parking lot, the flush sky pulsing into a melded persimmon and lavender haze as dusk approaches, the sun a hot pat of butter sliding beneath the crust of the horizon. 

Joel opens the passenger side door as he always does. He helps you up into the cab, before circling the truck and climbing in. You fumble long enough with the seatbelt, uselessly trying to untwist the fabric, that he reaches over and does it for you with a deft twitch of his fingers. As soon as the belt is out of your hands, you push your hungry fingers against him with a needy whine instead, seeking the veins in his forearm and the swell of thick muscle in his bicep, the tendon under his jaw that threads down into his throat. 

He ignores your pawing with a laugh caught somewhere in his throat, and starts to pull the belt across your body, forearm grazing your chest, sending sparks skittering through over your skin.

But you have other plans, and instead curl your hands into his shirt, clumsily pressing your mouth against his jaw, missing his mouth by a mile.  

You feel carefree, and, you think, happy, young, for once, despite all your responsibilities. Summer didn't mean getting a months long break for a doctoral student, but it did mean you could take a break. It meant this, heat and choking love.

Joel huffs under his breath when you pull him against you and lean back against the door. You spread your legs wide to accommodate the bulk of his body as he follows your touch and settles easily between your hips, grunting at the awkward angle.

“Happy anniversary, cowboy,” you mumble, yanking him closer by the collar until his weight is all you can feel, the hot, smothering pulse of his body against your skin, already alight in the glaze of summer humidity, the sun trapped in the cab, and the alcohol swimming in your veins. “I love you,” you say against his mouth, the warmth of his breath against your lips the only air you’d ever care to breathe again. 

“Mhm,” he hums, eyes flicking from your eyes to your mouth and back again. 

“I mean it,” you mumble, squeezing his face between your palms, tracing the gray patch in his beard that grows with each passing year. “Without you I’d be face down in the parking lot.” 

He chuckles. The sound echoes around your bones.

You push your hands beneath his shirt, feel the scrape of wiry hair against your fingertips, the soft padding of his stomach and the muscle beneath that. He grunts when you palm him through his jeans, tug at his belt. “You’re so pretty,” you continue, gaze flicking over his face, the creases beside his eyes, the striations in his irises, “and so good to me. I'm so lucky.” 

“I think you got it backwards, Cherry.” 

“Handsome,” you coo, ignoring him, curling your fingers behind his ear, brushing the graying strands of hair away from his eyes. "So, so pretty."

“Mm. You’re the pretty one.” 

“And I wanna fuck you.” 

“I can see that,” he grunts when you squeeze him again.

“I love you,” you say, so earnestly in makes your mouth ache. “Really. Say you believe me.” 

“Cherry.” 

You meet his eyes, feel his whole body pressing you into the bench seat, the uneven ridge of leather against your spine, how his shoulders hulk above you and he has to hold himself up with one thick forearm braced against the seat. It's nice, like your body has slipped inside his, and you don't have to think what to do with it anymore, long held impulses to please faded memories. “Joel?” 

“I love you,” he answers, soft and solemn, stroking your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You know that, Cher.” 

Tears well at the back of your eyes that otherwise wouldn’t have if you were sober, a terrible ache in your chest. “Oh.”

His eyes flick over you as you hook one knee against his hip. “Don’t I tell you all the time?”

“I like to hear it.” 

He nods, one broad palm slipping down your side, curling into the pink, silk fabric of your dress. It’s short and flirty, edged in white lace, the cutout of a heart between your breasts. “Yeah,” he agrees, hand closing over the wing of your hipbone.

His mouth skims over your throat, scratches along your clavicle. He presses the words there like a vow, like they might imprint into your skin, a wreath of tattooed promises.

“How many years has it been now, darlin’?” 

“Twenty-five, at least,” you tease. "Maybe a hundred."

“Funny, I only remember about three of ‘em.” 

“‘Cause you’re old—” You accuse, affection so thick in your throat it chokes you. 

“Or maybe you’re just young.” he counters. 

You wriggle beneath him, sweat pooling at the base of your spine and between your thighs. It beads on Joel’s forehead and along his collarbone. “I think that’s probably it,” you agree softly, tracing the lines by his eyes, cupping his jaw in your hand.

You kiss him softly, blue shadows moving over you as the sun finally disappears, threading your fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. The heat and alcohol have made you dizzy with want, but lazy.

But it’s enough to lie with him there, kissing slow and tender, his tongue in your mouth, making good on promises he’s always sure to keep. This is your favorite way to have him, indulgently, slowly, like you have all the time in the world, like you're just teenagers fooling around, hands everywhere and nowhere all at once.

You've done everything backwards and sideways with him, the order of your relationship like a shuffled deck of cards. You don't mind.

His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, and back again, before it slips beneath your dress.

Joel blinks and looks up from the sink, elbow deep in soapsuds. You haven't even glanced up from the laptop you're hunched over at the dining room table, nibbling on the end of a pen.

"Cherry."

You still don't look up, brow scrunched. "Hm?"

"Look at me."

You seem to come out of your trance then, looking up from whatever data or text had captured your attention on the screen. "What?"

"You don't wanna celebrate, darlin'?"

Something in your expression folds, a small, sad smile playing around your mouth as you shrug and refocus your attention. The smile fades and your mouth twists to the side. "It's okay."

Joel rinses the soap from his hands before patting them dry on a dish towel, moving toward your place at the table. "You're answerin' a question I didn't ask," he says, flipping the cloth over his shoulder. "Why don't you wanna celebrate?"

You roll your eyes and meet his gaze when he sits next to you, arm across the back of your chair. "Don't make me say it, Joel."

"Say what?"

Your expression softens, a tenderness he doesn't deserve sweeping over your features. "You don't need the reminder, and neither do I," you say, taking his hand in yours to squeeze briefly, "so, it's okay."

"Reminder of what?"

"Joel," you laugh. "C'mon."

His chest tightens, guilt like a lead weight dropping into his stomach. "So you just ain't ever gonna celebrate your birthday again?"

You release his hand and shrug, cupping his jaw instead, thumb running over his cheek. "Not not ever, but," you shake your head, and let your hands drop. "Maybe just not this year. Please," you plead softly, "I don't want to risk it."

Joel doesn't ask what, and lets you go back to your work, pressing a kiss to the side of your head as he stands.

.

.

.

Your birthday dawns blue and bright. You have a full day ahead of you, classes and work and meetings with various advisors in your department.

You are determined not to think of your birthday, the unforgiving memories of the year before and everything tied to it. How alone you had been and why.

Why you were alone on your birthday, saying goodbye to Joel as best you could, only speaking to your mother.

Joel had seemed to understand your request to do nothing, ignore it, but when you open your apartment door, a bouquet of flowers are waiting on the doorstep in the early morning heat.

The card, when you pluck it out of the bushel, reads only:

I couldn't let you think it means nothing. We don't have to talk about it. Happy Birthday, Love Joel.

Something small and cold falls into your hand when you tuck the card back inside the envelope. A charm in the shape of a pair of cherries, glinting red and gold in your palm in the still rising morning sun.

Already running late, you don't have time to do anything other than stick the flowers on the side table inside the door, tuck the charm inside your bag like a token of good luck, and text Joel a quick thank you, you'll call him later.

A smile threatens to tick up at the corner of your mouth, but you don't have time to call Joel until sometime in the afternoon when fifteen minutes to eat and walk to the library present themselves.

Joel picks up on the first ring. "Happy Birthday, Cher."

You bite your lip and feel silly for being so happy at something so simple. "Sorry I couldn't call earlier," you say, "Thank you for the flowers and the charm."

"That's all right, darlin'. I saw your schedule," he says. A few months prior you'd sync calendars, since your days fluctuated so much, so he wouldn't have to worry if he couldn't reach you. "I tried to call you earlier but I think you was already in class."

"Yeah," you say. "Will you put my charm on sometime?"

"How 'bout tonight? I'll pick you up."

You narrow your eyes as you settle on a bench in the afternoon sun, popping open a can of cherry coke you'd stuck in your bag earlier in the day. "What are you up to?"

"Well, it's your birthday," he drawls. "I gotta be up to somethin'."

"I thought I said not to," you tease. "Don't you listen?"

"Ain't you figured out yet you can't teach an old dog new tricks?"

"I don't know," you murmur, just a little coy, "Think I've taught you plenty of new tricks."

He chuckles. You know without being able to see him that the crests of his cheeks and ears are pink. "All right, sweetheart."

"So pick me up."

Joel laughs again. "I'll be there. Happy Birthday."

.

.

.

Joel baked you a cake.

You stare down at the mess of his kitchen counters, the flour still smeared across his cheekbone in a pale arc, the clumsy supposed cake. Sun streaks everything a gauze, woolen yellow, like spun gold draped over the room. 

With an eagerness that doesn’t at all match the vision before you, you cut into the cake without preamble and stick a forkful into your mouth.

“Y’know I had candles,” Joel mutters beside you, amused, his hand anchored warm and large on your hip. 

Red velvet cake looks more brown than red, with vanilla buttercream icing that he let go for too long in the mixer and tastes faintly of butter rather than icing. The sponge is over baked, burnt a little at the edges beneath the icing. The flavor is that of cough syrup and, somehow, salt. 

 You lick the icing from the tip of your finger, flecked with reddish crumbs. 

It’s the best cake you have ever had, simply because it’s the only one that has ever been made for you by someone who cared enough to try, by hands that care for you, love you. 

“Joel?”

“It’s awful, ain’t it?” 

You laugh. “Well, I mean—What did you put in it?” 

“The usual, I guess,” he answers, brows furrowing. “Cherry extract.” 

Of course. 

“I don’t think you were supposed to put in the whole bottle. . .” You smack your lips. “It’s salty.” 

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a little. “Cute.” 

Before he can pull away, you lean in and press a kiss to his mouth, lips smeared with buttery icing. “Thank you, I mean it.” 

“It’s bad.” 

“Awful,” you agree, smiling against his mouth. “Like, really, really gross.” 

He pats your hip and slides past you to open the fridge and scoop out a white box tied with twine, the logo of a local bakery stamped on the side. 

“Good thing I got a back up, then.”

There’s a Fleetwood Mac song on the radio, your chest feels so warm and tight it’s hard to breathe, Joel promises he did not also attempt to cook dinner.