Strawberry Girl at the Strawberry Farm

The first time Ford called her strawberry girl, Jem had been half awake and undercaffeinated. She had not planned on becoming emotionally attached to a man in a corporate green apron.

It was a Thursday morning and the air was warm already despite the early hour.

Her favorite café that stood on the corner of her apartment smelled like espresso, sugar, and toasted vanilla.

The place had hand-painted menu boards and plants hanging in the windows and mismatched chairs that looked expensive.

Jem had been coming there on and off for a few weeks after moving into the apartment complex nearby.

It was close, the drinks were affordable, and the music was always low enough that she could hear herself think during her study sessions.

That morning, the usual barista looked up when she stepped up to the register.

He had dark hair gelled back at the nape of his neck in a loose, unimpressed attempt at neatness, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and the kind of loose smile that suggested trouble.

“What can I get started for you?” he asked, then squinted at her for half a second.

“Wait. You’ve been here before.”

Jem laughed softly. “A few times.”

“A few times,” he repeated, like he was deeply offended she had reduced it to that.

“I knew it. You’re becoming one of ours.”

“One of yours?”

He leaned one forearm on the counter. “Caffeine patrons of distinction.”

She should have rolled her eyes. Instead, she smiled. “That sounds like a big deal.”

“It is serious. We have standards here.”

“Mm. Good to know.”

His name tag was pinned upside down on his apron.

She tilted her head, reading it anyway. “Ford.”

He glanced down at the tag and huffed a laugh. “Ah, dang.”

His grin curved, pleased. “So. What’re we getting today?”

She looked up at the menu board. “Today, I wanted to try something different.”

Ford tapped his fingers on the register. “So bold!”

“Oh, I know. I’m upgrading.”

“Any preferences?”

Jem pretended to think. “I love strawberry everything.”

That did something to his expression. Just a flicker of amusement, like he’d already found a joke and was deciding whether to say it out loud.

“Oh, that’s adorable,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes. “Adorable?”

“Yeah. Very committed to a theme. Hang on.” He glanced toward the menu board, then back at her. “We just added a strawberry cream iced coffee last week. It’s good. Weird enough to feel interesting, but also safe enough to not ruin your morning.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“Of course it does.” He tapped her cup on the counter and wrote something on it with a marker. “One strawberry cream iced coffee for…” He looked up expectantly.

“Jem.”

He repeated it once, quieter. “Jem.”

Then he smiled and wrote again. “Jem. Like a gemstone.”

Her stomach did a tiny, annoying thing.

When he handed her the drink a few minutes later, there was a small strawberry doodle next to her name.

“There you go,” he said. “One strawberry cream iced coffee for strawberry girl.”

Jem looked up. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve decided that’s your nickname now.”

The Birth of Strawberry Girl

She should have objected harder than she did.

Instead she took the drink, warm from his hand where it brushed hers, and said,

“You're ridiculous.”

“Just drink the coffee, strawberry girl.”

She did and it was incredible.

“Oh my God.”

Ford’s mouth curved knowingly. “Yeah?”

“This is actually amazing.”

“Told you.” He pointed at himself with exaggerated smugness. “I’m very gifted.”

Jem took another sip and tried not to look too pleased. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet,” he said, leaning in slightly,

“you’ll be back.”

He said it like a joke. The irritating part was that he was right because she came back two days later. Then three days after that.

Then again the following week, always at slightly different times, as if varying her schedule would somehow disguise the fact that she was starting to time her errands around a barista with nice hands and terrible self-control.

Ford always noticed.

“Look who it is,” he said the next time she came in. “My favorite strawberry girl.”

Jem laughed despite herself. “You absolutely call other girls that.”

He placed a hand over his heart. “Me?”

“So that’s a yes.”

“Classified information.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He made her drinks like he was performing for an audience, all casual flair and easy confidence, talking while he worked. He remembered what she liked. Less ice. Oat milk when she wanted something softer. Extra strawberry foam when she looked like she’d had a bad day.

It became a rhythm. She’d walk in, he’d grin.

There she is.

Strawberry girl.

What are we having today?

And every time he said it, something in her lit up.

The Sunshine Girl

Jem knew better than to let herself get carried away. Men like Ford came with huge red warning labels. He was too charming and too comfortable with attention. She noticed how beautiful women smiled at him when he passed over drinks, how he leaned in like every conversation mattered, how effortlessly he made people feel chosen.

Still, there was a difference with her. At least, that was what she told herself. With her, he’d once pushed a tiny sample cup across the counter and said, “Try this. I made it because I was bored.”

“What is it?”

“A prototype.”

“For what?”

“For a new drink that I only want you to have.”

She had laughed so hard she nearly choked. And when he smiled after making her laugh, it never felt fake.

So of course she made the mistake of hoping.

It happened on a Tuesday.

Jem had finished a miserable doctor's appointment across town and stopped by the café later than usual, hair pinned up in a lazy clip, oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder.

She wasn’t in the mood to talk much and mostly wanted sugar and somewhere that smelled like safety.

The bell above the café door rang as she stepped inside.

Ford was behind the counter.

So was a girl in a tiny white tennis skirt leaning over the register.

Ford was smiling wide. He had that easy crooked one that made him look like he knew exactly how attractive he was and didn’t mind using it. He was saying something Jem couldn’t hear from the doorway. The girl laughed, touched his forearm, and Ford laughed too.

Then he handed her a drink and said, clear as day—

“There you go, sunshine.”

The girl beamed.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

Jem stopped walking.

Jealousy moved under her ribs. It wasn’t rational and she knew that. He worked in customer service. Relied on tips and of course he flirted and was friendly, especially to other women. She relaxed and let the thoughts dissipate.

But then the girl looked down at her cup and laughed wildly.

“Oh my God, you drew a little sun again.”

Ford grinned. “Had to.”

Jem stood there for one horrible second too long, feeling stupid in a way she deeply resented. Then she turned around and walked back out before he saw her.

That night she told herself she was being dramatic.

By morning she was still annoyed. Even the next day, still hurt.

The worst part was not that Ford flirted with other women. Of course he did. It was that she had started to believe what they had was different.

But maybe it never had been, so Jem stopped going back.

Spilling the Tea

The first two mornings felt strange. She made coffee at home that tasted flat and depressing. Her coffee skills were piss poor.

She had convinced herself this was for the best. But she was still glancing toward the café every time she passed the block.

Her two best friends noticed immediately.

“You look like someone dumped you,” Talia said on Saturday afternoon from the passenger seat of Nora’s car.

“No one dumped me.”

“Then why are you staring into the void like a damn widow?”

Jem sighed and tucked one leg under herself. “There was this barista.”

Talia slapped the dashboard. “I knew it.”

Nora laughed. “Oh, this is good. Tell us everything.”

Jem should not have told them everything, but there was no surviving the next forty minutes without it, so she did. The stupid nickname and strawberry flavored drinks. His doodles of pain.

The way he had looked at her just long enough to make her feel chosen. Then the obnoxious girl in the tennis skirt. The awful realization that she had probably just been one of many.

When she finished, there was a beat of silence.

Then Nora said, very carefully, “Okay. You know from the outside, this man does sound like a red flag.”

“He‘s a big red stop sign.”

“But,” Nora added, “he also sounds like he liked you.”

Jem looked out the window. “He liked the attention.”

Talia twisted in her seat. “Those are not always the same thing.”

Jem shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

Coincidentally, they were driving out to a strawberry picking event that Nora had found online the night before. She had impulsively bought tickets for everyone.

The flyer promised the freshest berries, live music, lemonade stands, picnic blankets, and some sort of local market setup.

The weather was perfect for it—bright, cyan blue-skied, lightly breezy—and under any other circumstances Jem would have been fully delighted by the whole thing. In actuality she was pressed at the mere mention of strawberries.

She had spent most of the drive trying not to think about Ford.

“Today,” Talia announced, “you are not allowed to think about your flirty coffee man. Say it.”

Jem deadpanned, “I will not think about my flirty coffee man.”

“Excellent.”

The Strawberry Festival

Nora pulled into a gravel lot lined with hand-painted signs and rows of parked cars. Beyond the entrance, the farm stretched in soft green lines under the sun.

Red barns in the distance. White loose tents. Steel drums carrying faintly on the breeze. The place smelled like earth, sugar, and warm hay.

Jem stepped out of the car and took one look around.

Okay. It was actually kind of magical. The feeling of community was prominent and she felt right at home.

They wandered through vendor booths first—homemade jam, local honey, tiny bouquets tied with red ribbon. Then they bought pink lemonades and a paper tray of strawberry shortcake to share.

Talia bumped Jem with her shoulder. “Feel better?”

“A little.”

“Good. Fall in love with nature instead.”

“That feels healthier.”

They made their way toward the picking fields with baskets in hand.

The rows stretched out in long green ribbons, bright berries peeking from beneath leaves.

Families wandered between them and couples posed for photos.

Nearby, a child shrieked with joy over a particularly large strawberry.

Jem crouched to pluck one and dropped it into her basket.

Then she heard a voice behind her.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Every muscle in her body went still.

She turned.

Ford stood at the end of the row in jeans, work boots, and a faded black T-shirt, a baseball cap shoved backward over his hair. Sunlight hit his face full on. He looked almost illuminating.

He stared at her with open disbelief, then a grin broke slowly across his mouth.

“The strawberry girl,” he said, walking closer, “at a strawberry farm.”

Talia made a small strangled sound beside her and immediately started backing away. “Nora,” she whispered. “Walk with me.”

Nora, traitor that she was, grabbed her basket. “Absolutely.”

“Wait—” Jem began.

Her friends vanished with obscene efficiency, leaving her standing in the dirt with Ford and a pulse that had instantly forgotten how to behave.

He stopped in front of her, eyes bright with amusement. “You being here feels a little on the nose, doesn’t it?”

Jem clutched her basket handle. “What are you doing here?”

His smile softened into something less playful. “My dad organized this event.”

She blinked. “What?”

Ford spread his arms. “Welcome to the glamorous double life I lead. By weekday, charming neighborhood barista. By weekend, beloved son of a strawberry farmer slash event planner.”

She huffed out a reluctant laugh before she could stop herself.

His gaze caught on it and lingered.

“That's more like it,” he murmured.

The warmth in his voice made her chest tighten.

Jem looked away first. “So your dad organized this event?”

“Yeah. He does one every season. I usually help out when things get busy.” Ford shoved his hands into his pockets and tipped his head. “I haven't seen you around at the cafe lately.”

Frustratingly enough, he chose to be direct.

Jem stared at a patch of dirt near his boots. “I’ve been busy.”

“Mhm.”

She looked up. “What?”

“I said mhm because that sounded fake.”

Her mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”

Ford smiled a little, but there was tension beneath it now. “Jem.”

She hated how easily her name sounded serious in his mouth.

“You stopped coming in.”

“It’s a café. There's always new ones popping up.”

One of his eyebrows lifted. “That’s true. But usually when someone goes from showing up every few days to vanishing completely, something happened.”

Heat crawled up her neck. “Maybe I just wanted coffee somewhere else.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

He tilted his head, clearly unconvinced. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You are. Also you won’t look at me.”

“I am looking at you right now.”

He stepped a little closer. “Yeah. But not like before.”

The field suddenly felt too bright.

Jem tightened her grip on the basket. She had not prepared for this version of Ford.

“I guess if you want an answer, you flirt with everyone,” she said finally.

He blinked. That, of all things, seemed to throw him off, unsurprised.

Jem let out a breath and kept going because she was in too deep now to retreat with dignity.

“I came in the other day and there was this tiny girl at the counter and you were smiling at her and calling her sunshine and drawing little things on her cup and…”

She looked away, embarrassed now that the words were actually out in the world. “It made me realize I probably got carried away.”

For a second, Ford said nothing.

Then, incredibly, he laughed.

Not mockingly. More like he couldn’t believe he was hearing this.

Jem’s eyes flashed. “You're such an ass.”

“No—no, don’t say that.” He held up both hands, trying and failing to stop smiling. “I’m not laughing at you.”

“It really seems like you are.”

“I’m laughing because I have been miserable for a week, and apparently it’s because you got jealous of a girl named Claire.”

Jem stared. “You know her name?”

“She’s my younger cousin.”

Jem’s soul briefly left her body.

Ford watched the horror move across her face and had the decency to wince a little. “Yeah.”

“That was your cousin.”

“That was my cousin.”

“The one in the white skirt.”

“Yes.”

“The sunshine cup—”

“My entire family calls her sunshine. It’s been her nickname since she was seven.”

Jem wanted the soil to open up beneath her and bury her under the strawberry roots forever.

Ford dragged a hand down his face, still smiling in disbelief. “You thought I was flirting with my cousin so hard you stopped coming in?”

“Please stop saying it like that.”

“How else am I supposed to say it?”

She covered part of her face with one hand. “I can literally never return to civilization.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“I am dramatic.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I noticed.”

Jem looked at him through her fingers. He had gone gentler now. The teasing was still there, but muted and it did not help.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he asked.

She lowered her hand. “Because I didn’t want to be one more girl falling for the charming barista routine.”

Something shifted in his face and it was not enough to lose the humor entirely, and his honesty began to show through.

“Well,” he said, “I do flirt with people.”

She folded her arms.

“I know that’s not exactly a thrilling confession. But I do like making people laugh. Especially little old ladies. I like the attention. I know that about myself.” His mouth tipped ruefully. “I like being liked, and probably more than I should.”

That, at least, was true.

“But with you,” he continued, “it wasn’t just routine.”

Jem went still.

Ford took another step closer.

“You’re the only person I actually got nervous around.”

She gave him a look that plainly called him a liar.

He smiled. “I know after saying that, it can be hard to believe. But the first time you read my name tag and said my name out loud, I nearly dropped the metal pitcher on my own foot.”

That dragged a tiny smile out of her. He saw it and kept going.

“The doodles on your cups? I only started doing that because you laughed at the first one.” His voice lowered. “Half the time I noticed the door opening, I was hoping it was you.”

Jem’s breath caught. Ford looked almost embarrassed now, which was startling enough to feel intimate.

“When you stopped coming in,” he said, “I thought I’d pushed too hard. Or said something stupid. I kept looking up every time the bell rang like an idiot.”

The atmosphere between them turned quiet.

All around them, the farm went on as normal. Distant laughter and cow mooing in the distance. Music came from the event lawn. Someone called for more baskets near the front stand.

And here, in the middle of the strawberry rows, Ford watched her like this moment mattered enough to risk fumbling it.

Jem swallowed. “You really looked for me?”

“Every shift.”

His answer came too fast to doubt.

She looked down at her basket, at the berries gathered inside. Red and warm from the sun.

“I felt stupid,” she admitted.

Ford’s voice gentled further. “You weren’t stupid.”

“I was a little stupid.”

“Okay,” he said. “A little.”

She laughed under her breath.

He grinned. “There she is again.”

Something unknotted in her chest.

Peace Treaty

Ford glanced at the basket in her hands. “How many strawberries you got?”

She looked down. “Not enough to heal from the emotional damage of this week.”

“Ah, I see.” He nodded toward the rows beside them. “Come on. I know where the real good ones are.”

Jem hesitated only a second before following him.

Ford moved easily through the rows, brushing leaves aside, occasionally crouching to point out the ripest berries. He was good at this too, which felt rude. Every now and then he tossed one into her basket with exaggerated precision and looked offended if she didn’t seem impressed.

“You really do this every season?” she asked.

“Pretty much. My dad thinks it builds character.”

“And does it?”

“No,” Ford said. “But it does make me better at identifying quality produce, which I think is underrated.”

Jem laughed.

He glanced over at her, smiling in a more relaxed way now. “I missed that.”

She looked down quickly, because if she didn’t she might do something unwise like kiss him between the strawberries.

After a while they wandered beyond the crowded rows toward the far edge of the field where the land sloped slightly, bordered by a line of trees. It was quieter there. The sounds of the event softened into a distant blur.

Ford stopped beside a weathered fence post.

“So,” he said. “Now what?”

Jem leaned her hip against the post and cradled the basket against her waist. “Now what what?”

“Now that we’ve both been humiliatingly honest in an agricultural setting.”

She smiled. “That is pretty specific.”

“I’m a detail-oriented man.”

He looked at her then, not playful for once. Just open.

“I still want to take you out.”

Her heart gave one hard thud.

“Ford—”

“A real date,” he said quickly. “Not because the universe was conveniently aligning our schedules. I want to ask you properly.”

Jem studied him. “And how many girls do you ask properly?”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Cruel.”

The wind lifted the edge of her hair. Ford reached up instinctively like he meant to tuck it back, then seemed to think better of it. His hand dropped.

“I know I come off a certain way,” he said. “And honestly, sometimes I deserve it. I joke around. I flirt. I like making people smile because it makes me feel…” He trailed off, then shrugged once. “Big, I guess. Seen.”

“But you,” he said, eyes on hers, “you made me want to be more careful.”

Jem’s throat tightened.

“That good or bad?” she asked.

Ford smiled faintly. “Terrifying, mostly.”

She laughed.

His expression warmed in relief, like he’d been holding his breath for the possibility of that.

Then he nodded toward the full basket in her hands. “I can offer you a peace treaty.”

“Oh?”

“Unlimited lemonades, strawberry shortcakes and possibly other shameless attempts to win you back.”

“You’re assuming you lost me.”

He leaned in slightly. “So I didn't?”

Jem looked at him for a long moment, at the boyish arrogance still flickering around the edges of him, at the steadier thing underneath it. The one she had almost missed because it was easier to believe in performance than sincerity.

Then she said, “You severely inconvenienced me.”

Ford’s mouth curved. “I’m willing to make reparations.”

She pretended to think. “How extensive?”

“Very.”

“Financially?”

“Sorry, I'm a barista, remember?”

“Emotionally?”

His smile softened. “That one we can do, yes.”

That did it.

Jem shook her head like she was helpless against him, though she probably was.

“Fine. Lemonade.”

Ford’s grin broke full and bright.

“Thank God.”

A Date with the Strawberry Girl

They started back toward the event lawn together, walking close enough that their arms brushed now and then. Neither of them moved away.

Near the tents, Ford flagged down an older man loading empty crates into the back of a small utility cart. He held the same olive eyes as him.

“Dad,” Ford called. “This is Jem.”

The man looked between them once and seemed to understand far more than Jem was prepared for.

“Well,” he said, smiling. “So this is the strawberry girl.”

Jem turned slowly toward Ford and scowled.

Ford looked delighted with himself. “What?”

“You told your father?”

“I mention things.”

“You mention me?”

He took the basket from her before she could protest, easy and familiar like he’d been doing it for years. “Maybe.”

His father chuckled and drove off without another word, leaving Jem to deal with the heat blooming across her face.

Ford angled his head toward the lawn. “Come on.”

They found a quieter patch of grass near the far edge of the event where the music carried soft and a little sleepy through the afternoon. Ford came back balancing two lemonades, two paper plates of strawberry shortcake, and the kind of self-satisfied expression that suggested he expected praise for surviving the line.

“You look smug,” Jem told him.

“I am smug. I’m on a date with the strawberry girl.”

She took the lemonade from him. “This is a date?”

“I’m choosing to be optimistic.”

She smiled into the rim of the cup.

They sat on the blanket under the shade of a white tent edge, knees almost touching. The sun had gone softer now, turning everything honey-bright. Around them, people wandered between stalls carrying baskets of berries and flowers and paper trays dusted with sugar.

Ford stretched one leg out and looked over at her. “So. Can I ask something?”

“Just ask me the damn question.”

“When you first saw me, did you think I was cute?”

Jem nearly choked on her lemonade.

“That’s not a no.”

She laughed and looked away. “I thought you were too confident.”

His face lit up. “That also isn’t a no.”

“And annoying.”

“Still not hearing a no.”

She turned back to him with a smile she couldn’t suppress. “Fine. Yes. I thought you were cute.”

Ford sat back with the air of a man vindicated by history. “Wow. Today is a huge day for me.”

“For you?”

“Absolutely. I’m thriving.”

Jem shook her head, laughing.

He watched her for a second, expression softening again. “You know, I actually almost called you something else the first day.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Pretty girl.”

Her stomach flipped.

“But then you said you loved strawberry everything and I thought…” He shrugged lightly. “That fit better.”

Jem traced one finger along the side of her lemonade cup. “You know it’s kind of outrageous.”

“What is?”

“That I still like it.”

Ford smiled. “Strawberry girl?”

She nodded once.

He leaned a little closer, voice dropping. “Good. Because I’m not giving it up.”

Something warm and helpless moved through her.

The Kiss

The wind lifted again, carrying the smell of sugar and green leaves and summer fruit. Ford’s knee touched hers this time and stayed there.

Jem looked at him and he watched her mouth. Her heart gave her exactly one second to be sensible, and then she set her lemonade aside.

Ford’s eyes flicked up to hers.

“Can I?” he asked.

The fact that he asked made something inside her melt.

“Yes,” she said.

He kissed her softly at first, one hand resting against the blanket beside her knee, like he was being careful not to startle her. His mouth was warm, sweet from lemonade, and when Jem kissed him back he made a quiet sound that felt embarrassingly rewarding.

The second kiss was a little less careful.

The third made her forget where she was for half a second.

When they finally pulled apart, Ford rested his forehead lightly against hers and laughed under his breath.

“What?” Jem whispered, smiling.

“I have wanted to do that for an unreasonable amount of time.”

She laughed, and he kissed the corner of her mouth like he couldn’t help himself.

Then he leaned back just enough to look at her.

“So,” he said, very pleased, “are you coming back to the café?”

Jem considered him. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I might need convincing.”

Ford put a hand over his heart. “After everything I’ve given this relationship?”

“We don’t have a relationship.”

His eyes danced. “Yet.”

Heat rose to her cheeks and when he noticed, he looked unbearably delighted by it.

“Come in tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll make you something new.”

“Another prototype?”

“The best one yet.”

Jem tilted her head. “And do all your other girls get custom drinks?”

Ford’s smile turned slow and certain. “No.”

Something inside her settled at last.

Around them, the strawberry festival moved on in warm afternoon color, all sweetness and music and red fruit under the sun. Somewhere near the front of the field, a child shouted happily. A breeze tugged at the tent fabric overhead.

Ford reached for her hand then, casual as breathing, and laced their fingers together.

Jem looked down at their hands, then back at him.

He squeezed once.

“I’m glad I found you here,” he said.

She smiled. “At the strawberry farm?”

“At the strawberry farm,” he agreed.

She nudged his shoulder with hers. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance, strawberry girl.”

And this time, when he said it, she knew exactly what he meant.

You’ve reached the end of this story.

But not the end of the world it belongs to.

New stories appear regularly.

Stay curious.

© Petalstorm Press — Original Fiction
This story is part of the Petalstorm Press library.
Redistribution or reproduction without permission is prohibited.