Savor It

Chapter 9. Sage

As soon as I hear the knock at my door at 8:00 A.M., I dive for the bathroom and give myself a quick once-over in the mirror. And while, sadly, I have not transformed into an irresistible siren in the span of one night since I last saw Fisher, it is still me in the reflection. Maybe a bit more flushed than normal… with an obnoxious fluttering in my stomach.

“Come in!” I call, knowing the windows are open to let in the morning breeze. “I’ll be right down!”

The novelty of making a new friend in him is exciting to me, even if circumstances for initiating this friendship haven’t exactly been ideal. He was clearly struggling with something out there in the meadow yesterday, so I decided not to take it personally that I’d spotted him making a break for it. He’d been struggling every single time we’d interacted, I realized, and maybe he just needed a reprieve. I honestly planned to walk around him at a distance and to pretend to be unaware. But then I watched Legoless’s tail cut through the grass like a shark fin parting waves and saw his form slightly bounce when he latched on to his prey. I approached slowly in case Fisher managed to free himself first, but eventually found him there at my feet, and I’d been struck again. The hem of his shirt was riding up thanks to Legs’s claws, his eyes squinting in frustration while he tried to get free. He only needed to stand up, to move, and gravity would’ve done the rest, but he was so stuck in his turmoil, he couldn’t abandon his plan. And every time we meet, I find myself stirred by a strange mix of familiarity and mystery in him, like he’s a puzzle I’d love to solve.

I suppose I’ve never been good at stifling my curious side, and maybe I never will be.

I grab my keys and some money from my purse in the hallway before I head back out, but my steps falter when I reemerge. The sight of Fisher with his back to me in my kitchen stretches that fluttery feeling into something foreign and loopy—something equal parts excited and self-conscious in an illogical way. I just caught this man scurrying like a little bug into a field yesterday, and yet heat is blooming in my cheeks at the sight of him examining the eggs on my skelter. He takes a few steps and looks around the sunroom, and it flares brighter.

It’s just a tiny addition, really, but it’s paned glass on all sides and across the ceiling, with a pair of sliders that lead into the kitchen and a single French door for the exit. I’ve got an overstuffed, mustard-colored chair in the corner that belonged to my dad. A footstool stacked with paperbacks and notebooks next to it that belonged to my mom.

Ian always complained about the sunroom. The floors are tiled, so it was too cold in the winter. All the glass let in too much sun and got too hot in summer. He hated that I had it arranged as a sitting room right there because it was too small to be a real sitting room when only a few people could fit in it comfortably. He complained about the shelf Ellis built for me along one of the panes, because I keep it filled with tchotchkes and plants, funky vases made from mini disco balls or vintage tomato sauce cans mixed in between cherished mementos. But Ian hated anything resembling clutter and the plants brought gnats and Who wants that near a kitchen? he’d say. I always felt like all his problems with the sunroom were the same problems he had with me. I was also too impractical, too inane. Just like he thought it should be converted into an insulated, more useful mudroom, he always wanted to convert me into something he deemed better, too.

“You ready?” I ask, annoyed by how timid my voice sounds.

“This is nice,” Fisher says, still looking around the glass.

I swallow thickly. “Yeah,” I hoarsely say. I struggle to tamp down the part of me that immediately wants to tell him how pretty it is in the mornings when the meadow’s still kissed by dew or how it fogs up during the holidays when everyone’s here and being boisterous—like the house itself has a physical symptom of joy. But then I force myself to remember that this is a virtual stranger, someone here only temporarily, who I don’t have to pitch the virtues of my sunroom to.

We quietly make our way to the truck and pull down the drive.

“What’s Indy up to today?” I ask. Seems like it’d be a safe conversation opener.

“Indy’s hanging out with your nephew again today,” he grouses, but for some reason, the grumpy inflection makes me smile once more. I can’t imagine a single person on planet Earth feeling anything less than adoration for Sam.

“What happened the other night?” I ask. “Were they out past curfew or something? You didn’t exactly explain.”

He twitches uncomfortably as I pull out of the drive. “I also didn’t explicitly give Indy a curfew before she went out. And you don’t have to say it—I know that was my first mistake.” I notice he’s quick to shift blame onto himself or to explain when it comes to Indy. I wonder if he even realizes he’s protective.

“I’m scared to ask if that had anything to do with the horn,” I say, changing gears and heading down the road. “Hopefully no one got pinned against the wheel while in flagrante.”

He cuts me a miserable glare. “Surprisingly, no. That was me alerting them that I was being forced to witness their passion against my will.”

A laugh slides out of me, and he turns away. “Glad you find it so amusing.” He pouts, but I catch the corner of his mouth tick up when he shakes his head. “God, I’m so clueless. I don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to that kid.”

Probably it’s not that he’s sharing this out of comfort or trust, it’s more likely because every time our paths cross, he’s already been in some exposed state—first with his obvious embarrassment during the vacuum affair, then during his mini meltdown when Indy had stayed out too late, and again in the meadow… but this small admission makes something twinge in my chest nevertheless.

“If it makes you feel at all better,” I say, “every parent I’ve ever spoken to feels the exact same way.”

He hums and goes back to watching the road in silence. I keep catching whiffs of his mild scent in the cab. It’s clean and yet warm, something minty and woody, too. It’s addicting in its subtlety and makes me want to lean in and seek more of it out.

After a while, he interrupts the scent profile I’ve begun building in my head to say, “I assume everyone around this place already knows about the vacuum thing?”

I grimace and hold back a chuckle. “What if I share some of my embarrassing stories? Would they help put you at ease?”

“Doubtful. I have a feeling I’ll just get secondhand embarrassment on top of mine,” he says seriously, eyes landing on me with laser-sharp focus. “But it would be very noble of you.”

I find I’m driving below the speed limit for once, delighted to have him engaging with me like this. “Well, to preface this, you should know that my mom passed away when I was young. I was only six or so, and then my dad died when I was twelve, which left me being raised by three brothers. Ellis was eighteen.” A wistful smile tugs up my cheeks, remembering the pure chaos of the time. “But, suffice it to say, I was too embarrassed to talk to my brothers about needing to buy a bra when I started… budding. And I’d found this nudie magazine in Micah’s room once that had women with those little pasties on.” I mime an X shape on my own nipple as if he needs some sort of demonstration, then feel myself blush furiously when I catch him studying the movement. I shift back to the road and try to concentrate. “Anyway, I, um—I put duct tape on my nipples and ripped a piece of one off, and it was bad enough that I had to get stitches,” I blurt out in a rush. Oh god, why did I tell that story?! Quick, recover with a different one! “Oh! Once, in eighth grade, I was reading aloud to the class and accidentally read ejected as ejaculated,” I say, my voice gathering volume as I try to dig myself out of this mortifying pit. “There were only eleven kids in my grade, so it still gets brought up occasionally.” OH MY GOD. I really did that, didn’t I? I just talked about nipples and ejaculating back-to-back.

“Where are you from?!” I all but scream at him, trying to catapult this conversation into a future where I’m maybe not so tragic. I can feel the sweat slicking beneath my palms against the steering wheel.

When he doesn’t answer right away, I tilt back, only to find that he’s adjusted to one hip, his broad shoulders facing me, and his expression barely harnessed. He’s giving it a gallant effort, I’ll credit him that. “Thank you for—all of that,” he eventually manages, but the words sigh out of him like he had to boil his laughter until it evaporated into steam. “I’m technically from the Netherlands. We moved to the US when I was two and my sister was four. I live in New York now.”

“So you’re a chef in New York, but you’re working here for the summer?”

One side of his mouth jerks up in a wry grin. “I am a chef,” he says. “And yes, my backer bought a building out here that they’re converting into a restaurant with an observatory, and she asked me to consult on the kitchen layout and to develop the menu.”

It’s an oddly stiff and selectively worded reply, but I get hung up on the newest information he’s shared. “An observatory!” I say. “That’s what that is!”

He side-eyes me curiously. “What’d you think it was?”

I mimic his expression. “Listen, none of us knew what to think. We just knew what it looked like.”

“Which is?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t make this be the car ride where I talk about nipples, ejaculation, and penis-shaped erections. I’ve already given you so much.”

He rumbles out a laugh, and I let myself steal another glance. It’s even better than when he told me my sunroom was nice. I like how he tosses his head back with it, how his hand clutches his chest like he’s trying to hold on to the feeling. He turns his head to me, still leaned up against his seat, and says, “You should get bonus points for throwing erection in there, though.”

I give a little bow and flourish my hand in reply.

We settle back into a comfortable silence for a bit after that. The sun is spotty again today, but strong enough that the skies are more blue than Oregonian gray. Spunes is mostly comprised of jagged edges, but right now is when it’s lushest, with bright pops of lupines and wild irises peeking through sprawling green. I roll my window down and let the fresh air slip through my fingers, let the resistance blast against my palm. A laugh hiccups free when I see Fisher doing the same.

When we slow down and make the descending turn that puts the old town into view, I say, “So, not to freak you out or anything, but because I happen to help out the homeowners while they’re away, I also happen to know you’re here for the whole summer.”

“I assume you know a whole lot more than that, Sage,” he replies.

I cast him a confused pout. “What do you mean?” I ask.

He blows out a long sigh. “You’re gonna tell me that you haven’t heard anything else about me, then? That the Main Street Businesses Coalition isn’t out there plotting my demise as we speak?” There’s an edge to his words, like he’s daring me to lie. A muscle twitches in his jaw.

I’m not sure I should push him with that bitter tone, so I reach for humor instead. “Was it Hallmark that put you on to small towns? They get some of it right, but I swear…”

He only raises a brow and waits for me to continue.

I press my lips together and take one of the last turns I make to get into town. “I promise, the only reason I knew anything to begin with was because of my nosy brothers.” I don’t address the fact that they’re probably why other people in town know things, too. For some reason, I want him to know that I wasn’t actively trying to poke into his business sneakily. Aside from the initial peeping, of course.

“I know that Indy’s your niece, but I could’ve found that out directly from her yesterday, and not necessarily because of any local nosiness or oversharing.”

A beat passes, and I worry I’ve overstepped, but then he says, “My sister died three years ago. Car accident.”

I inhale sharply, but consider my reply. I don’t want to have a reaction that makes him uncomfortable. Then again, I can’t bring myself to repeat the same greeting card slogans I’ve heard a thousand times, either. I decide to give him my plainest, most unfiltered thoughts.

“That is a fucked-up thing to have happened. To her, to Indy, and to you” is what I go with eventually. “And it’s not fair.”

His eyes flare bright and intense, still burning against my temple when I turn back to the windshield.

“Thank you,” he croaks, barely audible over the muffled sounds of the car. “And… and yeah. We’re here through most of August.”

Sensing his need to move on, I pivot with him. “Seems kinda long just to help with a kitchen plan and come up with a menu? Just—” I hesitate, worried I’m officially crossing the threshold into busybody territory.

“Just seems like those are things I could do remotely?” he supplies.

I nod.

He turns and watches the road ahead, contemplative for a moment. “I’ve been struggling… at work. Out of touch, I guess, and it shows. It’s been showing,” he says. “I think this is my boss’s way of helping me reset, while also giving me an opportunity to prove myself again. And I suppose she knew Indy and I needed the reset, too.”

“It’s nice that your boss cares about you like that, I’d think?”

He shakes his head and snorts. “Sorry, no, you’re right,” he says. “Nicer than I deserve, that’s for sure.” He lets out a reluctant sigh. “Carlie’s good people. And just because I’ve been a mess doesn’t mean she should have to let me bring everyone else down just for the sake of who I used to be.”

“Grief changes you,” I reply with as much brevity as I can. “And on top of that, it’s probably a little more difficult to focus on, like, foie gras, when you’re also suddenly worried about someone else’s entire well-being all the time, too.”

His eyes go wide again for a moment, like he’s shocked that I jumped right to the grief of things rather than vaguely dancing around it. But the expression shudders away just as quickly. “It’s always foie gras whenever someone makes a chef analogy,” he says. “Why is it always foie gras?”

“The more important question is, what is foie gras, Fisher?” I reply. I can follow his lead here and keep it fairly light for him.

His chuckle is relieved, one side of his face pulling higher than the other. “I took you for something of a cook?” he says.

“You were in my kitchen for thirty seconds!”

“Exactly.”

I’ve seen bashful Fisher, self-deprecating Fisher… and now I’m getting glimpses of confident, flirtatious Fisher. It seems entirely genuine, not a mask he’s slipping on, maybe more like a hat he was meant to wear. And lord help me, I like this version of him, too, even if it makes me feel like I’m trying to balance on the tips of my toes.

I’m forced to turn and keep my attention on the road as I pull us into the parking lot. “You’re that much of an expert?” I say.

“Believe it or not, they don’t hand out Michelin stars to just anyone.” He flashes a full smile at me when I whip his way, and the combination of his statement and the force of his grin make me slam on the brakes harder than I intend.

“Sorry, but what?!” I level him with an incredulous look. “You got a Michelin star?!”

His color rises, and he spins away, his expression closing off entirely. “Technically, it’s the restaurant that gets the star, but… yeah,” he says before he wordlessly exits the cab.

I look around, still dazed. “What?” I whisper to myself. Good god, did I really tell him I would help him with a menu? How did he not laugh in my face?

I rigidly get out and walk to where he waits for me by the front bumper. When I take a step past him, he stops me by my elbow, the touch lancing warmth up the limb and across my chest.

“It wasn’t just the grief,” he says, blowing out a frustrated breath. “Before. When you said that grief changes people. And it wasn’t even that I immediately had Indy to worry about. Things stopped working for me before then. They were already taking a dive prior to the accident.” He takes his hand back and shoves it in his pocket. “I felt like I should clarify that. It’s part of why I was sent here.”

He looks like he’s just offloaded a confession, like he’s a little ashamed but a lot relieved. And somehow, I get the sense that there’s more he’s not ready to say.

I take a deep inhale, the smells of grass and brine mingling with Fisher’s scent around me—that intoxicating something that is most likely just his deodorant and not the mythical aroma my hormones are building it up to be.

“I’m sorry you were unhappy,” I say.

His entire body tenses, his eyes searching the ground around our feet. “I wasn’t unhappy. I was just… failing.”

That twinge in my chest again. “See, Fisher, I have it on good authority that they don’t hand Michelin stars out to just anyone,” I tell him, dipping my head meaningfully. “I seriously doubt you were failing.”

He tries so hard to smile at that, his hand swiping across his jaw and his fingertips pushing on the corners of his mouth like he wants to tack them in place. The sound of his palm against the stubble on his jaw makes my skin tingle and my nipples pinch. “I’ll have to show you some reviews sometime that indicated otherwise,” he hollowly states.

“I don’t think we can base our success entirely on someone else’s opinions,” I say, disproportionately vehement. I think I might be projecting.

He crosses his arms and leans up against the car, big body landing heavily. “I think when your success quite literally depends on someone else wanting what you’ve got—wanting to spend their money on it—it does.” His voice is somehow both resolute and tired.

Is this an argument? It sort of feels like it right now, but he’s looking at me with such unfiltered curiosity that I think he just wants to know what I have to say. It’s a heady sensation, and it also makes me want to steer things back to safer territory.

“Listen, I’m a teacher.” I put my palms up in surrender. “No one wants what I’m selling, I just find ways to trick them into absorbing it.”

I watch a flicker of something spark across his features before he chuckles, then settles into a light smirk. “Maybe, in a way, that’s what I did, too,” he declares.