Chapter 17
Fern lives a montage.
Fern rushed through her final haircut on Friday afternoon, happy it was a number two fade and nothing more complicated.
Then she swept up and wiped down the salon at lightning speed while lamenting that this was the day Ros decided to stay away.
It was fine, she was covering Saturday so Fern didn’t have to go in at all.
After a speedy shower, she grabbed the bag she’d packed the night before, and feeling almost exactly like she was leaving for a slumber party, headed down to Elliott’s house.
The only thing missing was her mom in the driver’s seat, listening to the first two minutes of any given Grateful Dead song before switching to the next.
It made no sense to Fern that her mom liked jam bands but not the jamming.
“Boring,” Mom called it.
“The whole point,” Fern said.
She found Elliott in his studio, bent over his kiln, unloading ceramics. A hand-thrown vase filled with flowers waited on his work table beside an array of underglazes and brushes, ready for use.
“For me?” Fern teased, leaning in to smell the arrangement.
“Yes, actually. But not from me, sorry.” He carried a tray laden with shards over to the table and set it down before her. “They’re from Noa, in case you want references while you paint.”
“Awesome.”
“Do you— Eh, never mind.”
“What?” she asked, her curiosity piqued by the way he shuffled back to the kiln and practically shoved his whole head in to avoid answering her.
“Nothing. Look at this!” Presenting her painted test platter like a diploma, Elliott waited for her to approach.
Fern accepted it, half expecting him to shake her hand, and studied her work.
It wasn’t bad. The vibrant florals were perfectly imperfect, just as she’d imagined.
She could have gone bolder with her hibiscus pistils.
It was difficult with underglaze, since she had to paint the lightest colors first and darker on top.
If only she’d had a freaking class on this stuff, even just once.
“You’re a great artist. You did that with natural talent, sugar.” Elliott traced the raised lines of glassy underglaze, tapping a fingertip against a black-eyed Susan.
It was like he’d overheard her self-critical thoughts or her conversation with her mother. She knew bears had good hearing, but she didn’t think it was that good. He just knew what to say.
Was he right, or was he just being nice because of their potential bond?
Elliott set up across the table, arranging a spread of cut-out clay petals to press into shape, score, and stick together. It wasn’t easy to stop herself from focusing on his arms or his hands, but she managed in spurts, painting her way through a small batch of purplish phlox.
“Fuck,” he cursed quietly, a few minutes in.
“Hmm?”
“Forgot to tie up my hair.” He held up his clay-coated fingers.
“I’ve got you.” Laying down her brush, she circled the table.
He held his hand aloft, and she pulled the stretched-out hair tie from his wrist, avoiding as much clay as possible.
Unable to stop herself, she combed her fingers through his tresses, once, twice, again. Elliott sighed softly, leaving tan fingerprints on the table as he pushed back, his head coming to rest on her tits.
Her lips dropped to the top of his head, then she worried she went too far and pushed him forward to take care of his bun.
“When do you want this haircut?” Fern asked, gathering and twisting his strands.
“We have time.”
“Tonight?” She secured his elastic and circled the table, retaking her seat.
Elliott’s sandals slapped the concrete floor as he tapped a shallow rhythm. “Or Saturday, Sunday, Monday...”
“Nervous? I won’t cut any more than you want.”
With his thumb working its way up a clay petal, he drawled, “Not at all, but I don’t plan to let you out of my sight until you head up to work on Tuesday.” His eyes flicked up to hers. “We have time.”
Well, fuck. Her pulse settled into place between her thighs, and she squirmed on her stool. They weren’t just friends. They. Were. Not. But she needed to double check. “Don’t you want any time alone? I’ve noticed you’re kind of a hermit.”
“No. I’ve learned that the time you’re at work is plenty.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, but a smile pulled at her lips, and she studied the checklist Elliott made for her, lying head to toe beside his. Each list detailed counts and types of crafts to produce for Ren’s wedding. They worked well together, that much was clear.
Another hour, maybe two, passed in a mix of shared glances, quiet smiles, chatter, and companionable silence. She’d made it through ten phlox, he completed two more flower lids for the diffusers, then they cleaned up to go eat.
“I didn’t even tell you about dinner,” Elliott said roughly as he closed up the studio for the night.
“What about it?” she asked, stepping into the glowy sunlight cascading across his gravel drive.
“I’m happy to cook something else—anything you want—but I made a sundried tomato pesto pasta salad earlier, if you’re into that.”
Pausing, she turned to face him, blinking through wide eyes. “That’s a mouthful. Sounds great.”
“I’m partial to it. There’s fresh bread too.”
Of course there was. This man was the whole package: an artist with a thriving career, a home studio, and an adorable rustic cottage.
He ate pussy better than she’d ever experienced, and he loved to cook?
She exhaled a wistful sigh as the breeze kicked up a small dust devil of cut grass.
Twirling with it, she spun beneath the sunset and basked in the potential relationship she had brewing with Elliott.
“I could live here forever,” she murmured.
A rumble emanated from Elliott’s chest. Whether it was him or his bear, she couldn’t tell, but she could hear it, even though he hung back, leaning against his studio door. “Not a big house like Beck and Liv’s?”
She didn’t realize he’d been listening. “Ew, no. Too big to clean.”
He made a gruff sound, but she was pretty sure it was in agreement.
Saturday, Fern woke to the muffled warble of a folksy harmonica song and the scent of eggs and bacon in the air. Clad in another of Elliott’s shirts, this one tie-dyed, she slunk into the bathroom to freshen up and fix her messy hair before joining him in the kitchen.
They ate breakfast sandwiches on the back porch before moving as one to the studio.
“Don’t forget your man-bun,” Fern reminded Elliott as he flicked on the light. “Speaking of, how do you want your hair cut?”
“It’s up to you,” he offered, tendons flexing while he dragged his hair back and secured it.
It was definitely not up to her, but she had enough experience by that point to read the signs and identify what a person did or did not want to do with their hair.
He was close to letting her cut it, more relaxed when discussing it.
He never complained about the length or it getting in the way, except the once, and he always had a hair tie on hand.
She’d shape and trim it for him, but Elliott wasn’t getting a drastic cut, at least not straight away.
She didn’t think he could handle it; she knew she couldn’t.
After a long day in the studio, breaking only for lunch, he was ready for his first Ferncut—the test run. It was in the middle of the kitchen where the lighting was best that she took her scissors to his tresses and trimmed off an inch—two tops. She needed to ease him into things.
Late afternoon on Sunday, they finished all the wedding crafts.
The final painted magnet chips were laid to dry under the watchful eye of a fan, and Elliott planned to fire everything in the morning.
When she went back to work for the week, he’d add a clear coat to each of the tiny favors to finish them up.
“I think I need more hair cut,” Elliott announced as they sauntered to the house after closing up the shed.
Fern had been expecting that.
He reiterated she could have at it, do whatever she wanted. But she liked his length and he liked his length, so she stuck to shaping it, bringing it up to the tops of his shoulders and adding a few layers so he could swoop it back from his face or pull it up in a bun as needed.
They worked outside to avoid cleanup, and Elliott’s folding chair creaked as he tilted back on the grass, handing the mirror over after surveying his finished style. With a grin, he tossed his head, swaying his hair while begging for a kiss.
She laughed and pecked him on the lips, unwilling to get too into it since she was still carrying scissors.
“Smoke, shower, dinner?” he asked, standing and beckoning for her styling supplies.
“That sounds perfect,” Fern agreed, handing everything over.
She followed him out of the last patch of hot daylight and into the cool, shaded part of the yard.
His home was picturesque this time of day, lit by the soft pinks and oranges of sunset, an earthy cabin tucked away amidst the pines. She really could stay there forever.
With his free hand, Elliott stretched out a lock of hair and glanced over at her. “So, no buzzcut?”
Her lip curled. “If you really want one, fine.”
“I don’t. Don’t worry.” He laughed and ushered her up the back steps ahead of him.
“Good,” she said, unsurprised. Turning back, she found an eager smirk lurking beneath his beard. Over the past few days, she’d learned that face meant he wanted to be kissed. She could handle that.
Taking advantage of their positions, Fern leaned in and planted one on him with no warning. He made a pleased sound while his bear rumbled in his chest.
A pair of pipes awaited them on the back porch, ready-packed by Elliott for their enjoyment. Sitting at the table for two, they toasted bowls before taking their hits.
He tipped his chair back and exhaled at the ceiling. “I’m really blown away by how quickly you’ve picked up ceramics.”
“I made one floppy pot.”