Chapter 15 Colson
fifteen
Colson
We’re meeting at Cherry Pit because the thought of asking Sadie if she wanted me to pick her up was enough for me to break out in a clammy sweat. Instead, I suggested we meet there. Safer.
I know I’m reading into this much more than anyone should. She’s being nice. Last week she watched me have a fairly public meltdown and she’s trying to make sure I’m not going to spiral. She wouldn’t want to lose her assistant coach.
Or that’s what I keep telling myself.
I’m walking up to the street, looking for a bench where Sadie said she’d be. The streets are busy with a mix of locals and tourists for the summer. Everyone has somewhere to be, a plan to get to, but there’s smiles and an easy type of energy surrounding us.
I love Chicago. It was the first place that ever really felt like home after Michigan. But the energy there, most days, is chaos and business. Nowhere near as much as New York or LA, but people are trying to get to the next thing.
Not in Golden Harbor. People move slower here, walking hand in hand, lingering at a restaurant’s host stand set right on the street, smiling as they ask how long for a table. String lights flicker on above the patios. Somewhere, music drifts out of an open door, soft and familiar.
It’s only a few more steps until I see her.
Sadie’s sitting on this bench, the wind off the lake whipping through her hair which shines with the help of the sun.
She’s wearing a dress, long and loose, the top kind of scrunched and pulled together.
It’s this light green color and shows the rosiness of her skin where the tops of her shoulders have been kissed from the sun.
I’m not blind. Sadie in her athletic or coaching attire is attractive, in a way that I can’t tell if she knows it or not. But seeing her now? Her face tilted up to the sky, the sun hitting her cheeks, her hair loose and dancing over her shoulders? She’s remarkable.
And like she can feel me, her eyes open and light up when she sees me.
“Colson, tell me are you ready for your first Cherry Pit experience?” Her hands rest on her hips and I can’t help but stare at her lips shiny and plump.
“I think so?” I nod along. “You... You look–” My words get stuck in my throat.
Sadie tilts her head, eyes like warm honey, and looks down at her dress before catching my eyes again. “Yes?”
I can’t help but laugh at myself at the awkwardness. I am the middle school version of myself with the stumbling and words falling on top of each other. Slowly, I swallow past the unease and say, “You look really pretty. That dress. I like the color.”
When she beams, I know giving the compliment was the right move. There was no question—my mom made it clear that was a non-negotiable. Something she used to tell me was you never know how hard someone’s day was, or how our simplest words could make an impact. I try to carry that through now.
“Let’s go pop your cherry,” Sadie jokes, a blush creeping over her cheeks.
I can’t help the head shake as I follow her inside.
Cherry Pit is bigger than it looks from the street. Once you’re inside, it opens up—long wooden tables, strings of lights overhead, and wide doors pushed open to a patio spilling toward the water. The lake stretches out beyond the railing, blue and endless, like it’s got nowhere better to be.
It seems like Golden Harbor does this a lot—hides the good parts until you’re already in.
Sadie heads straight for the patio, nodding at someone behind the counter who greets her by name.
They know her. They tip their head to me, like they know me too—maybe they do, maybe they don’t.
Hell, maybe I’m just the random guy out with Sadie tonight.
But no one stares. No one whispers. It’s like the town has collectively decided to let me breathe.
I didn’t realize how much I needed that until I do. Part of me wondered what it’d be like when I got here, ventured out into the city, but the people of this lakeside town have done nothing but let me exist. Fuck, the way I needed this.
We grab seats at a high-top table facing the water. The breeze carries the lake air and the smell of sand, in a way that has me itching for a beach day.
“So,” I say, eyeing the paper tasting menu, “you said cherries. You did not say wine.”
Sadie smiles like she’s been waiting for this. “I absolutely implied wine.”
“You absolutely did not. You said cherries. That could’ve been pie. Jam. Or literally anything that doesn’t involve me pretending to understand tasting notes.”
“Colson,” she says gently, “this is Northern Michigan. If there are cherries involved, wine is never far behind. Plus, it’s basically juice with a college degree. It’s delicious. It’s local. You can’t go wrong.”
She takes my menu, putting it on top of hers on the corner of the table. “Plus, no one knows what the cherry item will be until you get here. It’s a surprise.”
I look around the patio which is almost full. “Wait, you mean to tell me people show up and don’t even know what kind of thing they could be tasting?”
Sadie nods eagerly. “You got it. Unless you have an in with someone who works here and they’re feeling gracious. But, it’s one of the parts of town that feels charmingly old school. No social media posts. Nothing to check. Just show up and see what’s going to happen.”
When our server comes, Sadie immediately orders for us. We each get a full tasting flight and an order of fries to share.
“Anything else for you, Colson?” the server—Birdie, based on her nametag—asks.
Hearing her say my name catches me off guard. “No, that should be good,” I offer with a small smile.
Birdie turns, wearing a kind of lightness which makes me settle into my chair a bit more. I can still see her walking through the restaurant when Sadie says, “Yes. She knows who you are. No. I didn’t tell her.”
“Wow. So different from back home,” I reflect, sitting back in the chair. The word home feels foreign when it rolls from my lips. Like I’m telling a lie.
She notices my shoulders loosen before I do. Her smile is gentle, almost protective. “Golden Harbor’s good like that,” she boasts, and the look she gives me makes it clear she’s never doubted it for a second.
When the first tasting glasses arrive—deep red, lined up neatly—Birdie explains the lineup: Montmorency cherries from Old Mission Peninsula. Balaton cherries grown farther north, closer to Leelanau. Different soils. Different sweetness levels.
Sadie listens like she’s taking mental notes. I pick up my glass and sniff, immediately feeling like an idiot.
She watches me with open amusement. “You look like you’re trying to remember how to parallel park. I promise you, it’s not that deep.”
“I’m being respectful,” I reply. “I don’t want to offend the cherries.”
“They’ve been through worse,” she says. “Trust me.”
I take a sip. The wine is tart, bright. Sharp in a way that makes my mouth wake up.
“Well?” she asks.
“I don’t hate it,” I admit while watching the crimson liquid swish around the glass. What I don’t tell her is that it’s actually good. Like, I’m wondering if we’ll get an opportunity to buy bottles at the end.
Her eyes light up like I’ve told her a secret. “Wow. Mark the calendar.”
The second wine is darker, smoother. Balaton cherries this time—sweeter, richer, less bite.
Sadie nods after tasting it. “These are my favorite. They’re kind of overlooked, but they’re smooth with enough of a bite.”
I glance at her. “You just described yourself.”
She snorts. “Better be careful, Coach Colson.” She gives me a side-eye glance as she brings the wine glass to her lips.
“I meant it as a compliment.”
She studies me for a second, like she’s deciding whether to believe me, then lets it go with a small smile.
Birdie drops the fries at our table, including a container of a dipping sauce. She must notice I’m trying to figure it out when she jumps in, “Cherry honey mustard. A staple here.”
Sadie has her hands in the hot fries and is dipping them into the sauce before Birdie is even leaving the table.
“Oh my god. This is my favorite,” her eyes roll back as she revels in the fries.
Hesitantly, I follow her lead. I take a fry, dip it in the cherry honey mustard, and take a bite. I’m kind of expecting to not like it but it’s the exact opposite. The cherry isn’t too sweet and seems to be a solid pair for the honey and then brightness of the mustard. It’s fucking good.
“Your face is giving you away,” Sadie teases, raising her brows. “You love it, don’t you?” she questions me as she takes another fry.
Shrugging my shoulders, I agree by taking another fry, heavy on the dip.
“It’s good. I’m surprised.” I lift my hands in a fake surrender, like she caught me.
She smiles slowly. “You do that a lot,” she says. “Pretend you’re undecided when you’re already in.”
Her words have me pausing for only a second. I reach for the wine, taking a small sip.
Because she might be right.
Cherry Pit hums around us—glasses clinking, someone laughing too loud at a nearby table, the smell of cherry in the air. We’ve got a basket of fries between us we’re pretending is communal, even though Sadie’s definitely winning.
She’s suggested we trade questions and it seems fair enough—or maybe that’s the wine convincing me.
“Okay,” I say, leaning back in my chair, trying to keep this low-stakes. “Easy one. One place you’d love to vacation.”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “Italy.”
I smile. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she replies, popping a fry into her mouth. “The fact that carbs are considered a lifestyle choice and not a weakness? Done.”
“That’s a compelling argument.”
She grins. “I would simply eat my way through the country and call it cultural immersion.”
I lift my glass. “I respect it.”
She clinks hers against mine—and then, without missing a beat—
“Did you ever actually date that model? The one—what was her name—Lena Cross?”
I choke. Just a little.
She watches me try to recover. “Too much?”
“No,” I answer, wiping my mouth, heart thudding for reasons that have nothing to do with surprise. “Just… bold.”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “Hey. You agreed to trading.”
“That escalated quickly.”
“That’s how I like it,” she says, reaching for another fry. “So?”
I study her for a second—how her cheeks pinch when she smiles, the way the string lights catch in her hair, the absolute lack of fear in her eyes.
“Briefly,” I admit. “Like a single, almost horrible date. Definitely not in the way the internet decided.”
She nods, satisfied. “I thought so.”
“You thought what?”
“I don’t know,” she says lightly. “I feel like it didn’t fit.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “What makes you say that?”
“Is that your next question?” Sadie pauses, the wine glass in front of her lips.
Well played.
And I realize I’m already thinking about what I’m going to ask her next—something less safe.