6. Peyton
Peyton
Romy and I sit in comfortable silence, intermittently answering emails in the office. My autumn playlist drones softly, faintly audible in the background.
Our front door’s propped open, and the bite in the air is irresistible, begging me to stop for hot apple cider on my lunch break or saunter through the tea house for new autumn blends on my way home from work.
Romy lights a candle on her desk, and the smell of burnt sugar and rosemary fills the air. “Hey. I’m adding recent gigs to our portfolio and realized that you never told me how the Healthtopia gig went. Did Kevin sign the consent form for us to use pictures? Did you get any good ones?”
I can’t stop the blush I know is creeping across my cheeks as I think about the photo Clover took of me and Callum.
I’m only slightly embarrassed to admit that I searched Clover’s profile after Healthopia’s grand opening.
And when I saw the picture she posted, I spent about an hour deciding whether or not I should like it before ultimately deciding not to and following her instead.
It’s been a few weeks since the smoothie shop, and I’m still thinking about him. I find myself wondering the strangest things… if he’s still wearing that little plastic baseball hat when he inspects, if he’s come across any uncooked poultry since I’ve last seen him, if he wonders about me, too.
I’ve never met a man like him before, one that looks at me with such interest. Not desire, but curiosity. Like I’m a puzzle to be solved. Like he’d like to be the one who solves it.
“Don’t swivel me, Peyton,” Romy says, as I start to inch my chair around. “What’s going on?”
Reluctantly, I turn to face her again, trying to school my expression. “Um, it went fine. Good, even. The Nutty Nana smoothie was actually delicious.”
She squints. “Yeah, I don’t care about the Nutty Nana smoothie, so if you could just tell me what happened and why you’re looking at my forehead, that’d save us both some time.”
“Nothing happened. Well, not really. I randomly saw someone that I’ve seen before. I don’t even really know him,” I tell her, my tone wavering awkwardly.
“Him? Did you say him? Who is him?”
“It’s nothing major. I kept running into this guy on assignment, and he’d gently interrogate me about my job, and it was just fun to bump into him. I guess.”
“You’re calling time with a man fun? What’s his name? Do I know him?” She pauses. “What am I saying? Of course I know him.”
Romy grew up in the area, and therefore knows everyone in Waterton.
“Peyton, if you don’t tell me, I’ll just start guessing. We can play twenty questions, but I doubt I’ll make it to number three without naming him.”
I sigh in defeat. “His name is Callum.”
She tilts her head. “Huh. He must be new. Or, like, old. The only Callum I know of is… Well, there’s no way it’s him.”
Callum isn’t new to town from what I’ve gathered, so I do the math in my head.
Romy’s in her first year at community college, and I think Callum’s closer to my age.
Late twenties, maybe, so the age gap tracks.
I’m almost relieved she doesn’t know him.
I kind of like the thought of Callum flying under the radar.
“Yeah, maybe too old.” I shrug. “Either way, he’s not someone I know well, just kind of an interesting guy I keep running into, is all.”
I take a sip of my cinnamon tea. “Healthtopia went really well. Kevin said that the Nutty Nana was his best seller that day. I spent nearly the entire time talking it up, so I’m calling it a win.
I’ll send you a couple of pictures I took for the portfolio.
I also got a testimonial from him we can add. ”
Romy nods. “Glad to hear it. And I’ll let Callum go for now, but know that we will be circling back to him at some point.”
“Fair enough.” I knew I wouldn’t escape unscathed, but at least this gives me time to sort out a good redirection. “So, what else is on the docket?”
Romy’s sharp black fingernails tap the surface of her desk. “We need to talk about the golf club assignment. The owners emailed again for an update.”
A pit forms in my stomach. My goal to grow Good Taste is at odds with having to partner up with a man in order to do it.
I clear my throat. “I’m, um, still thinking about it.”
“Not to be harsh, but you’re running out of time to ‘think about it.’”
It’d be easier if the assignment was to simply hire a guy to attend—Romy could just interview some short-term contractors. But the owners want a couple for the gig, requesting me specifically. And the affection couples show is usually rooted in touch.
My therapist has been encouraging more advanced exposure therapy for a while now.
I’ve done visualization and distance exposure, and I’ve made tons of progress.
Theoretically, I should be ready for the next step.
Small touches. Shaking a hand. Brushing fingers while giving out one of my business cards.
But I’d rather start with someone I know—not a random temp—and I haven’t had time to build trust with any men in Waterton yet.
“I can go in your place, Peyton, if you need. I can do that for you.” Romy’s voice sounds much softer than normal. “I just really think we need to try something new if we want to stay in the green.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not your job to influence, and out of any assignment, I’d never make you visit a golf club. That must be on the list of places you’re allergic to.”
She snickers. “It’s definitely in the top ten.”
“When’s the response deadline again?”
“Next week, if we want to find a man in time. And, I don’t want to guilt-trip you, but, if you take on this job, we’ll be able to make our sponsorship goal for the epilepsy foundation without you having to work ten additional gigs.”
Nodding, I take a deep breath. “I’ll give you an answer by the deadline. Promise.”
“Alright. Let’s focus on tonight then—the country-western restaurant in Detroit.” She types on her keyboard, most likely reviewing the brief. “The mechanical bull launch.”
“Yep. They want someone to be the first to ride it. Set the tone for the night.”
She peeks around the side of her monitor. “They also wanted someone with a Texas accent, remember? To add ‘authenticity’ to your opinions.”
I chew on my lower lip. “It shouldn’t be an issue.”
Probably.
Romy doesn’t look convinced. “Can I hear a sample of it?”
“Totally. But let me put on my outfit first. The bar is doing a ‘Cowprint Night’ theme. It’ll give you the whole picture.”
Her eyebrows raise. “If you say so…”
I slip away to the back closet and check out my outfit hanging on the rack.
Cow print stretch jeans, a square neck denim corset, and a blush pink cowboy hat to top off the look.
As I get changed, I whisper some words in my accent, saying little southern phrases to get into character.
By the fifteenth “y’all,” I’m feeling pretty good.
Or good enough. My cowgirl boots click on the wooden floor as I walk back into Romy’s line of sight.
Her jaw drops. “Holy shit. You look hot as fuck.”
“For real, though. Do you think I look right for the job?”
“Girl. You don’t even have to ride the bull. Just sneeze over it and everyone will get in line. You’re a real-life cowgirl doll.”
I don my best Southern accent. “Aw, shucks! Bless yer heart. I simply cannot wait to ride this here bull. Y’all.”
Romy closes her mouth. Opens it. Closes it again. “I think you should lean into more of a gameshow model persona tonight.”
“But they don’t talk.”
She nods grimly. “Exactly.”
“It’s that bad?”
Romy purses her lips before answering. “I’m afraid to report it was worse. You know what? Maybe everyone will be too drunk to care.”
I make prayer hands and look toward the heavens as I walk toward the door. “We can only hope.”
“Hey—will they have strobe lights there? Are you going to be okay?”
I turn around. “Because of my epilepsy? Nah, I’ll be fine. I’m not photosensitive.”
“Okay. Well, enjoy! I’ll keep an eye out for any tags on social media.”
I tip my cowgirl hat and shrug a fringe jacket over my shoulder. “Now, I reckon that’s a fine idea, partner! Wish me luck. Yippie ki-yay, and all that!”
“It’s too late for luck.” Romy picks up our office phone. “I’ve got a witch on speed dial.”
I laugh and tap my boots together before throwing open the door.
* * *
The loud twang of country music hits my ears as soon as I get out of the car.
The song is one I recognize from a western-aesthetic wedding I attended several months back.
Something about beers, boots, and brawls.
I forget the name, but it’s catchy, and I find myself syncing my pace with the thump of the bass as I walk toward the bar.
The bouncer checks my ID outside, and when I open the door, the strum of guitars and the resonance of fiddles sings through the massive speakers.
“Peyton, there you are! Thanks for coming.” The promoter who hired me opens his arms, and I can tell he’s going in for a hug, so I take off my cowgirl hat and hold it against my chest.
“Howdy, Eric! Thanks for havin’ me in this here fine establishment.” My voice doesn’t carry that well over the loud music, so if he notices anything off about my accent, he doesn’t mention it.
The light from the mirrorball on the ceiling glints off his bald head as he leans closer for more discretion. “Are you all set to ride the big guy over there? We’ve been hyping it up all night, but—just like I thought—no one wants to be the first.”
I track his gaze to the mechanical bull in the center of the bar, which is currently roped off.
An attendant sits in front of it, waiting for someone drunk enough to take the leap.
Its brown faux cowhide is held down by a thin “saddle” of sorts.
A small group is gathered near the rope, shoving their friends and trying to talk each other into riding it.
“I’m a Professional First Everything,” I joke, shrugging off my jacket. “You can count on me, partner.”