Savor It

Chapter 15. Sage

“What do you mean, shit?” I ask.

“I mean, literal shit. Dog shit and horse shit would be best, I think,” he explains. He’s freshly shaved since this morning, with a light flush in his cheeks, dimples that are dimpling, and… a small wet spot where I probably snotted into his white T-shirt. In spite of the conversation topic, his crooked grin makes my simmering blood heat to a rolling boil for entirely different reasons.

“I went paddle boarding,” I explain stupidly. “That’s why I’m in the wet suit. I got back and came to start on the garden stuff and…” I make the mistake of looking at the turned-up earth and the broken piles of stems, and I choke back a fresh sob.

“And a red mist came over you, I know,” he says, feigning sincerity. “Bloodlust. Savagery. Murder.” My chin wobbles guiltily, and his face quickly folds into a laugh. “I’m kidding, Byrd. Come on.” And then he wraps an arm around my shoulders and leads me away from the garden.

I end up changing out of my wet suit, and Sam and Indy end up forgoing their plans so they can spend most of their morning shoveling manure into the gopher holes with Fisher and me. There is a large part of me that would like to point out to Fisher that this is nowhere near in line with the charming or wholesome activities he probably thought I’d drag him into, but I’m feeling a bit too hangdog about the whole ordeal to find it funny yet.

By the time Indy and Sam do take off, it’s the afternoon, leaving Fisher and me to finish whatever this fortification process is on our own. He tells me we need the biggest speakers we can find, so after a cursory text for permission, we scrounge up the Andersens’ from their garage and set them up with a multitude of extension cords.

“Music? Really?” I ask.

“You might have to fall back on more violence, but a lot of loud noise and some hard evidence of other animals around will make this area seem less appealing, at least,” he says.

“All right.” I shrug. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try. I grab my phone, but before I can get over to the music options, I see some messages—a surprising number of them from some semisurprising names.

An “Atta babe” from Bea Marshall?

A series of question marks and exclamation points from Wren.

One from my brother Micah with a meme of an open-mouthed lizard that just says, “Hehe. Nice.”

And lastly, one from Athena Cirillo: a screenshot of a conversation between her and Venus that includes a zoomed-in picture of me walking out of the library aisle with my fingers against my lips, Fisher not far behind me, wearing an inscrutable frown.

My stomach does a loop as I put the pieces together. They assume I’m canoodling with Fisher, as in, something more regular than kissing in the library… as consenting adults are perfectly allowed to do. Clearly, these people have leaped forward five steps to their own conclusions, but god, why do I sort of like this feeling for me? As if they’re proud and excited for me rather than sympathetic or worried or patronizing? Venus herself had looked horrified when I’d walked into that library at first, all because she knew I’d run into Ian and Cassidy. Which, fine, I guess she was right to be worried since my brain did fully seize up on me when it happened, but it was the first time I was confronted with it! Anyone would act awkwardly! Not to mention how strange it is that I hadn’t seen them before then. This town is too small for that to be coincidental, I’m sure of it. There’s the way Savannah and Wren almost didn’t make their cake, too, and the way my brothers ended their friendship with him.

So, I guess it’s nice to feel like they’re all cheering me on or excited for me about something, even if it’s overzealous.

My blood heats up another degree when I remember that Fisher himself is in front of me and waiting for me to turn on some music.

I let out a weird sighing laugh to fill the space and start scrolling through options. “What do you think gophers hate the most? Smooth jazz?” Maybe something like that will help my heart return to a healthy resting rate, too.

“Bear in mind that we also will be subjected to whatever you play.”

“So definitely go with the Kenny G, then?”

He laughs noncommittally, and I land on a random instrumentals station before I gesture for him to follow me inside.

“Let me get you some lunch or something,” I say when we’re far enough away from something that sounds like the Bridgerton soundtrack to hear ourselves speak. “To thank you for helping me.” And to maybe buy me time until I manage to come up with a way to warn him about this new story being spun around town.

I still expect him to fight me on it or turn me down altogether. But he surprises me by saying, “I could eat,” and pulling out a chair at my kitchen table. He sits facing me, one forearm resting on the table and manspreading in a self-possessed way that makes me feel like I swallowed something fizzy. Or maybe more like a Mentos was dropped into the carbonated feeling I was already trying to flatten in my gut. He must see the look on my face because he says, “What? You’re the one who told me there are no empty gestures here. I’m taking you up on your offer.” And my mind chooses this very inconvenient moment to perform a floor routine set to him saying, What if I want it good and slow and drawn out?

Jesus, my heart is thumping in my throat. I need to redirect.

“So, how did you know anything about all—that?” I segue, pointing out to the garden before I turn back to my refrigerator. I’ve got absolutely no idea what to assemble for a Michelin-starred chef. I can’t really feed his leftovers back to him.

“France,” he explains. “When I was living with my mentor out there, I stayed on his farm. I’m not sure if they were gophers, precisely, but there were a whole variety of rodents. He made me carry a drum out there to bang on for a bit every night, which might’ve been just to entertain himself. Who knows?” He snorts and gets a far-off look on his face. “He was a miserable dick when it came to his garden.”

I laugh. Probably too loudly and definitely unnaturally, but I’m still trying to regain my composure. “Hey. Don’t judge him too harshly,” I say. “Creation is a lot of hard work.”

“He also had a god complex.” He raises his brows pointedly.

I throw a cherry tomato at him, which he expertly catches in his mouth and chews with a cocky smile. It should not be as sexy as it is. “Yeah, yeah. I’d have smote the hell out of the little bastards if I could have,” I admit, still vexed. “Those dahlias finally looked promising this year.” I put out a medley of things for grazing before I join him at the table. Crackers, cheese, meats, fruits.

He hums a short, satisfied sound when he pops a marionberry into his mouth. He’d hummed when he tried the scone the other day, too, and I wonder if he even realizes that food has this effect on him. For some reason, the observation helps to settle the rest of my nerves. I can be comfortable with this person, I think. We’ve managed enough vulnerable moments with one another in our time for that. Even if he does still harbor resentful feelings for small towns, I don’t think he’ll hold the rumor mill against me or be angry in any way.

“You mind if I ask, why flowers?” he says, cutting through my thoughts.

I finish the bite I’m chewing. “What do you mean?”

He adjusts in his seat. “I mean… that’s a pretty big setup out there for just a hobby. And most home gardeners go nuts about tomatoes and zucchinis. Growing things they can eat.”

“So, what, because I can’t eat them, it’s a waste of my time to grow them?” Even I am surprised by the bite in my tone.

Now I get one brow lifted at me. Like I just exposed something I hadn’t meant to reveal. “I didn’t say that,” he says. “I meant that they grow things that are more self-serving. I just like knowing how your mind works, that’s all.”

Oh. “Sorry. Think I’m still a bit…” I shake my arms in the air in lieu of an explanation. He only nods and waits for me to continue, and I guess since I’m in for a penny already—between kissing him in the library and crying into his shirt and the way I’ve word-vomited so many other pieces of myself otherwise—I might as well give him the most truthful answer.

“I started with a vegetable garden, actually,” I tell him. “But I’d read about how cucumbers grow best when they’re planted next to sunflowers. The stalks make a good structure for the cucumber vines, and they protect them with their shade. There were other things like that, too, like strawberries pair well with borage because the flowers attract bees and other pollinators. And it was really difficult for me at first. I had to learn not to overwater, and I’d go buy every single kind of plant supplemental thing and really just overdid it.” I laugh, then pause when I see his smile quirk wide before settling. “But mostly, I think,” I continue, “well, I know that the first time I successfully grew something was the first time I felt…” I try to find the right words.

“Powerful? Omnipotent?” Fisher supplies.

“That, too,” I joke. “But also like I wasn’t hopeless,” I say honestly, and his smirk gives way to a frown. “I always felt like I was never much of anything growing up. I wasn’t incredibly smart or dumb, athletic or clumsy, loud or shy. I think it manifested physically, too,” I laugh. “Am I blond or brunette? I’m something between. I’m not tall, but I’m not short. I’m not curvy, but I’m not thin. I’m a lot of nots.” I feel his stare on me like a brand, but I push on. “I never thought I’d ever do anything extraordinary. My brothers and I were always just trying to get by and figure out our dreams individually as we went. All I knew was that the few memories I had of my parents—especially my mom—were here, and I wanted to stay close to them.” It’s probably the same reason none of my brothers wanted this place. I think their memories are more vivid and make it more difficult, where mine are fewer and make me want to cling harder. “But… the first time I grew a silly little flower here was the first time I felt like I could contribute something really beautiful to the world, with what I had within my reach. Everything right here at my fingertips.” I brave meeting his eyes. “I like thinking about where flowers can end up, too. Sometimes they’re the small things of beauty at something sad and hard, like a funeral. Sometimes they’re trying to express something that words feel inadequate for, in a bouquet.” I force a laugh and reach for a piece of cheese. “Now, most of mine just end up in Spunes’s businesses for free, or I sell them at the farmers markets here or in Yoos Bay.”

“How come?” he asks. “Why shouldn’t everyone pay you for all of them?”

I blink a few times. “I mean—it’s not… It doesn’t matter. I like giving them. I love growing them. It’s not like the people I give them to around here need the flowers.”

“Why? Because flowers can’t sustain them like tomatoes and zucchinis might?” he challenges, throwing my own logic back at me. “Just because it’s something you love doing doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be honored or recognized for it, too. Sometimes that comes in the form of compensation.”

I’m tempted to respond with something cliché about money not buying happiness or how maybe I enjoy doing it just for the sake of doing it and the pride it gives me, but I realize that in this particular case it would be somewhat disingenuous. I would love to make a career out of it—to grow flowers professionally if I could. I’d love to be great at this and successful enough to make a living for myself.

But this is where all my convictions immediately start to waver and where I start to consolidate and cut my daydreams down to size. Because who am I to want something bigger for myself when so often I’ve been made to feel like the things I love are frivolous, anyway? Even saying “I want to grow flowers professionally” feels inherently unprofessional, because I immediately default to the things people like Ian valued and measured competency by. I don’t have a degree in horticulture or botany, and I don’t know the first thing about starting or running a business. Faint echoes of Ian’s declarations over me needing to do things that were more worthwhile flit through my mind.

Starting down that train of thought is dangerous for me, so I look for a way to pivot the subject instead.

“Maybe you’re right. But hey, interesting news! Venus the librarian apparently caught you kissing me,” I say. I looked for a subject turn and hopped off a topic cliff instead. He chokes on something and starts to cough, so I push his water closer to him and try to soft-pedal the rest. “I think you could consider it good news, actually. I’m sure you’ll be free from having more visitors now,” I explain. “The one good thing about being the town tragedy is that no one’s gonna try to get between me and some fun.”

He glares at me between another cough, but recovers. “And that’s what I am in this scenario? Some fun?” He coughs into his fist one last time. “By the way, I seem to recall, with stunning clarity, you kissing me back.” He braces a tanned hand on his jean-clad thigh and leans toward me with a stern expression, so I look away from the face and back at the hand. It’s a great hand, really. Vascular, with thick fingers that end in blunt tips. Clean, short nails. Knuckles slightly darker than the rest of the skin, like they’ve been scrubbed raw countless times. I note a few faded scars.

“Sagebyrd,” he says, like bluebird or blackbird or like I’m some exotic, rare species he’s just discovered and named. Just like that, it’s officially the only nickname I’ve ever loved.

“What?” I ask dully.

“You just disappeared for a second there.” He shakes his head and scrapes his hair back from his face. “You’re not upset that people think you’ve taken up with some out-of-towner?”

Oh shit. I’m not, but I didn’t consider whether or not he’d be upset. “Wait, are you seeing anyone back home or anything? I didn’t think about this cutting into any potential love life you might’ve had here, either, but I didn’t confirm anything with anyone, I promise. I can absolutely set the record straight.”

“Jesus, no, I do not have someone back in New York,” he retorts. “But putting my tongue in your mouth would’ve made me a real shit significant other, if I had.” His throat works on a swallow, and I feel mine mirror the same. “And no, as shocking as it is, I wasn’t exactly hoping to score while on this little detour from my life, so I don’t care about being off the Spunes market. In fact…” He bolts up from his chair and paces over to my fridge, ripping it open with the comfort of someone I’ve known all my life rather than a few weeks. “Do you have any beer?” He starts rearranging things in the door. Fascinating.

“Like any good Oregonian, yes. Toward the bottom,” I tell him. He continues his tinkering, and I get up to take a closer look, but then he finishes and grabs one of the frosty glass bottles from a drawer. “Grab me one too, please.”

He closes the door with a boot as he turns around to face me, a beer held aloft in each hand. “Opener?” he asks. I take one of the bottles and step closer to the counter, expecting him to move back. Instead, I feel the heat radiating off him everywhere at my side and see his chest rise in my peripheral when I use the counter as leverage to pop off the lid. I hand his beer back and take the other by the neck, my pinkie grazing his skin. I open mine, and we share a look before we each take a long drink.

“I was actually coming over earlier to see if you might help me with something else, too,” he says. “I think… I think maybe this”—he gestures back and forth between us—“could potentially help matters.” He takes another long swig.

I watch his green eyes travel across my face nervously, music playing lightly in the distance.

“Tell me more,” I say as if I’m not already internally kicking my feet with poorly suppressed glee.

I tell Sage everything Carlie told me on the phone, about the permit denial and the project delay. She listens quietly, occasionally picking her hair up off her neck and gathering it at the back of her head with a thoughtful nod.

She kicked off her boots and socks when we got into the house earlier, and as I look at her bright blue toes and watch her heel bounce, now I wonder if it’s too late to ask if I should have, too? I’m also suddenly aware of just how easily I let myself slip in here and get comfortable, let her feed me, rifled through her damn refrigerator… Jesus. Now I’ve had the nerve to ask her for an entire summer of her time, too.

“This will be easy, Fisher. Don’t worry,” she says, slicing cleanly through the angst in my head.

“So you’re okay helping me convince them to let us finish everything?” I say. “And really, just so you know, too—they’re through all the tedious bits, from what I understand. All the framework, at least, and all the bones.”

“The shrine to the male reproductive organ.”

“The observatory,” I correct with a laugh.

“I do think the hard part is done,” she says.

“Another dick joke?” I ask, and she tosses her head back in a delighted chuckle, the sound sending goose bumps along my arms.

“It truly wasn’t,” she says, “but god, what an endless treasure trove that place is bound to be.” She smiles brightly again. “I meant that the difficult part is done, as in, you have an inside man now, being with me, because they already think we’re together. I know what things you can offer and what’ll carry weight in swaying them, and we don’t have to have any sort of unnatural production to establish being together; all we need to do is perpetuate it a little bit, if you’d be okay with all that that would entail?”

She gets up and starts carrying the leftover food to the sink and putting things in bags before stowing them away. I collect our empty beer bottles and start to clean up alongside her.

“Like what?” I ask, turning on the faucet and washing a plate from off the counter. Something like nostalgia washes over me. I’ve had so many important conversations over a sink.

She shrugs slowly. “Not sure. I guess just being friendly with one another when we’re out?” She looks back up at me, the tips of her ears scarlet. When she chews her bottom lip, one of the plates almost slips from my grip.

I go back to scrubbing and nod firmly. “I’m fine with that,” I tell her. “What sort of things would help sway them to let Carlie’s crew finish?”

“Making sure you hire locally as much as you can for the remainder of the job,” she suggests. “All that construction during the first phase, and no one knew a single person working on the thing.” Her grin curls up softly when she passes me the other plate. I like that she doesn’t seem bothered by me doing her dishes. I like when I get to be useful. “And just being together will help your case,” she continues. “It’ll be like you’re one of us by proxy.” The more she says, the more I feel drunk with relief. I didn’t realize how worried I was about mucking this up here, about not being able to come through for Carlie, maybe even for myself.

“I do have some terms, though,” Sage adds. “And I’d like to ask for something in return. I know you’re not supposed to give with expectation and all that, but…”

“But nothing,” I laugh. “You don’t need to give me anything, Sage. I’ll be happy to help with whatever it is.” I’ll feel better about her helping me with my end of it, in fact. I finish drying the plate in my hand and return my full attention to her.

She starts fiddling with one of her rings. “I want to compete in this year’s festival,” she says, still looking at her palm. “I want you to be my partner.”

“You mean the canoe race?” I say quizzically.

“Yes,” she says. “But it’s more than just a race. Remember how I told you about the buy-in competitions?”

“You mentioned them, yeah.”

“Well, if we want the best possible starting position, we’d have to try to do well in both,” she says. “One is trivia, and it’s always going to be based on the history of the Pacific Northwest, with a subset of questions surrounding Spunes.”

“And the other one?”

“The other one is… a cooking contest,” she says, her face pulling into something between a wince and a smile. “A cooking competition that utilizes a specific Spunes resource every year. Like Iron Chef or Chopped, except they get one ingredient and have to use it in all three courses.”

That sounds like it has the potential to be my nightmare right now. “Why?” I ask. “Why a cooking competition?”

“It started as a way for them to recoup more money,” she says, lips twitching. “Make the ingredient a specific good that they needed to sell.”

“Generate the demand and then offer to sell them the supply?” I laugh. Maybe Spunes is a little sheisty, after all.

“Basically.”

This is more than I would have bargained for, but not for any of the reasons she seems to think. I’m certainly not going to say no over the one thing I already know how to do as far as the cooking competition goes, and I’m not at all scared of some hard work in terms of training for this race.

But an official partnership, presumably mixed with all that perpetuating a romantic attachment would entail, makes me deeply fucking anxious. Every time I’m with Sage, I find that I want to see her more, and every time I feel a little more fucked. It’s like a squeeze of longing for the next time hits me even before that current one has a chance to end despite how much I try to fight it. I ran out after her when I spotted her across the field this morning. I know what her mouth tastes like and the fascinating things she can say.

I’m getting better at sorting through my emotions, and it is becoming clear that I couldn’t let myself be numb to things again even if I wanted to. Putting myself in a position where I’d be subjected to more of this attraction might not be wise, given that there’s nowhere for it to go in the end.

I suppose I could try to savor it until then, though. To have some fun in the interim.

“You said you know the ins and outs of this whole thing, yeah?” I ask after a few moments. “Like, any sneaky rules and everything else to expect?”

“Everything,” she confirms.

“Good,” I say. “If we’re doing this, I sure as hell don’t plan on losing.”

She screams a happy cry and launches herself at me with a bouncy hug. “We’re gonna have to come up with a training-and-studying schedule,” she says excitedly, giving my shoulders a shake.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. Can’t stop myself from smiling back, though. “I’m supposed to start my part of things over at Starhopper next week. Er, at least I was, before we got the notice to delay. So, I guess the sooner we figure that out, the sooner I’ll know my schedule.”

“Oh, we’ll get you back up and running on schedule, don’t worry. I already know how we’re managing that.”

“Do you?”

“Yep. You’re gonna hate it,” she declares cheerfully.

No doubt she’s right, and yet I’m still smiling.