Chapter 16. Fisher
“These things foster a sense of trust and community,” Sage says at my side. Three days after making our deal, she managed to organize this town meeting we are currently strolling arm in arm to. “They provoke us into intelligent discussions that help us continue to thrive. They’re not as hokey as you might think.”
“Oh yeah? I guess that’s why that man brought his guinea pig in his pocket,” I say flatly, nodding toward the person in question waiting by the library doors.
“That’s Walter. He owns the diner, but he’s retiring after this year. Or so he says. He’s been saying it for a few years.”
“Gerbil guy works in food service?!” I cry.
“Shh, Pegasus is a chinchilla!” she says. “And it’s not like she stays in his pocket while he works.” I can’t help but notice how she did not say that he leaves the rat at home, but I make the conscious decision not to ask.
We file into the de facto town hall—which is apparently just the bottom floor of the library—and find our seats at the front near the temporary podium. Today, Sage is wearing a black sundress with white flowers that drapes and swishes around her shape enticingly, her nails painted fire-engine red. Rings still decorate each of her fingers, but I think they’re arranged differently today, or maybe she’s switched them out for different ones from what I’ve seen before?
More people continue to trickle in. Some faces I recognize—the hairstylist, the veterinarian, a smug-looking Martha O’Doyle among them. I spot the brothers I’d met the night of the vacuum incident and lean over to whisper into Sage’s ear.
“They’re not gonna be weird about us, are they?” I ask with a nod their way.
My eyes fall to something shimmery on the skin of her collarbone when she lets out one of those laughs again, the kind that sends liquid heat in a torrent down my spine, and I make myself twist away. Someone’s laugh has never caused such a visceral reaction in me before.
“If they try to pull the overprotective act,” she says, “I will gladly remind them how they used to strap me into a helmet and convince me to practice headbutting with the goats and therefore have no right to act like they have my best interest at heart when it comes to my well-being.” She sighs, smiling. “They’re absurd a lot of the time, but they’re not misogynists. They don’t control who I date.”
A few more people I don’t recognize begin to take their seats, followed by the cop and his fiancée. A woman I vaguely remember from the library steps to the front of the room, smiles, and winks at me—Venus, I think. On top of giving me specific talking points and advice, Sage has been trying to help me learn the names of the more regular characters in her life over the last few days.
“Okay, don’t forget to talk about your plan to hire locally as much as you can for construction and the contingency plan if it’s not ready before the festival,” Sage whispers. “Athena will start the meeting and explain what’s going on, and then they’ll let O’Doyle go first.”
“Got it.”
“Don’t be nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” I say nervously.
“Just make them feel important and included, and they’ll be happy to support you, too, I promise. I’m going to kiss you and show you affection now.”
“What?!” I balk.
“I’m going to act like I’ve never been happier because of you. Win you some more points, you know? Like I’m having the time of my life. Like I’m up on my supply of orgasms.”
Sweet fucking god, did she just whisper orgasms in my ear? She curls her hands around my biceps and leans into me.
Someone’s begun talking at the front of the room, but I’m officially too distracted. “Are you not?” I ask hoarsely. I tilt my chin and watch her brow wrinkle in confusion.
“Not what?” she asks, all big eyes and dark lashes.
I feel a bit like some debaucher of a sweet innocent for pushing the question, but she brought it up first, so… “Not up on your supply of orgasms?” I should probably be a little shamefaced about the huskiness in my voice. She flushes red to her ears.
“I’ve been single for, like, a year.”
“So, no, then?”
She makes a scandalized sound, but grins widely. “I’m giving it my best effort on my own, but I could probably stand to put in some more work.”
Well, this backfired. Now I’m dumbfounded, my thoughts careening to the picture of her putting in work on herself.
A throaty chuckle before she lays a kiss against the underside of my jaw. I think the brat knew she tortured me just then. I squeeze her thigh above her knee and let my hand stay perched there as Martha O’Doyle takes the podium.
“Walter,” she snarls.
The man looks up from his rodent and gives her a dim look.
“Remember?!” she says. “The projector!”
Walter lurches up from his chair and tosses Pegasus like a hot potato to someone nearby before he power-shuffles to the back of the room, his soles squeaking on the tile. He clumsily hustles back with the thing, wheezing out rattled, loud breaths the whole way. For the life of me, I can’t contemplate this urgency.
“Did you plug it in?” O’Doyle asks Walter just as he starts to bend back down to his chair. His shoulders slump in answer.
“I’ve got it, Martha!” someone calls out. I turn to see that it’s Officer Carver, of course. Fucking golden boy. When he makes eye contact, I smile with something I hope is both smug and antagonizing. He doesn’t return it.
“Lights!” O’Doyle adds.
The lights flicker off as O’Doyle drags over a standing screen, but just as the first image burns to life on display, the main door bangs open again and floods the room with sunlight.
“Who is that?!” Martha yells, squinting against the intrusion. “Who is over ten minutes late?”
The perpetrator is a curvy woman in an apron, with a messy pile of blond curls atop her head.
“That’s Wren,” Sage whispers in my ear, sending the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. “My best friend and Sam’s mom,” she adds.
Surprising, I think. She doesn’t look like she could be any older than I am. For some reason, I’d assumed Ellis was much older. Wren finds Sage at my side and waves conspiratorially.
“Nice of you to join us, Meridian,” O’Doyle declares flatly. Wren appears to ignore her, but someone says something low from the corner of the room.
“Excuse me?” O’Doyle calls. “Did someone else have something to say before I begin?”
“I said,” the voice says louder this time, and every head in the room turns toward Ellis. “She’s still a Byrd,” he firmly states. Sage’s fingers dig into my arm. Wren closes her eyes like she’s stung.
Sage jumps up from her seat. “All right, people, let’s move on!” she says, clapping and drawing the attention back onto her.
“Thank you, Sage,” O’Doyle replies. Wren slips into the chair on the other side of Sage and gives her palm a quick wring in thanks, too.
A whipping thwap makes the room collectively twitch in shock as Martha smacks a long pointer against the projector screen.
The first slide is a fuzzy picture of a couple surrounded by aisles of canoes. Martha starts taking us through the entire history of Spunes, showing years and years of photography that specifically include the old brick warehouse that is being turned into Starhopper. When we are barely in the 1900s, I whisper to Sage, “Is she trying to bore everyone into submission? Why is all of this relevant?”
Someone snores loudly as if in answer.
“Fine!” Martha cries back in response. “Forgive me for wanting you to have a full, comprehensive outlook on the disaster that would await us if we did not go forward with delaying this project.” She stabs at the remote for the next slide.
A recent photo, with the entire stretch of lawn filled with people and vendors under E-Z UPs.
“I’ll skip right ahead to the main issue,” she says. “In order to maintain our permit to accommodate this many people, we need to have adequate bathroom facilities.” She levels her pointer at me. “This man took away our bathrooms, and he cut into our available space with that—that observatory.”
“I practically just got here. I did not take away anything,” I say helplessly. Sage pats me on the shoulder.
“Can you guarantee that the restroom facilities on either side of this building, with outdoor access, would be done in time?” Martha asks me directly with another wave of her pointer.
I take that as my cue to begin, and I tentatively stand. “Uh, hi, everyone,” I say to the room. “I am only one small part of this project, but I do have permission to speak on the owner’s behalf on a few items, at least.”
More blank stares. Sage beams encouragingly.
“While I can’t guarantee the new outdoor bathrooms would be done in time, I can guarantee that we would open up the outdoor patio for mobile bathrooms to be stationed on to make up for the space that the observatory cut into.” I look at Sage again, and she nods. “Uhhh, Walter?” I look at the man and his chinchilla, staring back at me with matching expressions. “I heard you have a nephew in Gandon that owns a portables company?” I ask.
His brow lifts in surprise. “I do, yeah.”
“Well, I know that the general contractor will be looking to have some on-site during the remaining construction. And for the inconvenience, they would like to foot the bill for some to be here for the festival as well, even if the building facilities are complete.”
“That would… be great?” he says, but looks around for confirmation.
Sage makes a painting motion in the air to remind me of my next point.
“They’ve also asked me to inquire with you all about filling some of the other project roles, so anyone who has recommendations is welcome to pass them my way at the end of this meeting,” I say. “The only caveat being that they need to be available to start right away.” A thumbs-up from Sage.
“An additional hazard,” O’Doyle bellows. She clicks to another slide and continues on. Pictures of cigarette butts on the ground, litter, nails. She steps out from behind the podium, coiling herself for her deadly blow, I imagine. “This”—another whip against the screen—“was all in a matter of three months! We do not need to be burdened with additional cleanup work on our hands while prepping for the festival. I spent countless nights cleaning up all that you see in these pictures, but I won’t do it again.”
“I believe,” I rebut, “that involving the community as much as we can going forward, whether it’s having a representative acting as the main point of contact”—I briefly pause to let that take effect for Martha—“or perhaps organizing a regular meeting schedule to have a discussion about progress, would serve to alleviate much of these issues.” Sage wrote that one for me, and I’m proud to have memorized it. “I’ve been asked to apologize on the project management’s behalf about the mess and to tell you that they promise to stay more on top of these things.”
At everyone’s silent, exchanged looks, I decide to present my closing argument. “In conclusion, if we are committed to making sure the bathroom situation is more than adequate, and we promise to keep the community more involved in the remaining phases, I’ve been asked to—out of respect for the town—politely request your permission for our permit suspension to be lifted. How should we vote?” I attempt a confident smile.
“Will there be a Taco Tuesday at the restaurant?” someone shouts from the back.
“Uhhh,” I say, “I’m not quite sure.”
“Someone said you were in charge of the menu,” someone else calls out.
“I am, but—”
“I think there should be a Taco Tuesday.”
I feebly lift my shoulders. “Any preferences on what kind of tacos?” I ask.
“You should change it up. No reason to keep it the same every week.” I look over to find that it’s Wren who’s added this.
“Fine. Taco Tuesday is approved,” I say. I assume I have this authority to make it official, anyway.
“What about desserts?” Now I recognize Venus the librarian asking this.
“What do you mean?” I say.
“Well, some of the desserts you serve should be provided by Savvy’s Bakery, I think, out of town support,” Athena says. Hearty sounds of agreement bubble throughout the room.
“Sure, yeah. That sounds great.”
“What about brunch?!”
“Ff—” I bite down hard on my tongue to stop myself from responding how most chefs feel about brunch.
“Brunch is out, people!” Sage chimes in on my behalf. “We’ve got Savvy’s for pastries and the Bean, anyway!” A small collective groan.
“I assume you will be ordering the furniture for this place soon as well?” O’Doyle asks, finally intrigued and off the warpath.
“I will,” I say, smiling in relief. I mean, I think I will. I’ll make sure I do if that’s what helps keep this thing going.
“Let’s talk tables and chairs, then.…”
Leaving the library with Fisher’s hand in mine is an intoxicating, precarious feeling. Bea and Serena may as well be fist-bumping me with how subtle their proud smiles are. O’Doyle still looks smug but appears to be satisfied for the time being. Even Walter and Pegasus nod like they’re impressed. Wren is percolating with excitement in spite of the public awkwardness with Ellis.
“You still coming by the bakery this week?” she asks with a distinct look, eyes wide on mine.
I established no plan to come by the bakery, but I can take a hint. I’ve barely given her a rundown on things the last few days. “Yes. I’ll call you later.” She grips me in a quick hug before she bounces away.
I’m in a hurry to get Fisher out to the parking lot so I can quickly assess how pissed he is about all the extra promises he had to make in there, like giving Martha a say on décor and using one of her relatives for some of the furniture, or giving the town the ability to rent the space out for large events, but now I see Silas waiting to head us off. The moment he catches me trying to yank Fisher in another direction, he calls out to us.
“Shit,” I whisper.
“What? I thought you didn’t care what they think?” Fisher drawls, following my line of sight.
“I don’t. I’m trying to spare you from more, I dunno, intrusiveness, I guess? Figured after all that you might already want to call it.”
He laughs and shakes his head with a sigh. “It’s all good, Byrd. Really.”
He sounds sincere enough, but this already feels like I’m getting more out of this arrangement.
I’m prevented from saying anything more on the matter when a phone gets shoved in the space between us.
“Silas, what the hell?!” I say to the big buffoon wielding it.
“Micah wanted to see what he looks like,” he explains.
“Micah’s on FaceTime? That’s nice. You can’t be bothered to text me back, but you can get on FaceTime for Silas?” I whine at the back of the phone like it’s my sweet puppy of a brother. Silas flips it my way, four inches from my face.
“At least he’s objectively better than Ian” is Micah’s greeting.
“He can still hear you, and you saw him for exactly two seconds, Micah.” Silas swipes the phone back to himself and hangs up without a goodbye—zero manners and an extreme lack of tact, per usual.
“I can’t wait to tell my nieces and nephews one day that I brought you two together,” he says, smiling back and forth at Fisher and me.
Aaaand that’ll be enough of that. “You’re dead to me,” I snarl, trying to tug Fisher toward the truck.
“I suppose it was more the vacuum’s doing, though, wasn’t it?” Silas adds.
I’m going to end him. I’ll shave a line down the center of his head in his sleep like he did to Micah when he was thirteen. I’ll—
Wait.
I look back at Fisher when he isn’t budged by another yank on his hand, and he’s… laughing. A full-out, crinkly eyed, dimpled guffaw. The last hour should have been the stuff of his nightmares. An actual town meeting. Negotiating with busybodies. Overbearing family members shoving themselves in his face. And yet, he doesn’t seem to find this whole thing too annoying at all.
He gently slides his palm from mine and reaches out to shake Silas’s. “Nice to see you again—Silas, right?”
“Right. And you’re Fisher Lange. I googled you,” Silas announces. Because he truly lives to see how uncomfortable he can make people, apparently.
Fisher is outwardly unstirred, but I still feel him stiffen at my side. “Anything interesting?” he asks. I know Silas feels my glare burning a hole through him, but he doesn’t face me.
“You’re kind of a big deal, actually. Definitely too big to hang around here long,” Silas says.
Fisher continues shaking his hand, both of them squeezing hard enough for their knuckles to go white. “Thank you for letting me know,” he replies casually.
Silas’s expression hardens a notch. I feel like I’m watching a conversation in code.
“What is happening here?” I ask after another awkward beat.
Silas is the first to break away with one of his easy, familiar smiles. “Nothing at all, kiddo. Glad you’ve got someone to hang with this summer. It’s shaping up to be a bad fire season with the drought, so I suspect you won’t see much of Ell and me.”
I inspect his face closely to try to figure out what I’m missing. He’s the only one of us who got Dad’s pale turquoise eyes, his wavy, dark blond hair styled in what I lovingly refer to as a modern mullet. He’s by far the most beautiful, temperamental, and impulsive of us.
“Be safe,” I tell him, like I always do. Normally, he humors me and says he will.
This time, he cocks a brow and firmly states, “You be safe, too, Sage.”
We make it within reach of the truck without being detained by anyone else, but before I can launch into any of the apologies I’ve been doing a mental read-through on, Fisher asks, “Can I drive?”
I thunder out a weird, offended-sounding laugh. “Do you not like my driving?”
“No. I just prefer to keep my hands occupied,” he says.
Is he trying to tease me? Every time he says something like this, it takes a herculean effort not to titter like an idiot. I apparently have the pent-up libido of a catcalling construction worker because my mind yells, “I’ll give ya something to occupy your hands with!”
I jut the keys toward him and jangle them between us. He surprises a gasp out of me when he circles my wrist and pulls me flush against his front.
“Thanks,” he says, grinning like the devil himself, and my gulp echoes in my ears. “May as well sell this as much as possible, right?”
“W-what?” I ask, but then he leans down and pecks me on the corner of my chin, his stubble grating against me, and this is when I spot Ian and Cassidy over his shoulder… right before he slips the keys from my hand and trots over to the driver’s-side door.
I try to relax into a comfortable silence as we make our way back, but we barely pull out of the parking lot when I have to blurt, “I’m sorry about Silas. That was strange and unlike him. Well,” I concede, “not the presumptuousness, that was definitely like him, but the weird posturing energy wasn’t.”
“This isn’t gonna be any fun if you’re constantly apologizing, Sage,” he tells me.
I study his profile, limned by the craggy coastal view rushing past. “You’re trying to have fun with it, then? You’re not too upset over the antics so far?” I ask hopefully. And then I realize he’s expertly sidestepped the point once more, so I add, “And what was that silent exchange, exactly?”
His forearm flexes as he turns the wheel. “I think he just wanted to acknowledge the fact that he knows I’m here temporarily.”
Oh. Must be why he’d seemed ominous with his warning to me, too.
“Can I tell you something, though?” Fisher asks, his voice hollow.
“Of course you can,” I say.
“Seeing you bicker with him made me miss my sister. I regret that I sometimes ignored her FaceTime calls.” He clears his throat.
A pendulum swings inside my chest for him. My fingers curl against my thighs with wanting to wrap him up and tuck him away. “She knew that you loved her. I’m certain she did, Fisher. Siblings just know, I think.”
“I hope,” he says, worn and weary. “I definitely wasn’t always a great brother. Or uncle, for that matter. I have to do better.”
The pendulum swings again because this is something I might be able to help with. A way to ensure the benefits in this arrangement are even, too. “I can help with Indy,” I blurt. I try not to sound too desperate. “I mean, I’m not sure specifically how, but I know I can help as much as anyone could, at least. I don’t know exactly what she’s going through, but I at least know what it’s like to be a young woman without a mom.”
His mouth presses into a hint of a smile. “Thank you. I need all the sage advice I can get.”