Chapter 26. Fisher
Sage and I struggle to get our training in for the following two weeks. She focuses on getting everyone adjusted to their new routines, coordinating immunizations and food, plus her regular garden work. The gopher is back and wreaking considerable havoc.
Everything seems to be delayed or on back order in the construction industry, too, so our plan has officially been shifted to getting Starhopper to a place where the bathrooms and the open areas can be of use, without being an eyesore for festivalgoers. Basically, my job has been reduced to placating and ass-kissing Martha O’Doyle every other day, assuring her that the building will not collapse and that both the lawn and patio areas will be cleared of all debris, in addition to writing up a menu that is both “approachable and delicious,” with help from Sage.
The times Sage and I get to sneak away together, it feels unfeasible to focus on anything else but her, but we manage. For the most part, at least. Neither of us seems too stressed over the cooking aspect of things, despite the fact that her knife skills make my eye twitch. But my creativity is finally loosening up, so I find ways to drop off things most days, and save myself from recalling the bungled way I found her chopping red onions last week—hunched over her cutting board with goggles over her eyes, elbows splayed out in a way that would have sent my mentor into a violent rage. It’s not entirely selfless, believe me, because the way she applauds me is addicting in its earnestness. Five days ago, she’d spotted me walking across the meadow with a plate in hand (lobster corn dogs with preserved lemon remoulade, and brown butter honey mustard for dipping) and had almost leaped from her riding mower without turning it off. She’d jogged up to me with her hands outstretched, sporting a tiny pink shirt with two hummingbirds on the front and tiny lettering that said, I LOVE HUMMERS. After I fed her, she taught me how to use the mower and let me finish the job.
I am determined to enjoy this thing we’ve got for now, but I can’t deny that I’m also markedly aware of the time clock over our heads. It leaves me in a controlled state of panic-stricken, one that only briefly ebbs when I’m with her. Inside her. Beside her. Talking with her. Listening to her.
The biggest blow that comes for everyone, though, is even more out of our control. A fire is raging on the California border, so bad and so widespread that our air quality becomes highly unsafe. There are days when the smoke is so thick, I can’t see Sage’s house across the meadow.
On one of these smokier days, when it’s too terrible outside for any of the crew to safely work in the orange haze, I screech into Sage’s driveway after dropping Indy at summer school and stomp through her front door. I feel trapped in by all this cloudy ash, restless and frenetic and short of breath. Irritated that anything is cutting into our time, I think. I tousle Sable’s ears before I trample past, on the hunt for Sage.
I find her in her living room on her green sofa, curled over the journal I often find her with these days. She looks up at me with rounded eyes, sees my hands opening and closing at my sides, and springs for me. I moan savagely when she climbs into my arms and her legs wrap around my hips.
“Can I be rough?” I ask, voice a husk of itself, unnerved and carrying her upstairs.
“I think asking sort of subjugates being too rough,” she replies with a smile and a hot kiss. Another throttled sound leaves me when she nips my neck. “But god yes.”
I shove out of my jeans when we get to her room, and she rapidly peels out of her shorts next.
She climbs the bed on her back and elbows, but I grab her ankles and drag her back down, fall to my knees, and lose myself between her thighs, until she’s shoving at my head and her legs are shaking against my ears.
“One more. Give me one more,” I beg, coming at her from a new angle, until I think she’s as dismantled as I feel, saying my name in a way that makes me think it ought to be the only one she ever says, cursing and whimpering and writhing against my face. Her legs drop to the floor with a small thud when I let them go. I pick them up and scoot her back onto the bed, kiss and taste along her flushed and freckled chest, and flip her onto her stomach.
“Lift up for me, sweetheart,” I say, gently kneeing apart her legs to spread her wide. When she does, I tuck a pillow beneath her hips. And as I watch myself disappear into her, I feel as if she’s holding on to me, keeping me anchored even though I’m supposed to be the one in control. My fingers spread on top of hers and weave, hands both clutching the sheet. I conceal my face in her neck so I can breathe her in, keep my body flush with hers as much as possible so I can feel her everywhere.
And instead of hard or hasty, I end up wanting to draw it out, to stave off the inevitable and savor it as much as I can again.