Chapter 14
Stevie
Adam’s daisy crown whispers from where I left it on the nightstand beside my phone: “Text himmmmm.”
Inanimate objects are speaking to me now. Maybe I am sort of touched in the head.
It’s Sunday morning, and last night feels like a long, sweet, cedarwood-scented dream.
I sigh, burrowing into my soft sheets. It’s still dark outside, and rain is plinking against my bedroom window.
I have time to luxuriate in my own insanity before I go to church with my parents and try to act normal.
I completely forgot to look for anything Bigfoot related last night.
I got so caught up in Adam and those dang rabbits that I forgot who I am and my purpose in life.
I cannot lose this bet, but I also can’t seem to think of anything but the way Adam’s dark hair swoops over his forehead or the look in his eyes when he spotted those rabbits.
Or the way his Adam’s apple dipped when he looked at me.
Or the daisy crown.
Or that hug.
His gruff voice calling me Queen of the Forest.
Adam might be kind of . . . perfect.
“Ughhhhhh.” I flip onto my stomach, letting my pillow muffle my tortured cries.
“He. Is. Not. Perfect,” I remind myself, pounding my mattress with my fist. He hates lupines, he doesn’t wear a shirt, and texting him is like chatting with a science textbook.
His shoulders are perfect, though. “Why does he have to look like that?”
I will not lose this bet because a man who cares about rabbits, and has sexy hair and an Adam’s apple, walked into my life. I’m stronger than that. I will not cave to the daisy crown.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I pivot my head, blinking open one suspicious eye. That had better not be Adam.
I hope it’s Adam.
I grope for my phone and swipe to answer. “Hello?” I cross my fingers for the masculine voice I want to hear.
“Sir Steven Shuh,” my brother taunts instead.
Conor has called me that for as long as I can remember.
He splits my middle name, Saoirse, in half and throws a Steven in the middle.
He thinks this is hilarious. It took me way too long to figure out that he only did it to get me riled up.
When I was a little girl I would scream, “I’m not a boy!
” about it, but now it feels like a warm blanket.
“Hello, Newman.” I sit up against my headboard. “Took you long enough to call me back.”
“Sorry, Steve. Things have been hectic over here.” As if on cue, a few dogs bark in the background. It sounds like he’s multitasking while he talks.
Conor breeds Australian shepherds and has three sons. His whole life is loud. He lives in Boston, but I can almost hear them from here without the phone. And I know he’s busy with the dogs, the kids, and a wife whose family is even more rowdy than ours. I just miss him.
He yells at the dogs to shut up, then says, “Okay, let’s talk Bigfoot.”
Finally. I prop my phone between my ear and my shoulder, rubbing my hands together. “Okay, you watched my video, right?”
Dogs bark and Conor hollers at them again. “Syd, Darwin! Shut up!” His end goes quiet. “Yeah, I saw it.”
“And?” Why doesn’t he sound more invested?
He doesn’t answer right away. “I don’t know, Steve.”
“What is there to not know?” The video is pretty straightforward. “Have you listened to my podcast?”
He doesn’t answer right away. “Uh—”
“You haven’t listened yet?” Have I been screaming into the void?
I thought my brothers would have jumped on a plane by now.
Conor is within driving distance in Boston, and he hasn’t even listened to the podcast. “The Conor I remember from my childhood would be in those woods by now, searching with me.” Yeah, I’m laying on the guilt pretty thick.
I learned it from my mother. I need to dial back the whininess a few notches, though.
“I was a kid,” Conor protests. It sounds like he’s drowning in crying puppies. “Honestly, I’m surprised you’re still doing that stuff.”
Is he? Everyone around me is well aware I became a teacher so I could spend my summers hiking in the woods. “I spend every summer out there, Conor. You used to do that, too, you know.”
“I know. And I don’t blame you. I miss it. I just figured you were hiking, not—” He grunts. “Down! Dang it, Darwin. Down.”
“Not what?”
“Looking for Bigfoot,” he says in a rush. It sounds like one of his dogs is trying to eat the phone out of his hand. “Darwin, down!”
I mean, it’s not the only thing I do out there.
I love being outside in the trees. I take pictures, bird-watch, get fresh air, and more recently I monitor endangered rabbits.
I’ve just always kept an eye out for more—a habit ingrained in me by my brothers—until the other day when I got lucky and saw something.
Conor has to admit that my video is clear evidence.
Even if he won’t, at least this brother called me.
I haven’t heard from Brian and Declan all week.
My mind wanders to the time when all of my brothers were home, and we could hang out together whenever we wanted—before dogs, adulthood, and jobs got in the way.
Meanwhile, Conor is fighting for his life over there.
The barking has intensified. “I gotta go, Steve,” he hollers over the cacophony. “I’ll give your podcast a listen, I promise.”
“Okay,” I shout so he can hear me. “Love you—”
Click.
I sigh, slumping my head back against my headboard. My stomach is unsettled after that half-baked conversation. Conor just hasn’t paid close attention, I remind myself. He’ll get it once he listens to the podcast and looks closer.
I’m not crazy.
My phone buzzes in my hand over and over. One notification after another pops onto the screen, and when I swipe the phone open, I’m happy to learn that my podcast has a megafan. Make that two megafans. I have new comments from both of them.
CRISPIN:
Hi, I’m Crispin. I live outside of Portland, Maine. I’m a physician, I have two cats, and I run a half marathon every year. I’m leading with that to prove I’m a healthy, functional adult—haha. I’ve been a believer since my first sighting when I was a teenager living in Falmouth.
CRISPIN:
I’m fascinated by what you saw. Would you be interested in leading a small group of friends on a tour of the area where you had your sighting? We would pay you for your time.
Would I be interested in being paid to do what I’d be willing to do for free? I laugh out loud at the ceiling. “Thank you, Crispinnn!”
The next message is similar. A woman named Kristy wants to bring a few friends for a tour of the area.
While I shoot out responses to Crispin and Kristy, an idea sprouts in my mind that spreads a wide smile over my face. I need to record a new podcast episode this afternoon.
I’m monetizing this bad boy.
Two hours later, I’m sitting between my parents on our usual mauve-padded pew at church, and my mom isn’t thrilled about my choice of footwear. She clucked her tongue when she spotted the hiking boots under my flowy, knee-length dress.
“Sorry, Ma,” I whisper with an unapologetic grin. What else can I say? I’m a woman of diverse interests, and I didn’t feel like changing my shoes later. I know where I’m going after church. Hopefully the rain will die down by then.
Halfway through the service, I nudge my dad with my elbow. I was going to tell him later, but I’m too excited. I can’t wait any more.
He leans in. “What?”
I keep my voice low. “I’m going to do Bigfoot tours.”
He turns fully toward me, his mouth twisting into an impressed upside-down smile.
“Just for the summer, to make extra money,” I whisper. “A few people reached out already.”
My dad nods over and over, his upside-down smile fixed in place. He leans in. “I love it. Great idea, kid.”
“Brian.” My mom reaches across me to shove his knee. “Don’t encourage her,” she hisses.
He leans over with another upside-up smile for my mom. “Why not?”
“Because she needs to move forward instead of staying stuck in the—” She swats his knee again. “Don’t roll your eyes at me. I’m not joking.”
“I know you’re not, dear,” my dad murmurs, snatching her hand.
“We do not want Stevie to win that silly bet,” my mom mutters a little too loudly. She doesn’t add that she wants more grandchildren, not a daughter who is obsessed with finding a sasquatch. That was implied.
There’s a clink of bracelets in my ear, and Muffie Horowitz leans forward, squeezing my mom’s shoulder with her wrinkled hand. “I’m with you.” She huddles even closer, bringing a cloud of powdery musk with her. “I already put my money on Marlow and Diana finding a man for her.”
I turn to face the seventy-something-year-old woman. “You did?”
“You bet. Marlow has a pool going on a chalkboard right next to your T-shirt display at the diner.” Thanks to her hearing loss, Muffie’s whisper nearly drowns out the guy talking at the pulpit.
“Are you going to order any more large shirts? By the time I got around to buying one, they were all out.” Now she lowers her voice.
“Medium runs a little snug ever since that fiber internet was put in.”
I don’t want to know what high-speed internet has to do with her clothing size. With Muffie, you just go with it. Besides, all I can think about is how my friends made our friendly wager a town affair. I didn’t know Marlow is a bookie now.
“Sure. I’ll order more larges,” I whisper, turning back to face the pulpit with a shake of my head. I need to talk to my friends.
After church ends, I call Marlow on speaker while I drive home, frowning as I stare out my wet windshield.
The weather isn’t cooperating. While the phone rings, I mentally debate how much to charge for my Bigfoot tours and how to announce them.
I might need to record another podcast episode while I wait out the rain.
Marlow answers, her voice honey-sweet like she was waiting for my call. “Hey, Stevie.”
“And? Who’s in the lead?”
She laughs. “I was wondering how long it would take for the news to reach you. I only put it up yesterday morning, but it’s already becoming quite the spectacle.”
“Marlow.” I ease off the gas now that water is pooling on the road. “Who’s winning?”
She huffs. “Well, you are—
“Ha!” I crow.
“—but only because it was the weekend crowd. Of course the tourists are in favor of you finding another sasquatch.” She snorts. A man’s voice is muffled in the background. Then she adds in monotone, “August wants me to tell you he bet on you, too.” She mumbles under her breath, “Traitor.”
“Tell August I have every confidence that we’re going to win this bet.” I like having him on my team.
“Yeah, yeah,” Marlow mutters. “Hey, you ran out of large shirts.”
“I heard at church.” I grin. “I’m ordering more.”