Chapter 7
chapter
seven
DAISY
By Sunday morning, I have a problem.
And it’s not that I definitely, unprofessionally kissed the guy I’m supposed to be featuring in this limited series podcast.
No, the problem is that I’ve listened to the recording of the sound from yesterday thirteen times, and on the thirteenth, it still sounds the same.
Unnatural. Unexplainable. Deep and sharp and not quite animal or human, echoing through the canyon like something had thrown its voice between the rocks and let it come back changed.
I sit in the back corner booth of the diner with my headphones on and laptop open, untouched black coffee going cold beside me, and I rewind the clip yet again.
On screen, the waveform spikes.
In my ears, the canyon goes quiet.
Then, that sound.
My shoulders tighten even though I know it’s coming.
I pause it. Rewind. Play it again.
Same sound. Same reaction. Same stupid, annoying prickle at the back of my neck.
“Great,” I mutter to myself. “Having a podcast is fun, they said. Getting out into the field will be the answer, they said.”
The waitress, who has already decided I’m either writing a dissertation or hiding from a bad decision, slides by with a coffee pot. “Warm up?”
“Yes, please. Emotionally and literally.”
She snorts and tops me off.
I’ve been here for almost four hours, long enough that the sticky vinyl booth has become part of my legs and the staff has stopped pretending they don’t recognize me from breakfast with Miles yesterday.
I told everyone on the crew I needed space to work, which is true.
The Machine is too full of noise and bodies and odd little intimacies I don’t know what to do with.
Also, Miles is there, which at present is a problem adjacent to the first.
Because the sound in the woods is messing with me.
But the kiss is messing with me even more.
Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there.
His lips parting mine. The faint taste of campfire smoke and marshmallow lingering on his lips.
The scratch of his stubble against my skin.
The surprising warmth of his hand as it slid to my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek before settling at the nape of my neck like he'd been holding me there his whole life.
I should've been thinking about the podcast and my career. Kissing my subject is just bad journalism.
Instead, I was raking my hands through his hair, deliriously considering the best way to straddle someone on a log—if only I’d let it go that far.
I’m still wondering if he always smells like cedar and fresh air, or if that's just what happens after spending all day in the woods.
I'm wondering how someone so cautiously analytical can kiss with that much certainty.
Like he wasn't asking a question. He'd already found the answer.
I've kissed plenty of men. Men with million-dollar apartments. Celebrities, even. Men who seemed like they knew exactly what they were doing.
None of them made the rest of the world disappear.
None of them made me feel like someone had reached into my chest and quietly turned the temperature up a few degrees.
I came out here to bang out a miniseries. And now, all I can think about is how I want to bang Miles Adler, with his sunscreen and his field notes and his extremely sincere, stupidly beautiful face.
I drag my hands down my face and stare at my notes.
The first episode was supposed to be obvious.
I had the shape of it in my head before I even arrived. Daisy Bennett embeds with a Bigfoot hunting crew. Culture clash. Belief as identity. Male loneliness disguised as mythology. A group of charming weirdos chasing something impossible because ordinary life failed them somehow.
I could already hear the intro.
“What makes a grown adult leave behind cell service, indoor plumbing, and emotionally stable decision-making to chase Bigfoot through the woods? Is it grief? Delusion? A spiritual crisis dressed up in hiking boots? Or maybe it’s the same thing that drives all of us–- our need to believe there’s something bigger out there waiting for us to find it.
Whether that means hunting for cryptids, or hunting for your celebrity crush on Raya. ”
Good hook. Clean angle. Smart. Very me. Focused on the people and the motives, not the actual discovery. There was never going to be any discovery, because none of this was supposed to be real.
But now the recording is ruining it. My perfect hook is dead.
Because that sound isn’t character study.
That sound isn’t “culture.”
That sound is something I cannot explain or provide witty commentary on, which means I can’t give my audience or advertisers what they want.
I click play again.
The canyon. Our footsteps. My voice, shakier than usual, saying, “Okay, nope. Absolutely not.”
Miles, barely audible: “Quiet.”
Then the sound.
I pause it so hard my finger hurts.
Across the diner, the bell over the door jingles and I look up.
Miles walks in with his phone pressed to his ear.
Of course he does.
Because the universe seems to have decided I need a live stress test.
He doesn’t see me at first. He’s in a dark green T-shirt, jeans, hair still damp like he just showered, which feels rude because I was doing very well thinking of him as a field-trip cryptid nerd and not as a wet, naked man in a shower. I’m sure he smells good, too.
He stops near the entrance, listening to whoever is on the other end of the line, his posture tensing.
“No,” he says quietly, turning toward the window. “I’m not dismissing that. I’m saying it’s not enough to establish a pattern.”
I tilt my head before I can stop myself. Podcast instincts. Some call it eavesdropping; I call it research.
He listens again, jaw tightening.
“No, Owen, I get it. I do. But I’m not going to throw the team at a lead from a source I don’t trust.”
Owen. The mysterious government brother.
Interesting.
Miles’s eyes flick toward my booth, and I immediately look down at my laptop like I wasn’t spying on him from behind a mug of lukewarm coffee.
Too late. He sees me.
His face changes instantly—it’s not dramatic, but enough that I notice. His tension doesn’t disappear. It tucks itself away. Smooths out the most detectable edges.
He lifts two fingers in a small wave.
I lift my coffee in response like a socially awkward beverage goblin.
He smiles. Damn it.
He says something low into the phone, then slips his phone into his pocket, grabbing his to-go bag from the counter. He turns towards me.
Don’t come over here, asshat. I beg in my mind.
Miles confidently saunters over to me, his body backlit by the morning sun, highlighting cut shoulders and forearms I thought nerds weren’t allowed to have.
He stops in front of me, his brown eyes locking on mine. I sigh, pulling my headphones off and crossing my arms.
“Still listening to that sound?”
“How did you—no. No, I’m not.”
“Mm-hmm, sure.” A smirk tugs at his lips, and I hate how my core tightens.
“No, I’m working on my approach. How I’m going to introduce you guys.”
“Oh yeah, what are you thinking?”
“I think you guys are more… real than I thought you’d be. You’re like a cute, dysfunctional family.”
“Hey, that’s a real sentimental streak you got there, Daisy.”
“Keep it in your pants, Adler. I’m too stressed for your sarcasm and analytical…ness.” I struggle to finish my sentence, frustrated with how this man makes me feel.
He smirks. “I think you enjoy my analytical-ness.”
“Well, that’s because you’re mentally unstable.”
His brow lifts as he shifts on his feet. “Okay, well, I’ll let you sit here in denial. Actually, denial in more ways than one, because I can totally see you’re still listening to that sound clip. You can only try to conjure a reason or explanation for so long, Daisy.”
With that, he turns for the door.
I stare at the door after him, left puzzled. What the fuck was that?
There are layers there.
That’s the issue.
I’m good with people. Very good. I can clock insecurity in a fifteen-second video call. I can tell when someone’s flirting for attention versus connection. I can hear the difference between a rehearsed confession and an accidental truth.
People are my job.
Miles should be easy: earnest believer. Dead parents. Chasing Bigfoot as grief alchemy. Hyper-specific rules to maintain control. Makes jokes when nervous. Falls back on science because the emotional stakes would flatten him if he didn’t.
I see all of that, clear as day.
He’s a person who can argue about source reliability and terrain mapping, then can turn around and kiss me by a fire so intensely that it might have been the best kiss of my life. He isn’t easy at all.
My phone buzzes beside my coffee.
Marissa
First episode vibe check?
I stare at it for several seconds. Then respond:
Me
I think I might need to change the angle.
Three dots appear right away.
Marissa
Good change or panic change?
I glance at the waveform on my screen.
Me
No fucking clue.
I don’t tell her about the sound yet. I don’t know why.
Maybe because the second I say it out loud, I have to admit this isn’t just a funny character piece.
I’m not just documenting people who believe in something.
I'm afraid that the longer I'm with them, the more likely it is I'll end up believing, too.
The rest of the day moves around me like little glimpses through windows.
I stay at the diner because the Wi-Fi is decent, the coffee and Diet Coke are bottomless, and nobody asks why I’ve been deleting and rewriting the same document for the last several hours.
Jax rolls by around noon on a dirt bike, helmet tucked under one arm when he stops outside to talk to a guy in a truck. He’s all restless motion and easy charm, laughing at something before tearing off down the road in a cloud of dust like speed is his love language.
Taylor appears around 2 p.m. wearing cutoffs, boots, and a crop top. She comes in for a milkshake, sits across from me without asking, steals a fry from the plate I don’t remember ordering, and says, “You look, like, freaked out.”
I pause my audio. “I kind of am?”