9. Vaughn
NINE
VAUGHN
Three days.
It’s been three days since Silas arrived. Three days since I sat on my couch and told Silas I’m attracted to him, as if it hadn’t been clear enough in Warsaw. You’d think at my age I’d know better, but we agreed we wouldn’t act on it, and that was the end of it.
Spoiler alert: It was not the end of it.
It was, as it turns out, the beginning of what I can only describe as my own personal, bespoke, exquisitely tailored nightmare, because the thing is, agreement or not, Silas is here.
He’s here every morning when I come into the kitchen for my first coffee.
He’s been coming with me to the lab every day.
I don’t even get a break afterward because he insists on helping me cook dinner and then sits with me all evening, asking me questions about my work, the town, and how I came to end up in Pine Ridge.
“Aww, look at you all pretty and healthy.”
I glance up from the box I’m tending in my garden. He’s a few feet away, kneeling by the green beans and … talking to them. He’s also wearing shorts and a tank top that shows how muscled his arms are.
I. Am. In. Hell.
“It’s the first sign of madness, talking to vegetables,” I say.
He turns his face toward me, but I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses.
“You have your methods, and I have mine. Not everything is about chemistry, you know.”
I groan. If only there was a lot less chemistry happening in my garden right now.
I’m preparing this box to receive a mix of leafy greens like kale, spinach, and Swiss chard. Planting them in September protects them from summer bolting and results in sweeter flavors.
“I think that soil is ready,” Silas says, without looking up.
“What?”
He sits back on his heels. “That patch has been turned about eight times since we came out here.”
“I’m aerating it.” I sift through the soil in my hands. “The moisture retention is lower than I’d like. I’m considering adding perlite to the mix.”
“What’s the drainage like farther down?”
“Better. The issue is in the top layer.”
He stands up and comes over, crouching down beside the bed. He pushes two fingers into the soil and holds them there for a moment.
“Perlite would help,” he says. “But if you work in some compost first, it’ll give the perlite something to bind to. Better long-term retention.”
Who is this man?
“What?” he says.
“How do you know that?”
He shrugs.
“What do you do for a living again?” I ask.
He nudges his sunglasses up his nose. “I am a project manager.”
“Project managers don’t know about perlite and compost binding.”
“This one does,” he says, and stands up, brushing the soil from his fingers. “My apartment building has a rooftop,” he says. “I’ve been growing things up there for a while. In containers, mostly. Whatever fits.”
“What do you grow?”
“Tomatoes. Peppers. Some herbs … I’ve been trying to get a zucchini to work in a container for about eight months. It’s, well, it’s been a process, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Zucchini need space.”
“I know that now,” he says, going back to the beans.
This man who travels constantly for work and lives in an apartment building has been trying to grow a zucchini in a container on a rooftop for eight months. It’s a cruel world when it places the perfect man at touching distance with a Do Not Touch sign when a Danger sign would be more appropriate.
“You should have a garden,” I say.
Silas gazes at the rows of beds, the orchard beyond, and the valley stretching out past the fence line. “Yeah.” His voice is quiet. Wistful. “I should.”
He says it like it’s something he’s been thinking about for a long time.
I don’t know much about his life in Atlanta or his work, but I know having a garden is as rewarding as it is hard work.
For me, it’s therapy. I love my work in the lab, but even then, the four walls can become too much, and I love being outside.
With the long Colorado winters making that an impossibility, I make up for it as soon as the snow thaws and the ground can be worked.
I turn the soil again.
“Stop doing that,” Silas says.
“I’m aerating—”
“Vaughn.”
I put the trowel down.
“Is this weird?” he asks. “Me being here. Is it … is it making things harder?”
I consider lying. It would be the sensible option. A clean, simple No, it’s fine, and we move on and nobody examines anything too closely but …
“Yes,” I say.
He nods. “Do you want me to go?”
“No.” It comes out faster than I intend.
“You know, being a responsible adult sucks. Being emotionally intelligent and recognizing when you can’t have what you want sucks. And most of all, communication sucks.”
I laugh. “Communication is sexy as fuck. That’s the problem.”
“Maybe I should give you some space and not follow you around so much.”
I want to say I don’t mind him following me around, but instead I ask, “Do you want to go into town? Get lunch somewhere?”
He turns around and sits on the edge of the box.
“I thought you were trying to keep me hidden, like a dirty little secret.”
“What?!”
He pushes his sunglasses up onto his head, transferring some of the soil from his hands to his face, his lips curling up in a teasing smile.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think. You’ve been here three days, and I haven’t … I have a car. The one I use when I drive to Denver. It’s yours while you’re here. You should be able to get around or go into town, not get stuck here just because I’m—”
“Vaughn.” He stands up and comes to sit on the overturned terra-cotta pot next to me. “I was joking. I’m genuinely enjoying myself. I like it here. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a break.”
I nod. “So, lunch?”
“After Tess’s bread, I’m going to warn you, my expectations are high.”
We go back inside to clean up and change and then take my truck into Pine Ridge.
I park on Main Street, and we walk toward the Bookshelf Café, Silas looking around at everything. I remember how it was when I first arrived here from Denver. I’d never been to a place that could appear as the dictionary definition of small-town charm.
“This place is too cute,” he says. “Like someone designed it.”
“To some extent they have. I believe there was some investment in the last fifteen years to renovate these buildings to attract more tourist trade. The town is charming enough, and a lot of people visit every year, especially for the festivals. There’s more than the pumpkin festival, but if I’m honest, I don’t know all that much about them. ”
He stares at me. “Why?” But then he halts in his tracks. “What the fuck is that?”
I follow his line of sight across the road to Peak Treasures. The large window displays hand-carved wooden bears, locally made candles, pine cone wreaths, and a bunch of other things. But I know that’s not what stopped him.
Outside the shop, standing guard on the pavement like he owns the street, is a life-size bear carved from a tree stump. He’s easily six feet tall and wearing a hand-painted red scarf around his neck
“That’s the gift shop.”
“That’s a bear wearing a scarf!”
“His name is Bernard, but most people call him Bernie.”
I laugh. Chainsaw carving isn’t my thing, but I can’t deny the bear sculpted from a tree stump in front of the building is eerily lifelike.
“I need to go in there.”
“You absolutely do not need to go in there.”
“After lunch,” he says, like a decision has been made, and I know we’re going to be spending a considerable amount of time looking at the best that Pine Ridge artisans have to offer.
The Bookshelf Café sits at the corner of Main and Cedar. Its outdoor tables are already half-occupied, but there’s a spot for us on Main. In a few weeks, it’ll be too cold to sit outside.
Silas scans the specials menu fixed on the inside of the window. “What’s good here?”
“Everything? It’s all locally sourced, and David’s husband, Mark, is a really good cook.”
“Locally—from your farm?”
“Technically it’s Clayton’s operation,” I say, “but the land is mine, so, effectively, yes.”
“This is great. Most of the times when I eat somewhere it says ‘locally sourced ingredients’ you don’t know how local they are, especially when you’re in the middle of a city.”
David makes his way to our table. He and his husband are around my age and two of the few people I know here who didn’t grow up in Pine Ridge. I hadn’t realized it at first, but Pine Ridge is a little LGBTQ+ hub, one that David and Mark moved to around thirteen years ago.
“Vaughn,” David says. “You’re having lunch today?”
“I am. David, this is Silas. He’s visiting for a few weeks. Silas, this is the café’s co-owner, David.”
He extends his hand. “Welcome to Pine Ridge. First time?”
“It is.”
“Hope you enjoy it here.” He produces two small menus from under his arm and sets them on the table. “The special today is butternut squash soup, made with Clay’s squashes, so it doesn’t get more local than that.”
“That sounds really good. I’ll have that, please,” Silas says.
“The soup also comes with a slice of sourdough from the Sunrise Bakery,” David says. “Maria baked this morning, so it’s fresh.”
“Perfect.”
David turns his attention to me. “Vaughn?”
“Salad,” I say. “Whatever’s in today.”
“Roasted beet, goat cheese, candied walnut, and arugula with a lemon vinaigrette.”
“I’ll have that.”
David collects the menus and takes our drink orders before heading back inside.
We settle into our chairs and relax. For a moment, it’s simply pleasant: the warmth of the late summer weather, the sound of the town going about its business.
I don’t do this often enough, so it’s nice having Silas as an excuse to break the routine.
“Still taking it all in?” I ask him.
“It’s too cute. Do they have their own police department?”
Before I can answer, I hear my name and turn in that direction. Teresa Navarro from the hardware store is crossing the street toward us.
“Teresa,” I say, standing to greet her. “How are you?”
“Wonderful, wonderful.” She stops at the edge of our table and assesses Silas with warm, undisguised interest. “And who’s this?”
“Silas,” I say. “He’s visiting for a few weeks.”
“Lovely.” She beams at him. “Welcome. Are you coming to the festival?”
“I sure am.”
“Good. Make sure you get this one to come too. People will start thinking he’s a hermit,” she says.
“I am a hermit.”
“Don’t worry, Teresa. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll be running his own stand at the festival,” Silas jokes. At least, I hope he’s joking.
“Now that would be something. I’ll see you both around.” She moves off down the street with the same brisk purpose she arrived with.
Before I can turn back to Silas, Kai Grant heads our way. He’s carrying a canvas tote bag over one shoulder, and a box with some kind of equipment is in his arms.
“Vaughn,” he says, arriving at the table. “Good to see you back.” He stops, registering Silas. “Oh, sorry. Hi.”
“Kai, this is Silas. Silas, Kai Grant. He runs the Pine Ridge Library oral history project.”
Silas swings his head between the two of us and starts laughing. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You run the what?”
“The oral history project,” Kai says, joining Silas in laughter. “Not that kind of oral.”
Atlas Navarro approaches from the direction of his parents’ hardware store, stopping when he gets to Kai. He leans in and presses a kiss to his partner’s lips.
“Who’s doing oral?” Atlas asks when he pulls back, “and can I get in on the action?”
Kai puts his arm around him. “No chance,” he says. “Your oral activities are restricted.”
Atlas smiles at him and then turns to the table and extends his hand to Silas. “Atlas Navarro. You new in town?”
“Just visiting for a few weeks.”
“Welcome to Pine Ridge. I only moved back myself about six months ago. Spent years in Denver before that.” He glances at Kai. “Best thing I ever did.”
Silas looks between the three of us. “How do you all know each other?”
Atlas answers for us. “We fought together against the biggest threat Pine Ridge has ever had.”