Chapter 39
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It’s Monday. I spent most of yesterday updating my spreadsheet as I frantically submitted more job applications, a little panicked that April’s already around the corner. Most schools start their hiring process for next school year around now.
Today after school pickup, Sawyer approached me, leaving a respectable three feet between us. He looked around, which prompted me to look around. Some parents were huddled near the fence while their children ravaged the playground, but no one was within earshot.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.” He kept his voice quiet. “Have dinner with me?”
A giddy smile spread across my face even as the thought of going out on the town again churned my stomach because with him, I can’t hide. The spotlight only shines brighter. “Okay, tonight?”
“Now.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “It’s, like, three-thirty in the afternoon.”
His lips quirked, and he shrugged. “I just want to spend time with you.”
My stomach flipped, and that’s how we came to stand outside Valley View Provisions at four in the afternoon.
Sawyer opens the door, and I step inside.
It’s a large, open space with clean lines and modern accents.
Tables and chairs taking up most of the interior.
Toward the back, comfy seating is arranged around a see-through fireplace, which separates a smaller dining area that overlooks Ormewood Mountain through the wall of windows.
To one side of the counter are displays of artisanal meats and cheese, and against the wall are freezers with prepared meals and fridges full of fancy beverages.
There’s a counter that, by the looks of it, offers coffee, deli meats, and fresh-to-order food.
“Is this place new?” I ask, picking up a small wheel of brie to get a whiff of its pungent tangy scent.
“A few years old,” he says, then points at the cheese in my hand and winks. “My favorite.”
I grin and shake my head as I put it back. Sawyer walks to the array of drinks in the fridge and picks up two cans before leading me to the counter.
“I’m surprised a place like this can survive in Blue Ridge,” I whisper.
He lowers his voice to match mine. “It’s no Jiffy’s, that’s for sure.”
Jiffy—known colloquially as Jiffy’s—was the one general store we had in Blue Ridge when we were younger. At some point, the J had fallen off the sign and for several years it simply read iffy, which was apt in every way.
“Man,” I say, “that place was great. Where else could you shop for groceries, a camo sundress, and bait?”
“You still can,” he tells me. “Except now, it’s a bar after five. They call it Old Bard’s because Brad Crenshaw couldn’t spell his name right on the form.”
My hand goes to my mouth. “Oh my god, I thought Mara was joking when she told me that. Does it smell like fish?”
He tilts his hand side to side. “Not like it used to. Speaking of fish, today is the weekly fish fry here.”
“Is that what I should get?”
“If you like fried fish, it’s the best you’ll ever have. We’re the only ones here now, but you’ll see, it’ll start getting really busy as dinnertime nears. When they run out, it’ll get rowdy.”
“Dinner and a show? You’re spoiling me,” I tease. His eyes darken not with sexual heat, but with some other unspoken desire.
When we get to the counter, an older Black woman approaches from the other side and plants her hands on her hips as she smiles broadly at Sawyer. I wonder if he knows how special it is that people are happy to see him wherever he goes.
“Well if it isn’t his royal highness himself,” the woman says with mock-scolding.
Color crawls up the back of his neck, and I have the sudden urge to rub his back.
He hates this. Being called royalty isn’t a compliment to him, and I understand why now.
He doesn’t want to be lumped in the same box as his dad, yet all people of this town see is the happy Strong family that the ex-mayor has carefully cultivated.
Sawyer smiles at her in a way I used to consider cocky, and this tugs at my heart, too. He’d rather endure this woman’s teasing than hold it against her.
“Hi, Ms. Clarke. What’s good?”
“Is that Sawyer?” A voice from the back bellows. A Black man trudges up to the counter, his meaty arms folded as he looks down his nose at Sawyer.
My heart drops into my stomach because I recognize him. He’s older, but it’s definitely him. Justin Clarke. He used to be an EMT for the fire department.
Memories crash into my brain. Waking up to find my dad not home again.
Getting Mara ready for school and on the bus.
Walking the familiar path to Dad’s favorite dive only to find him passed out on someone’s lawn or on a bench, not sure if I should hope he’s okay or hope this one did him in for good.
Mr. Clarke was the one who’d usually come. His deep brown eyes full of pity as he told me Dad would be okay.
Unconsciously, I move so that Sawyer blocks me.
Mr. Clarke tips his head at his wife. “You know, she has me slaving away making those little cornbread bites all because ‘Sawyer said he loves them’?” He raises his voice to imitate his wife.
Sawyer’s body stiffens as more color tints his neck.
Slapping her husband’s arm, Ms. Clarke says, “Leave him alone, I asked.” Then, with a wink, she adds, “But we can’t have our Sawyer going hungry.”
“Great! We’ll take two orders with our fish fry.” Sawyer’s voice is casual, almost playful, but I notice a tension beneath his words.
“We?” Ms. Clarke says, and both of them crane their necks until their eyes find me.
I cringe internally.
Sawyer turns, a look of dismay when he sees me standing behind him. He drops his hand to the small of my back and draws me in front of him.
“Is that Brie Casey?” Mr. Clarke asks.
I wish the floor beneath me was made of quicksand.
Sawyer’s arms snake around me, his chin resting on the top of my head.
“It is Brie Casey,” he confirms. “She’s been back for a few months now. One of the best teachers I’ve ever seen, and definitely my favorite. I’m trying to keep her.”
My breath hitches at the compliment.
Ms. Clarke reaches over the counter to put a hand on mine. “Well, then. Welcome back to Blue Ridge, sweetheart. We are so glad you’re here.”
Her smile is like stepping into the sun. Warmth seeps from my skin directly into my pores and dispels throughout my body. To my immense embarrassment, my eyes dampen.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“Cornbread on us,” Mr. Clarke says, massaging his wife’s shoulders, “as much as you want.”
As if he knows the effect their kindness has on me, Sawyer speaks up, mock-offended. “I never got free cornbread.”
“Yeah, but we’re trying to keep her,” Mr. Clarke says. “Besides, you aren’t as pretty.”
“That’s true,” Sawyer agrees, tugging me closer.
I smile up at him, but that unease in my subconscious grows. This is better than the nosy crowds at the festival or Mrs. Beaufort’s pearl-clutching, but even this effusive attention is more than I want.
After Sawyer orders for us, we sit at a table in front of the windows. Main Street is right outside, but the peak of Ormewood Mountain is visible from behind the buildings across the street, a deep blue in the waning sunlight.
Sawyer pops the cans he bought and slides them both to the middle of the table. “Are you a blueberry girl or a black cherry girl?”
I look at the two cans. “I’ve never had blueberry soda, so I’m not sure.”
“Well, yeah, they only started canning it in the last five years or so, and they only distribute locally. But it’s the same one they always had at the picnics.” He turns the can so I can see the name on the label, Brume Bubbles.
Of course. Chateau Brume, the largest local winery, used to sponsor annual end-of-summer family picnics.
They had finger foods, bounce houses, and water games within view of a wine-tasting tent the parents would congregate under.
The winery made special kid-friendly sodas just for that weekend, often introducing a new experimental flavor alongside the regulars.
I know this because it was all anyone could ever talk about for days before and after.
I do not know this from experience.
As an elementary schooler, I’d listen enviously when someone mentioned anything as exotic as the peach and blackberry sodas. But as I became more self-aware, it was a relief not to attend. I could just picture Dad slipping into inebriation in front of the parents of kids I had to go to school with.
“Which flavor is your favorite?” I hedge.
Sawyer’s eyes are sharp, studying me. “I always liked the black cherry best,” he answers, “but the blueberry was a close second.”
I push the black cherry toward him.
Sawyer opens his mouth to speak, but Ms. Clarke’s voice calls out from the counter, “Order’s ready!” and Sawyer gets up to retrieve our food.
I take a sip of the blueberry soda. The flavor explodes in my mouth, and I can one-hundred-percent see why kids went apeshit for this stuff. It’s addictive. I take one more quick sip before pushing it away.
When Sawyer returns, he places baskets of fried fish, cornbread bites with honey butter, coleslaw, and potato salad on the table between us.
“Thanks, it smells amazing,” I say.
“It tastes amazing too.” He rips a piece of fish off and pops it into his mouth.
It’s borderline obscene the way his eyes close and he makes a satisfied sound. Maybe it’s the lentil soups and salads I’ve seen him bring for lunch, or the chicken and vegetables we made at his cabin, but his reaction surprises me.
“What?” he asks when I still haven’t tucked in. “Not a fan of fried food?”
“Of course I’m a fan of fried food,” I say. “I just didn’t expect you to be.”
He laughs. “I suggested it.”
“But you just moaned,” I argue.
“And?” He lowers his voice and waggles his eyebrows ridiculously. “Did you feel it in your loins?”
“Ew,” I laugh. “Don’t say loins.”
Grinning, he pushes a basket toward me. “Try it.”