Chapter Three #2
He looks surprised at the offer, and I realize that I have had too much wine on too empty a stomach, and I am coming on way too strong.
Just when he opens his mouth to respond (likely to apologize politely but tell me to kick rocks), I quickly interrupt before I get the chance to be further humiliated.
You know what, never mind. Crazy idea. It was nice meeting you, I say and stand up to leave. Immediately, I feel the blood drain from my face. Everything around me goes out of focus and then starts spinning. I reach the ledge, and I am distantly aware that I’m about to pass out.
Then, though I am obviously no longer aware of it, I do just that.
The first moment of consciousness after passing out is a uniquely unsettling experience in any situation.
But as I blink my eyes open and see a slightly blurry, very concerned blond man with twinkly little lights surrounding his head like a halo, I am more confused than ever.
I briefly consider that I have died, and my version of heaven is populated by tanned surfer angels.
When I sit up, I find myself lying on a lounge chair with a robe draped over me, and while some memories start coming back, my brain feels like it’s been replaced with pudding.
Are you alright? asks the surfer angel. He has only a towel wrapped around his waist despite the cold, and I watch as a particularly large snowflake lands and then melts on his very toned chest. I stare for a moment, completely out of it.
Finally, my brain catches up to me, and I forcefully remind myself that coming back from unconsciousness is not reason enough to creep people out.
I’m fine, I say and go to stand up. This proves to be an immediately bad decision, and I sit back down again. The man—Harrison, I now remember—rushes forward.
Maybe sit down for a few more minutes? They’re getting you some juice, he says. Sure enough, Hannah from the front desk appears with some orange juice, a bottle of water, and, randomly, a selection of butter tarts, the sight of which immediately makes my stomach turn.
The kitchen is closed, she says apologetically. This is what I could find in a hurry.
Thank you, but this is—I’m just dehydrated. I’ll be fine, I say as I take the bottle of water. Sorry about this, I say to both of them.
It happens a lot, she says. Let me know if you need anything else or if I can call you a taxi? We’re closing soon.
Do you need a ride home? asks Harrison. He shrugs a fluffy white robe on but doesn’t bother tying it up. He looks like he’s about to enter a boxing ring. I catch myself staring again.
I— I desperately want to say no, thank you, but the honest answer is that because I had walked from my home to the spa, knowing that I was going to have a drink or two, getting a ride is probably the right choice.
Even though I live only a kilometre or so down the road, walking home probably isn’t the best idea, given that I could pass out again and potentially spend the night face down in a cornfield.
I would appreciate that, actually, I sigh.
I look over at the tray of butter tarts next to me and nudge them his way.
I can compensate you in Canadian pastries?
He smiles and grabs one. Deal. As he chews, his face shuffles through several emotions, starting with confusion and ending in bliss. Well, that’s amazing. He goes to grab another, and I hand him the entire plate.
They’re all yours. I strongly advise eating no more than five of them at one time. He raises an eyebrow at this but doesn’t inquire further.
The water and juice continue their job, and I soon feel well enough to go and get changed. Harrison is waiting in the front entrance, wearing the kind of winter jacket usually reserved for scientists on Antarctic expeditions.
That cold, eh? I ask. It’s chilly, sure, but it’s still above zero.
I was trying to seem cool in a crisis earlier, but I’ve got to tell you, I was and remain freezing. I can’t feel my hands, he says, shuffling from foot to foot. I really thought I would handle the cold better than this after being abroad these past few years.
I laugh. You had me fooled, I say. We walk out into the parking lot, where the only remaining vehicles still there are a lime-green sedan and a purple PT Cruiser. Neither option seems to suit Harrison, but I’m not judging a free ride home. He nods toward the PT Cruiser.
I borrowed a car for the next few weeks from my friend’s elderly aunt and couldn’t be picky, he says quickly. She doesn’t drive anymore, and it was just sitting in her driveway, so…
Unimaginable that anyone would ever let a beauty like this out of their sight, I say as I enter the vehicle. I pat the armrest, which has a tiger-printed cover over it. Riding in a 2008-model PT Cruiser has always been a secret dream of mine.
He laughs as he starts the car. The radio is set to the country music station, and every heater is set to max. Evidently, this man has the body temperature regulation skills of an iguana.
We need to get you some thermal underwear if you’re going to hack it here for the next few weeks, I say.
I was sitting in the sauna the entire time I was at the spa, he confesses as he backs out of the parking space.
His arm is behind my seat, and I am suddenly unnervingly aware of my proximity to the bicep I had been admiring earlier.
Thinking back to how tipsy I was at the time, I was probably super obvious about it, too, and I blush a little with embarrassment at the thought.
Harrison thankfully doesn’t notice. After about thirty minutes, I finally walked out and went to the hot tub, where we met.
It was the only time I’ve been truly warm in the last three days since I arrived. So, where to?
We are idling, stopped at the spa exit facing the road, and it dawns on me that I need to actually tell him where I live. Sorry, turn right, I say, and he signals the turn to no one and does just that.
Despite the surge in tourism, the County remains largely farmland, and the nights get a kind of deep dark that people from cities aren’t used to.
Harrison doesn’t seem fazed by it, though, turning on the brights and cruising right along.
The snow has mercifully stopped, and the roads are fine, which seems lucky as I have reason to doubt my driver’s winter-driving skills.
Thank you for the ride, I say. I owe you one. If you need any recommendations for restaurants or anything while you’re here, let me know. I know a lot of the owners.
Ooh, VIP. I’ll take you up on it. Get me the best table at… He narrows his eyes to read the sign of the nearest building as we drive by it. Big Jimmy’s Barbecued Meats.
I laugh. I mean, that place is pretty great, but there are a few others I might put forward first, I say.
You’re going to turn up here on the right.
We turn onto the winding gravel road that leads down to my cottage, and I sort of like that he continues to use his blinker, even though there are no other cars around for miles.
No, no, only Big Jimmy’s will do, he says. “So…do you want to join me? For some barbecued meats?
I look over, surprised. The cold-blooded surfer angel is asking me to dinner.
It’s been a while since I’ve been asked out, full stop, let alone by someone who could freelance as an underwear model.
The lizard part of my brain that has not been on a date in several months nearly gets out a way-too-enthusiastic yes, but the professional part of my brain that has recently come back online after fainting just manages to take over instead.
That part of my brain forcefully reminds the lizard part that I am going to be spending the next several weeks planning out the cidery’s Wassail events, looking over depressing spreadsheets, working out new licensing contracts, and many other vexing tasks.
There is simply no time for barbecued meats or attractive Australian strangers.
My lizard brain is sad but gives up in defeat.
That’s very kind, but I can’t right now.
Just…really busy at work. Thank you, though, I say.
Maybe I’ll see you around soon. That’s me, I say, nodding at the little wooden cottage.
Earlier in the afternoon, I had strung up a single strand of multicoloured Christmas lights on the small front porch in an effort to get myself into the holiday spirit.
Looking at it now, with an outsider’s perspective, I realize it looks a bit pathetic.
If Harrison is disappointed in my response, he takes it in stride. I hope we do. Last thing, though, before I go—do we want to talk about the fact that you offered me a job earlier?
Oh. Right. I did do that. A few more fuzzy memories come back to me in a rush, and I can feel my face turning red.
I’m sorry, I was very…dehydrated. Hot tubs are not my usual method of talent recruitment, I promise you, I sighed. It all just seemed…too good to be true for a moment there.
Can I at least visit the cidery? he asks. Maybe send you my CV before you shoot me down for both a barbecued dinner and a job?
I look back at him in surprise. You’d consider taking it?
He sighs. Alright, full disclosure: I’m here crashing Christmas at my mate’s house because I went through a bad breakup a few weeks ago, and Australia is very far, and spending the holidays alone was too depressing.
I was planning on spending the next few weeks feeling sorry for myself, watching Die Hard and working my way through every flavour of Slickers ice cream.
I mean, it is the best, I offer.
Honestly, so good. Anyway, sorry for the whole meat-invitation thing.
You’re just easy to talk to, I guess, and I’m a little all over the place at the moment.
And also very dehydrated, he says with a small laugh.
But all of this to say, I think working might be good for me.
I was going to help out at my mate’s cidery, but they’re a small business and don’t really seem to need me.
Working elsewhere seems better, something of my own to focus on so that I’m not always in their way.
I frown, now a little confused. Your friend owns a cidery, too?
Oh yeah, right down the road from you—I drove into yours by mistake today, actually. But yeah, bitter they’ll just be glad I’m leaving the house.
They’re the ones who sent me to the spa tonight, actually.
They’ll both be thrilled to hear that I’m looking into a job prospect.
Sparks Cidery looked beautiful, and I’d love to work for you.
I hesitate and look up from my lap to meet his gaze.
Harrison’s whole face is lit up with hopeful expectation that is full-on golden retriever.
I truly think that if I put a cute little bandana around his neck, he could beat out Milo the blue heeler for social media engagement. It’s an effective negotiation tactic.
Come by tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. and see what you think, I sigh. Well, I do need a cider-making assistant.
Cheers, he says. See you tomorrow. His car remains in my driveway until I am safely inside the cottage before he drives off. I am not sure what dangers he thinks are lurking around the house I come home to every day, but it’s a cute gesture all the same.
When I go inside, I blearily eat a piece of toast with Nutella and drink another full glass of water.
It feels like I went straight from tipsy to hungover in the space of an hour, which seems deeply unfair for having only consumed one and a half glasses of wine.
The spa had not had the restorative effect on my spirit that I had hoped, but with a potential assistant for Charlie lined up, I suppose it was still net positive.
I try to think of that as the high note of the evening, and not just the attractiveness of said potential assistant.
When I finally fall into bed, I fall asleep so deeply that even Steven’s loud snoring doesn’t faze me.