by Sara Biren
I clear my throat.
“Jesus, Blue,” he says. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Obviously.”
He looks at his watch. He’s one of the few people I know who still wears an actual timepiece, not a fitness tracker or an Apple Watch, analog with a black leather strap and roman numerals that’s probably worth more than my car.
“I’ve been playing for over an hour. My fingers are cashed,” he says.
“Do you still want to work on our project?”
Gabe stands up. “Actually, no, I don’t.”
I take a step backward. “Oh, OK, that’s fine. I’ll head home.”
“No, no,” he says quickly, reaching out and touching my arm, sending that stream of now-familiar warmth through me. “Let me put my guitar away. I want to show you something. You dressed in layers? You warm enough? Good.”
I wrinkle up my nose. “This is weird. Why are you acting so weird?”
“Me? I’m not acting weird. You are. Look, it’s a warm night. Well, warm is relative. I’m from LA. But I’m not freezing my ass off, so I want to take advantage of it while I can. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
Gabe’s practically giddy when he returns wearing a flannel barn coat and a black stocking cap, thick socks peeking from the tops of his hiking boots. He pulls a chunky, multicolored stocking cap down over my curls, too.
“Follow me,” he says.
“Where did you get that coat?” I ask as we walk down to the river. “Another one of your grandfather’s?”
He nods. “You can tell?”
“Well, yeah, I’ve got a good eye for vintage stuff.”
“I’ve noticed.”
He’s noticed? My cheeks warm a little, and I’m embarrassed that I’m embarrassed by it. Today, I’m wearing an oversized shaker sweater from the mid-eighties, bright turquoise, with thick black leggings, three pairs of layered, colorful socks, and red Converse high-tops. I used Mom’s old hot roller set and kept my curls big and loose like a blonde Julia Roberts, which are now flattened under this giant handmade stocking cap.
“It would be hard not to notice, Blue,” he continues, then must realize how insulting that sounds. “No, I mean, that’s a good thing. I’m seriously interested. Where did you get that sweater?”
“Nice save. It was Mom’s.”
“She saved all her clothes from the eighties?”
“We’re farmers, Gabe. Nothing goes to waste, not even horribly bright, oversized sweaters. Why are we going down to the river?”
“I thought you were a patient person,” he says. “You’ll see.”
When we reach the riverbank a couple of minutes later, he sweeps his hands out widely in front of him. “Ta-da!”
I’m thoroughly confused. The riverbank looks the same as it always does. Firepit, shed, woodpile.
“OK?”
“I’m going to build you a fire, Blue.”
“Oh!” I can’t hide my surprise. “Do you—do you know how to build a fire?”
“I should be offended by that question, but I’m not,” he says cheerfully. “Until last week, I had no idea how to build a fire. Chris taught me.”
“He did?”
Gabe nods. “He did. I even came down on Saturday afternoon to practice.”
“To practice . . . building a campfire.”
“Yes, because I really want to impress you right now. We’re friends, remember? I want you to see that there’s more to this LA boy than a pretty face.”
I laugh. “OK, LA boy, show me what you got.”
He unlocks the shed, and while he collects wood from the pile, I pull out two chairs and set them up next to the firepit. I sit, shivering a little, and watch as he carefully builds his log cabin and fills it in with tinder and kindling. When he’s finished, he stands back proudly to admire his work.
“Well, what do you think?” he asks.
“Looks structurally sound. The real test, though, is how it burns. Got a lighter?”
“Oh, shit,” he says. “I didn’t think of that.”
I snort. “Don’t worry. I think there’s a box of matches in here somewhere.” I stand up and walk back to the shed to look.
“Want to do the honors?” he asks.
I hold out the matchbox. “Absolutely not. See it through, Hudson.”
He does. He strikes the match against the side of the box, and my nose tingles with the sharp, potent smell. When he sits down next to me, he’s smiling.
“Nice work,” I say.
“Chilly?” he asks. “Do you need my coat?”
“No, thanks. I’ll warm up in a minute. It’s not a bad fire, city boy.”
He laughs. His nose and cheeks are red from the cold. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes as we watch the flames take hold. It’s not awkward or uncomfortable. It’s . . . nice.
“So,” he says finally, “we’re friends. You and me.”
“That’s the rumor,” I say quietly.
“All right then. Let’s do this properly. Let’s sit at this well-built fire and get to know each other.”
“Proud of yourself?”
“I am. After the dumpster fire I left behind in LA, this exemplary campfire is reassuring.”
“Do you miss LA?” I ask. Might as well get right to it.
“Parts of it, yes. I miss the warm sun and the ocean, that’s for sure. I don’t miss the traffic or the assholes. There aren’t as many assholes here.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Per capita? We might give LA a run for the money.”
He laughs. “Doubt it.”
“What do you like about Harper’s Mill?”
“That’s easy. The quiet. At first, I thought I would lose my mind. I couldn’t sleep at night because it was too quiet. Or else I heard the coyotes, and that kept me awake.” He pauses. “My turn. You’ve been to LA. What did you like about it?”
I’m a little surprised that he’s bringing up my trip to California for the Grammys. He was living with his mom in New York City while she filmed a movie there and Dig Me Under was on tour for the album. The band was up for several awards, including Song of the Year and Rock Album of the Year.
“This is your song,” Chris said when he called to invite me. “We wouldn’t be here without you, so no ifs, ands, or buts. You’re coming with me.”
Leona took in one of Mom’s old prom dresses and let me borrow a pair of fancy bareback, open-toed heels from the fifties, black with a rhinestone buckle. Mom flew out with me and styled my hair. She let me wear mascara and lipstick. I walked the red carpet and stuttered awkward answers to the few questions that reporters directed at me rather than Chris.
“We were only there for three days. I didn’t see much, but Chris took us to Disneyland and to the Last Bookstore. Have you ever been?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“I’ve never seen so many books in my life.”
“What did you buy?”
“Chris told me to choose something special. I found a copy of The Secret Garden from the sixties. He wanted to buy me a first edition, but I put my foot down.”
“Only you would turn down a first edition of The Secret Garden, Blue.” He laughs.
“It was, like, five hundred dollars!”
“So you got, what, a musty old paperback instead?”
“That’s exactly what I chose,” I say. “I adore that book. I always thought that Mary Lennox was such a classic name, sounded so important.”
“Mary Lennox is a fantastic character.”
“You’ve read The Secret Garden?”
“Of course. Also, and I’m not sure that I should admit this . . . that remake that came out a couple of years back? Elise’s debut as a producer.”
My eyebrows shoot up. That was one of the worst adaptations I’ve ever seen. “Seriously?”
He shrugs. “Don’t judge me based on my mother’s catalog of films.”
&
nbsp; “Gabe. She set it in New England.”
He throws his hands up in surrender. “Preaching to the choir, missy. Moving on. Quick, tell me something you love about Harper’s Mill.”
“Where do I begin? Everything. Living out in the country, close to the river, close to the park reserve. Hearing the coyotes at night and waking up to birds right outside my window every morning.”
“Oh, yeah, those fuckers,” Gabe says. “Wake me up every goddamn morning at, like, four o’clock.”
“How do you like being around your family?” I ask.
He considers this for a moment. “You know, I like it a lot. Vacations at the lake were always fun. I mean, who wouldn’t have fun spending all day out on a boat or the water trampoline or playing cribbage?”
“You play cribbage?”
“Four-time Hudson Family Summer Vacation Champion. What about you? Tell me about your family.”
“Not much to tell, really. What you see is what you get. Even after Dad died, though, Mom and I have never really been on our own. Your family has been so good to us.”
“I remember when your dad flew out to Seattle to bring Chris here for treatment. I was so fucking scared that Chris was going to die. But Doug—he was good under pressure, wasn’t he? He looked me in the eye and told me that he was going to take care of everything.”
“He was my hero,” I say, choking up a little.
“I know why my parents didn’t have any other kids. What about you?”
I lean forward in my chair to take advantage of the heat from the fire. “Mom and Dad tried to start a family for a long time. Mom miscarried twice. They saw specialists and tried different treatments. Nothing worked. Finally, they stopped all treatment. Mom got pregnant three months later.”
“Wow,” Gabe says. “That’s amazing. That’s a wanted baby.”
I look over in surprise. His tone seems almost bitter. “What about you?” I ask.
“What about me?”
“How did you come to be?”
He snorts. “Do you really need a lesson in the birds and the bees?”
I flush. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Ass.”
“Well, our stories couldn’t be more different.” He pokes at the fire with a stick. “Chris met Elise on the set of Altered. Have you seen it? Chris had a small part playing the drummer in a bar band. They fell hard for each other, the story goes. Elise got pregnant, and they eloped to Hawaii when she was five months pregnant. I’m the bump in all the wedding photos.”
I nod. I knew this. I’ve seen the photos of the wedding on the beach, both of them barefoot, Elise in a diaphanous empire waist dress with a single white rose tucked into her hair. Chris stands with his hand on her belly, looking at her with such love and reverence, my throat tightens when I see it.
“I’ve seen the photos,” I say quietly.
“Everyone has seen the photos.” He sounds resigned.
“Do you think they’ll get back together?” I ask—and wish I could take it back as soon as the words are out of my mouth. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”
“They’re Hollywood’s most on-again, off-again couple. It’s a valid question. But this time, I don’t think so. Did you know that she’s engaged?”
This surprises me. Not that I spend a lot of time watching Celebrity Tonight, but I hear things. Hard not to in this town.
“I take it by the look on your face that you didn’t,” Gabe says. “So that’s good. At least her plan is working.”
“What plan?”
“She doesn’t want the news to leak until after she’s done filming. Apparently, this new movie has Oscar nod written all over it. And she doesn’t want the news to be a distraction during the season, so they’re planning to wait until spring to announce it.”
I’m confused. “What season?”
“Oh, right. The NFL season. She’s marrying Ty Callahan.”
“Ty Callahan. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
He bursts out laughing. “Why doesn’t this surprise me? He’s a running back for the Seattle Seahawks. Guess she’s got a thing for Seattle boys.”
“Do you like him?”
Now Gabe turns to look at me, and I’m stunned to see so much emotion in his eyes. “Do you know that you’re the first person to ask me that question?”
“Really?”
“Really.” The word is soft. “You know what? I do like him. He treats her well.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes, watching the fire. I think about how different our lives have been, our childhoods. I can’t imagine living in the spotlight like he has, his every move documented and criticized.
“Tell me about your plans for next year,” he says.
“There’s a state university with a good horticulture and agribusiness program right in Fred Lake. I won’t have to go so far, and I can still live here.” I pause. “And still work on the farm.”
“Agribusiness? The business of agriculture?”
“You’re catching on,” I say and smile.
“That’s good that you know what you want to do. And you’ll stay in the area after you graduate from college?”
“If I can. What about you? You’ve lived all over, right? LA, Seattle, New York, even New Orleans for a couple of years. But where’s home? Where do you feel most at home?” When he doesn’t answer right away, I quickly add, “If that’s not too personal. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
He tilts his head and regards me and my question. “Seattle, I guess,” he says slowly. “Things were good in Seattle. Chris and Elise were together. The band was on a break, so Elise took one, too. We were just a normal family, you know? We lived on a houseboat, because Elise had wanted one ever since she’d seen Sleepless in Seattle. The houseboat from the movie wasn’t available, so Chris bought one a few docks down.”
“You lived on a houseboat? Really?”
“Yes, for almost two years. I went to a private music academy there. Tell me about your dad. I wish I could have known him better.”
I’m not expecting that. I swallow down a lump in my throat. “Ah.”
“Shit. I’m sorry. That was insensitive. Ignore me.”
“It’s OK. You caught me off guard, that’s all. I usually only talk about him to my therapist, since Leona died, anyway. Mom doesn’t talk about Dad much, but Leona had some stories.”
“You must miss him so much,” Gabe says quietly. “So, you . . . see a therapist?”
I nod. “Not as often as I used to. Leona was the one who convinced Mom I should see someone. God, I’m glad she did. I’ve worked through a lot of stuff these last few years.”
“Hmm.” He stares at the fire.
I want to know what he remembers about the day of Leona’s funeral. I ask the question before I can chicken out. “Do you remember me? From when we were younger?”
He looks at me with such intensity, it’s hard not to look away. The reflections of the flames dance in his eyes. “I remember that you wore a blue, long-sleeved dress to my grandmother’s funeral that matched your beautiful eyes.”
My heart leaps into my throat, and tears sting the corners of my eyes. I swipe at them. I don’t know how much I should tell him. “I hurt so badly for you that day, Gabe. I knew how it felt to lose someone close. I mean, it hadn’t been that long since my dad—” I choke back a sob and take in a long breath, breathe it out again. “I wanted to give you something, a piece of my heart, that you could take with you and think about when you were sad and missing her.” I let out a small laugh. “You weren’t receptive.”
“Ah,” he says. “I was an ass to you, wasn’t I?”
I nod.
“Tell me,” he says softly. “What did you want to give me that day?”
I remind him of the words that I shared that day, the words that had soothed me so many times. For long minutes, he stares at the fire, not saying anything.
Finally, he says, “I’ve been kind of an ass most of my life. I’m sorry,
Blue.” He reaches over and takes my hand. The warmth from his skin radiates through me, lights me up. “I wish we had been friends then. Because knowing you now the way I do, I can honestly say that I would never, ever want to hurt you.”
I bite my bottom lip to steady it, guilt coursing through me. I’m no better than the boy he was, faking a friendship for my own selfish reasons.
“To be honest, I was a little jealous of you and your relationship with Chris. Leona’s funeral was, what? A few months after the Grammys?”
I nod.
“I’m not making excuses,” he continues, then gives a hollow laugh. “It’s hard for me to make friends. I learned early on that people will use you for your connections or your money or both. Even Marley, and we’ve known each other our entire lives. So, yeah, it’s hard for me to trust people. Still, I’m sorry for that day. I’m not that spoiled little brat anymore. Forgive me.”
We fall silent and watch the fire burn down as we hold hands across the space between our chairs. After a while, I say, “It’s late, Gabe,” and he nods. He spreads out the embers with a stick while I take a bucket to the river for water to pour over the coals. Once the fire’s out, we walk back up to the big house, not speaking. Leaves and twigs crunch beneath my feet. An owl calls out in the distance. I shiver, and as we walk, Gabe puts one arm around my shoulder and tucks me in close.
I fit perfectly, my head at his shoulder.
He walks with me all the way to the front door. I don’t know what I’m expecting, I don’t know what this night has meant for him, but I can’t help wondering if he’s going to kiss me. Do I want Gabe Hudson to kiss me? God, I think I do.
I want to kiss Gabe Hudson.
I shake my head to clear the thought. This is not what Mom meant when she told me you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
Right?
“Thanks for walking me home. I would have been fine on my own, but thank you.”
He pulls me into a hug. “Oh, I know you would have been fine. I wanted to anyway. Thanks for listening tonight and for opening up about . . . things. I’m glad we’re friends, Juniper.”