by Julia Kent
“Does Fairy the ferret have to wash hands, too?” JoJo asks as the kids reluctantly leave the main room, Ani and Michelle graciously giving Fletch and me some space.
Mattie, however, remains.
“Miss Fiona would make a good auntie,” he says into Fletch's knees.
“Mattie,” Fletch says, voice choked with the same embarrassment I feel, the connected energy turning into a flavor. “It's not… well, that's not something you just say.”
“But it's true. You told me it's always good to tell the truth.”
I bite my lower lip to try not to laugh.
Fletch gives me a begging look that says, Rescue me.
I hold up my hands, palms out. This is all yours, bud.
His eye roll and sigh aren't changing my reaction.
“Telling the truth is always the right thing to do,” he says, peeling Mattie off his legs and bending down to be at eye level. “But it's embarrassing to say that you think I should marry Fiona.”
“Hey, now. Why would anyone be embarrassed to marry me?”
Mattie turns his head, blue eyes big as moons, looks at me, and says, “She's so pretty. Don't you want to marry someone pretty, Uncle Chris?” His fingers play with the end of my long hair.
“Yeah, Uncle Chris. Isn't marrying a pretty person your primary reason for marriage?” I poke.
“She's sarcastic, too, Mattie. And she has one heck of a kick.”
Mattie screws up his face in concentration as he looks at me. “I don't think you should marry her.”
“Why not?” I pretend to be offended.
“Because when I'm a grown-up, I'm going to marry Miss Fiona.”
“I don't know about that,” Fletch says, pretending to be mad. “I might have to thumb wrestle you for it.”
“My future is going to be determined by the rotation and strength of opposable thumbs?” I interject.
Fletch shrugs. “Two hundred years ago, you'd have been married off for a cow.”
“Is that supposed to make some kind of point?”
“You're worth way more than a cow,” Mattie says seriously.
Fletch laughs. “Two cows?”
“At least ten,” Mattie determines.
“Thank you, Mattie, for upping my value, but nowadays, people marry for love.”
“I love you ten cows worth, Miss Fiona.”
“Hoo boy,” Fletch says, blowing out a long gust of air. “I don't know if I can compete with that.”
“You don't think you can love her eleven cows worth? That's more than ten,” Mattie asks.
“It's hard to measure how I feel about Miss Fiona.”
He ruffles Mattie's hair while I stand there, emotional grid shifting from tentative amusement to an uncertainty that makes me feel like he's entering new territory.
“Then I win! Miss Fiona is mine when I am sixteen!”
“Why sixteen?”
“Because then I can drive to her house!” He runs off, curious about the kids in the other room all pulling out their lunches.
“Four-year-old logic,” Fletch mutters, giving me sidelong glances meant to surmise my emotional state.
“Better than most grown-ups.”
“Can't argue with you there.”
“Nice to see you found something you can't pick a fight about.”
“Hey!”
“Fletch,” I start, walking into my office, waving him on. As we pass by the children, they snicker and whisper, the girls more stirred up than the boys. We reach the office, I close the door, and ask, “Why are you here?”
“I came to see you because I knew this was your lunch break and you've been ignoring my texts and calls.”
“Maybe I need some space.”
“I respect that.”
“Clearly, you don't.”
“Look, Fiona, I'm not here to argue with you. Or to crowd you or upset you. The opposite, actually. I realized our wires have been crossed and it was better to just come to you, face to face, and say what needs to be said.”
“You couldn't wait until I wasn't working?”
“If you'd answer my texts and calls, I could.”
“Fair enough. What do you want to say? What needs to be said?”
“I would like to ask you out on a date.”
“A date?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
“That's it?”
“Isn't that enough?”
“After seventeen years of teasing me, of that stupid nickname following me around like a poltergeist, now you suddenly decide that because I saved your nephew you want to date me?”
“It's not like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
“I don't know. Let me find out what it's like by spending time with you. Let's both find out what the other is really like. Do we have to define this? Let's explore it.” He grins. “Let's explore each other.”
“I think you're trauma bonding with me and getting that confused with having feelings for me.”
“Trauma bonding?”
“We went through something emotionally intense together. You helped me. I saved your nephew. But that doesn't mean we should date.”
“That's not why I'm asking you out.”
“Is it because we kissed?”
“That's not why, but it certainly adds to all the reasons why.”
“You know I'm not a fan of yours,” I begin, wavering inside but surprised by my words.
“Because of seventh grade.”
“You say that like I should be over it.”
He makes a gesture that clearly indicates that's exactly what he thinks.
And he's right. But the part of me that knows that isn't the part that opens her mouth.
“I'm not. I'm also not going to apologize for not being over it. When we were younger, you did a really shitty thing to me.”
“Yeah. I know.” He leans against my desk and looks down, then up. “And I never thanked you for it.”
“Thanked me?”
“Getting dropkicked by you taught me about consent.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. I was a dumbass twelve-year-old boy who thought when I tried to kiss you and you said no, you meant yes.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because that's what I was taught. Not by my parents,” he adds hastily. “By other guys. By media. By all these cultural messages.”
“How on Earth did I teach you about consent?”
“You said no. I tried to kiss you again. When I did, you dropped me flat. Bam! I still remember the look on your face as your foot came flying toward me. You were nothing but sheer power. If it hadn't come with so much pain split seconds later, it would have been unadulterated beauty.”
“Get to the consent part.”
“You were one hundred percent right. And I've never apologized for not respecting your no. So this is me, the same stupid idiot from seventh grade, saying to you: I am very sorry. Truly. I should never have tried to kiss you that second time. You did everything right and I deserved what you did to me.”
I look around the office, the only room in the preschool other than the bathrooms that doesn’t have cameras. “Am I being pranked? Does Michael have a camera crew somewhere and this is a paid stunt?”
“No prank. No cameras. Just me offering up my ego for you to poke with the world's biggest pin.”
The image of Rico's locksmith pick chooses that moment to invade my mind.
“I don't know what to say.”
“Can I tell you about what happened after you kicked the hell out of me way back then?”
“Um, sure.”
“I went home. You gave me a shiner. My mom freaked out when she saw it. Thought I'd been hurt playing middle school football. I was a scrawny thing back then, but I had the height and the width for defense. Coach Szacz saw that in me. Anyhow, I told Mom it wasn't sports. That I'd gotten in
to a fight. She wanted to call the school and I had to tell her the truth.” A wistful smile crosses his face. “The last thing a twelve-year-old dude wants to admit is that the first time he tried to kiss a girl, he got dropped like that.”
The first time.
“So,” Fletch says, letting out a long sigh as he shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and leans one hip against my filing cabinet, “I told her. And she got very quiet. All she said was, 'Get an ice pack on that, Chris, and let's talk more about this when your dad gets home from work.'”
“Oh, no.”
“Right? You get it. To a twelve-year-old, it was her quiet answer and the prospect of Dad hearing what I'd done that made me start to realize I'd really screwed up. I thought it was because a girl beat me,” he says with a low chuckle that is paternal and wise. It makes time fast forward, allowing me to see him as an older man.
And liking what I imagine.
“Dad got home. Mom asked me to come into his office and tell the story. I did. Dad looked at Mom. She left without a word. And then Dad slowly, calmly, but god-awfully emphatically spent the next hour lecturing me on the concept of consent. He didn't use that word. Dad isn't the type to frame things that way. He told me in no uncertain terms that when a woman tells you no, you respect that, because men who don't are the kind you have to protect people from.”
“Oof.”
“Yeah. I mean, look at me now. I'm a paramedic and firefighter. I own a boxing gym with a focus on teaching people how to protect themselves. The last damn thing I wanted, even at twelve, was to be a bad guy.”
“And you aren't.”
His eyes narrow. “For some reason, a piece of you still thinks I am, Fiona. And this is me, talking to that piece, telling her it's okay. I'll never do anything ever again that you don't want. I'll never violate your no.”
“Thank you.”
“But.”
“Here we go.”
“But I'm confused. You kissed me back at that shoot. You told me you shouldn't want this at all.” On the word this, he waves his hand between us, unconsciously stirring energy that is powerful, that wants to divide itself between us and attach connectors, cords you can't see but that have tremendous power.
“I did.”
“Then is that a no? You don't want to go out on a date? You don't want to kiss me? Because I need this to be crystal clear between us.”
Crystal.
He said crystal.
Jolene's strange rock is somewhere in here, in my purse? I'm not sure. The piece of me that Fletch speaks to yearns to hold it, listen to it, ask it for advice.
Hold it in the space between us.
“I–I can't go out with you. I shouldn't.”
“That's neither a no nor a yes.”
“Maybe–maybe for me, this isn't binary.”
“You're nonbinary?” he asks, confused. “Which is cool,” he adds.
“No. I'm cis het. I mean the issue of whether to say yes or no to dating you isn't binary. It's not black or white. It's not either/or.”
“You don't want labels around whatever this is?”
“I guess?”
“Fiona, I'm a pretty simple guy. I know what I like and I go for it. I know what I don't, so I avoid it. Ever since our high school reunion last year and seeing you again–even though I've run into you over the years and you went out of your way not to talk to me–it's like fate is putting us together.”
Fate.
Crystal.
Was Jolene right?
Bzzz
My phone makes me lunge for my purse, the thin silver strip on the side of it a homing beacon.
It's Mallory.
Dress fitting today? First, preliminary one. The big one is later, when Hasty and Raye and Veronica are back in town. But today at 3:30 at Ahern’s?
“Everything okay?” Fletch asks.
“Yeah. Dress fitting for the wedding.” I text back a yes.
Why can I text a yes to Mal but I can't say a yes to Fletch?
“Dress fitting? Like a tux fitting?”
“Nothing like a tux fitting. You guys go in, they measure here and there, and a few days later you're set. Dress fittings are events. Mallory's practically ready to issue invitations and have party favors for them with color-coordinated ribbon and a 4-piece chamber orchestra.”
“Don't assume tux fittings aren't traumatic. You ever have a guy's hand up your crotch, measuring?” His eyes drift down my body but suddenly jerk back to maintain eye contact.
“I'm pretty sure someone on the dating app mentioned that as a fetish.”
He laughs. I join him. It's tinny and a bit brittle, but that's the sound of breaking the ice.
“Fletch,” I say, moving closer to him, liking this. Hating myself for liking this. “I'm glad I taught you, indirectly, about consent. I need you to teach me something now, though. Consider it a fair trade.”
“What can I teach you?”
“How to be more than one person at the same time.”
“Like, multiple personalities?”
“No. More like having two different pieces of me warring inside. And I can't let one win just yet. So I have a yes and a no sparring with each other. I'm not sure which one will win. I know that if I pick one now, it'll feel unfinished.”
“You're asking me to take a maybe as an answer?”
“I guess?”
Nodding, he looks down, removing his hands from his pockets. The view of his wide shoulders, strong back, and fine, fine ass are enough to make me want to shout yes! without a second thought.
And yet I can't.
Not yet.
“Fletch. Chris,” I say, using his given name for the first time in… ever?
A child in the background lets out a shriek of joy, others joining in, the backdrop of happiness a blanket of warmth. Add the look in Fletch's eyes as he turns to me, man to woman, heart to heart, and I think my maybe is turning to a yes damn fast.
“Yes?” he asks.
“I–I don't want to say yes for the wrong reasons.” My hand holds my phone, which I put back in my purse, but I keep my hand in there.
“What are the wrong reasons?”
“That's what I need to figure out. It's… I can't put it into words.” I brace myself for the inevitable criticism.
“That I understand. Some feelings can't be explained. They can just be expressed.”
I blink.
I blink and blink and blink.
And then Chris Fletcher smiles a thousand-watt grin at me and says,
“You need space. I get it. Space is where we figure out where the edges are.”
And just like that, he leaves, the edge between here and there sharp and distinct.
As the door closes, I feel a pulsing in my purse. I let go of my phone and feel for the source.
It's Jolene's crystal.
And it has something to say.
Chapter 10
Mallory makes a huge deal about the Dance and Dairy festival every August here in Anderhill, but my favorite event is the Leaf Peeper Festival, held the third weekend in October, come rain or shine.
And today it's alll shine. How kind of Mother Nature to give us blue skies, a balmy fifty degrees even, and plenty of young families we can attract to the Peace Tent for The Grounded Child.
New England festivals aren't that much different from small town fairs in other states, but because pretty much every single town in New England has a town common, there's a festival or a fair or a farmer's market or concert in every single town, nearly every single weekend in autumn.
And for every festival, there are canopy tents in every color you can imagine.
Preschools, churches, the library, real estate agents, vendors selling soap and maple syrup and kettle corn and lavender lemonade and leatherwork and crocheted kitchen towels and… you get the picture.
The Grounded Child has a tent at about six fairs every year, but this is the big one. Anderhill is the town with more small
kids than any around. We have to catch new families now, because they spend the winter deciding where to send their kids to preschool.
And the Leaf Peeper festival is where all the people with kids under five go.
Bouncy house? We got one.
Touch a Firetruck? It's here, with the big ladder.
Rock-climbing tower? More dads than kids use it, but it draws a crowd.
Ice cream truck? Yeah, baby. See that woman coming back from the line holding two cups of ice cream bigger than a newborn's head?
That's Ani.
And she's carrying salted maple caramel in one hand and caramelized peach pecan in the other. From the Hesserman's Dairy VW bus, a rolling hippie palace complete with the best micro-creamery on wheels.
“Here,” she says, dropping my pound or so of ice cream in a thump on the folding table. “Hope you're hungry.”
“What size did you get?” I goggle.
“Large!”
“This isn't large. This is diabetes in a cup.”
“No, that's the next size up.”
“What comes after large?”
“What you just said: They renamed extra large 'Diabetes in a Cup.'”
“This will never fit. I can't get all that in my mouth!”
“You just quoted every guy's porn dream,” Perky says, appearing between our tent and the one next to us. The festival hasn't even begun yet, which is why Ani got the ice cream now, at 9:30 a.m. By 10 a.m., when it all starts, the place will be packed.
More important to know, Hesserman's ice cream truck sells out within the first two hours. I learned that four years ago, during our first tent run.
“If it involves this much salted caramel maple ice cream, it's my porn dream, too.” For emphasis, I shove a big mouthful in–
And moan.
“That's part of a porn dream, too, Fi. That moan belongs in a Penny Ride video.”
“Nah. The pitch of her voice is too high,” Ani contributes, turning Perky's face into a mask of surprise.
“What?” Ani says. “Preschool teachers can't watch porn?”
“Shhhh,” I whisper. “Parents!”
“Who is Penny Ride?” I ask, hating myself for opening this topic even further.
“Search for her on YouPorn. Guy number one comes all over her ass, then the other guys toss pennies at her to make them stick. However many pennies stick is how many guys she then sleeps with.”
