I’M STILL ALL twisted up over Ashley. From the day on the beach when my feelings shifted for her until now, she’s owned me.
I’ve tried to forget her. Erase her from my memory. Replace her with another woman. Numb my heart with sex.
Screw my way into loving anyone else.
All failures.
I’ve tried to fall in love again.
Over the years, I’ve liked a lot of women, had sex with some I didn’t like, but no one ever replaced Ashley.
Life’s easier if I keep things simple.
I lie about my feelings. Pretend there’s no history between us.
How long can a crush survive? I’ve tried to kill it with distance and absence. Torturing myself with too many details about her life hasn’t worked either. Even when Ashley screwed around with Tom Donnely for years, I only buried what I couldn’t admit, but didn’t kill the truth.
No matter how everyone else sees Ashley, she’s on the pedestal where I placed her in middle school. Smart, beautiful, passionate, sexy, funny, sweet—she’s everything I’ve ever wanted.
And just out of my reach.
“Is Ashley dating McPhee?” I ask Jonah the next time I see him.
We’re both set up at the Saturday farmer’s market at Bayview Corner in the large gravel lot between the nursery and Bayview Community Hall. The solstice was only a week ago and the summer sun beats down on us despite the early morning.
I’m here with four goats in a pen to raise awareness for the landscaping business. He’s in his newly converted ice cream truck/coffee mobile. The vehicle’s painted bright blue with the likeness of Joseph Whidbey himself, and for some odd reason, a narwhal on the back. We don’t even have narwhals around here, but my suggestion got shot down. A geoduck might not be family friendly and scare the tourists.
Jonah scratches the head of Mickey the goat between the ears and Mickey lets out a happy bleat.
At first I think Jonah’s ignoring my question as he steps into the truck to make us coffees. I follow him and stand in front of the service window.
“Ashley doesn’t really date. You know this. Plus, I think he’s one of Roslyn’s clients, or former clients. Pretty sure Roslyn wouldn’t tolerate any sort of client fraternization.” He keeps his back to me, busy making my coffee.
“What about Falcon?” I rearrange the sugar packets in their small bowl, sorting them by color.
He twists to look at me, the light catching on the loop in his eyebrow. “The little drummer boy? Why are you asking?”
“No reason.” I pat the organized bowl.
His dark eyes stare down at me. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yep.” I refuse to hold his gaze.
He sets my iced coffee on the narrow metal counter. “Okay.”
The way he stretches out those four letters holds more weight than a long, probing question.
“Fine. I don’t like him.”
“The hippie love child? What’s not to like about Falcon?” His lips twitch as he fights a smirk. “He’s the embodiment of peace and love.”
“He’s about fifty years too late to be a hippie, for one thing.”
“Maybe he’s retro cool. The new hipster.”
“Or a cliché.”
“If he wasn’t hanging out with my sister, would you care?”
“Probably. He walks around downtown Langley playing bongos. Who does that? Disturbing others and making a racket no one asked for.”
“You sound like Olaf.” He’s full out laughing at me now.
“The man has seen some shit in his life. Hell, he had to deal with the real hippies. He knows what he’s talking about. He’s full of wisdom and shit.”
“Mostly bullshit. Although, he thinks you’re a tool and a no-good slacker.” Jonah pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and chews on it. His eyes crinkle as he fights to control his amusement.
I scowl at him. “He doesn’t say that.”
“Maybe not out loud, or at least to your face.” He busies himself switching out the coffee carafes.
“I swear he’s banned me from The Dog House more times than I can count.” I ponder the truth of his words. “He can’t think I’m as bad as barefoot, free-love boy. Can he?”
“Probably not.”
“Probably?”
“Pretty sure.”
“I can grow my hair out and start weaving my own ponchos.”
“I think a serape would suit you.”
I don’t know what that is, but it sounds like something Falcon would wear. “Fuck off.”
“Back to my original question, why are you all in a twist these days over who Ashley hangs around with?”
“I’m not. She’s a grown woman who can do what she wants.” If she’s in a relationship, I’ll walk away. When she and Tom had their thing, I didn’t try to compete. I bided my time. At this point, I’ve earned sainthood with all the patience I’ve exhibited.
“Bullshit.”
“Believe what you want.” I adjust the brim of my cap.
“We’re talking about my little sister. I can probably guess why you’re always hanging around, but I want to stay out of it. The two of you have a past neither one of you can let go of. You’re my friend. Your brother’s my business partner. I don’t want to have to kick your ass.”
“Really? With some hipster dance moves you learned at Bumbershoot?” I deflect from the more serious parts of his statement.
“I have my black belt and I was All State in wrestling.”
I forgot about that. He never fit the jock mode. Hell no, there’s no way I’m going to let him put on a singlet and wrap his legs around my head.
“Okay. I’ll leave her alone.” I lie through my smile.
“Be nice to her. She’s dealing with her own stuff, you know. Of anybody, you should know.” His dark eyes convey he remembers but won’t bring it up in public.
“We can drop the subject. I promise I’ll never talk about your sister’s sex life again.”
He shakes his head. “You’re an asshole.”
“That’s my reputation.”
“You don’t have to live up to it.” He knocks twice on the table with his right hand. “And with that stellar wisdom, I need to focus on my actual paying customers.”
While we’ve been talking, a short line of thirsty looking summer people has formed behind me.
I give them a nod and quick wave before stepping aside. Back in my area, Dad’s sitting in the pen, surrounded by kids who are petting the goats. Or trying to. Lucky for the goats, they’re quicker than the little kids with their sticky, grabby hands. If we want smaller residential projects, we need people-friendly goats. We’re selling cuteness along with function.
“How’s your goat socialization project going?” I rest against the trailer.
Dad shoves the goat trying to headbutt his leg. “More chaotic than I imagined. You’d think they’d all get along. Being kids and all.”
Goat puns. Everyone has one.
I force out a chuckle to appease Dad. If he thinks he’s nailed a zinger, he’ll let up for a while as he basks in his cleverness.
We chat about upcoming jobs and the need to expand the herd so we can handle multiple projects simultaneously. I want to do smaller, quicker jobs with fewer goats. He’s imagining dozens and dozens of chompers. Maybe hundreds. We’re going to need a larger piece of land for their barn and pen if we grow that much. I’m lucky my landlord is cool with the goats, but buying my own property needs to happen. For that, I need capitol and cash flow. We’re in a egg and chicken situation here: which one’s going to come first?
In general, I’m more cautious than my father. I’d rather give the business a year before investing more of my meager savings into expansion. Dad wants to go all in and put his eggs in one basket.
Sorry, wrong animal metaphor.
One of the nice things about having a staff of goats is we can breed future generations of employees. Makes me sound like an evil overlord in a dystopian future movie.
Kind of disturbing if I think about it.
Part of me is happy to see Dad excited about a new business again. I worry about a big setback shredding his willpower and sobriety. Mom, Erik, and I are anxious around him. We’re cautiously hopeful while waiting for a missing shoe to drop from the sky and crush our new normal. A giant falling shoe full of the disappointment and harsh realism we’ve learned to live with almost half my life. Because we’re Kelsos and life likes to kick us down.
It’s almost impossible to remember the good old days when our family was on our way up, not realizing we were on the Ron Curtis rollercoaster and headed for a drop.
Like a salmon drawn to the silver flash of a fish hook, I can’t resist the lure of visiting the coffee hut again late Thursday afternoon. I tell myself I have a coffee habit and without the caffeine I’ll crash.
Right. I have some sort of addiction. Ashley’s the fire and I’m the moth happily singeing my wings to get closer to her flame.
While I wait to make my turn, I notice Ashley’s black SUV parked next to the dumpster across the small paved lot.
No cars are ahead of me in line and no one pulls up behind me outside the cedar shingled building. Unless Falcon shows up, we might have a few minutes to have a conversation. A real one.
Inside, she’s busy making notes on a clipboard. When not writing she holds the pen between her teeth, moving it back and forth with her tongue. My body reacts like I’m fifteen again and she’s doing her homework during lunch, sucking on the tip of her pen. Some habits never die. I shift in my seat, hoping she doesn’t turn while I’m trying to subtly adjust my semi in my shorts.
Remaining focused on the clipboard, she removes the pen from her mouth and tucks it into her messy bun. Her voice is flat. “We’re closing. Espresso machine’s cleaned, so all we have is cold brew and whatever dregs are left in the carafes.”
“You talk sweet like that to all of your customers?” I shift the truck into park and lean my arm on the window frame.
“I knew it was you. Saw you pull up.” She gestures to the convex mirror hanging in the corner of the hut. “You’re going to need to practice your stalking game.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t lock the window and hide under the counter.”
“Thought about it.” She makes a note and then returns the pen to her bun. “Do you want coffee?”
“Large cold brew with—”
“Cream.” She completes my sentence. “I know.”
Setting down her paperwork, she gets to work making my coffee.
“Why are you on the island again? Jonah slacking off?” When she bends to scoop ice, I watch the muscles in her arm curve and stretch, loving the way her apron slips forward, exposing her full hips and round ass clearly outlined in her leggings.
“One of our baristas is on vacation and no one else could take the shift.”
“I’m lucky none of my employees take vacation.”
“I doubt we could train goats to make a caramel macchiato. Trust me, some days I wish we could.”
“How are things going over in Mukilteo?”
“No complaints.”
I’m running out of time as she pours the cream into the dark liquid, swirling the cup to combine the two.
“How’s your friend Falcon?”
She glances at me with narrowed eyes.
I ignore the warning look. “You two seem close.”
She peels off all but the last inch of paper from a plastic straw before she stabs it through the lid with more force than necessary.
“Checking in on my love life?” She wraps a sleeve around the cup.
I take the coffee from her. “Maybe. You seem to hang out with him a lot.”
“We’re talking about a joint business venture with Jonah.”
“He doesn’t seem like he’s the capitalist type. The only joint business he’d be good at is the kind you smoke.”
She tilts her head and raises her eyebrows.
“Oh. You meant literally.”
“Marijuana is big business and there’s a lot of money to be made.” She refuses the money I hold out to her. “Mostly it’s Jonah’s idea, but you didn’t hear that from me. We’re keeping things under wraps until we can finalize a business plan. It’s complicated with all the regulation and cash only structure.”
“You’re serious about this.”
“I don’t want to stand around in a hut my whole life. We’d be more on the investment side, with Falcon’s input.”
“Really? Him?” I sip my coffee. It’s perfect.
“You’d be surprised with what he knows.”
“I guess the peace, love, and unbathed would be an expert in pot. Makes a lot of sense.
“He’s like Hans in Zoolander,” she says with a tone of admiration.
“Are you telling me you had an orgy with Falcon and a bunch of Nepalese sherpas?” My joke belly flops.
Her eyes flare before she squints at me. “And if I have, what business is it of yours? Are you going to call me a loose woman?”
“None.” Annoyance joins jealousy in a mess of frustration in my head that rewinds time to when we were kids.
I want to put a fat, yellow banana slug in her lunchbox after I steal her Twinkie.
Apparently, I’m not above name calling either.
As if Falcon isn’t stupid enough for a man’s name, in my head I call him Falcor sometimes.
Yeah, the fluffy dragon from The NeverEnding Story.
Instead of snarking about her so-called friend, I scratch an imaginary itch on my bicep before adjusting my sunglasses. “None at all. You do you.”
“I don’t need your permission. Or your blessing. I can have sex with whomever I want. And I do. It’s the twenty-first century, you know.” She schools me.
I’ve hit a nerve. Makes me wonder if she has gone to orgies. And who with? I stop myself before I imagine some wild, naked party with Ashley in the middle.
“No one’s saying you can’t. I’m not living the celibate life either.”
She purses her lips and I think I imagine a flash of hurt in her eyes. “So I’ve heard.”
I wonder what she thinks she knows. Lately, no woman holds my attention enough to kiss, let alone get naked with. But I don’t tell her this. Apparently, we’re still at war and there’s no way I’m revealing my weaknesses.
“Why do we always argue?” I ask.
“We don’t.” She smiles as she disagrees with me.
“Tell me one time we’ve been around each other recently where we haven’t gotten into a fight.”
She taps her full red lips with her index finger. I notice her nail polish is the same color of crimson. Probably from the blood of other men who annoy her.
“I’m thinking.” Using her fingers, she counts to ten. Then fifteen. She pauses before she gets to twenty. “I’m pretty sure there was one time we didn’t. Maybe the Sip n’ Stroll last Christmas?”
“Nope. You were flirting with Falcon, who was Olaf’s bar-back for the evening.”
“Right. And you abandoned your post at the door to come over and scowl at me for talking to a guy, who happens to be a friend.”
“I didn’t scowl. I pointed out you can do better.”
“He’s different. I like that.”
“He’s a clown on a unicycle. Only clowns probably shower more often.”
“You sound jealous, you know.”
“Over the bird boy?”
“Yes.”
She’s right. Totally. “What if I am?”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “You’re admitting it?”
With a lift of my shoulder, I pass it off as no big deal. “Before you make this a thing, I’m stopping you. If you want to get together some time, like adults, and talk, or even hang out, let me know. But I’m not going to sit here and be mocked for wanting the best for you.”
Her expression is all wide eyes and parted lips. No comeback or snark.
“Thanks for the coffee.” I don’t wait any longer for her to respond. “You know where to find me.”
In my rearview mirror, I see her lean out the window and watch me drive away.
I’ve broken our longstanding, unspoken treaty to never mention feelings around each other.
For more than a decade we’ve had our battleships lined up and within firing distance of each other.
I’m tired of the standoff.
Admitting I’m jealous is a risky move. I’ve just sank her first battleship: denial. Blew it right out of the water.
We’re going to war. Either we destroy each other completely or finally find peace.
No more pretending nothing matters when everything is at stake.
My heart.
Our futures.