I CAN SMELL the rain before I see the dots darken the bare dirt in the goat pen. A muffled roll of thunder cracks beyond the tree line, breaking the afternoon silence of the pasture. The tops of the cedars bow in the wind. Around me, the goats don’t seem to mind the raindrops or the noise. Personally, I’d rather not get soaked and have to walk around in wet jeans. You know, denim chafes.
I finish cleaning up and jog the hundred feet to the house.
The afternoon storm darkens the sky to the point I need to turn on the lights.
Almost a week has passed since Erik’s birthday party and the kiss with Ashley.
I’ve circled the Fellowship of the Bean every day this week, but she hasn’t been there. My mind goes to her partying in Seattle with Captain Seahawk or dancing naked around a hemp farm with Falcon. I know Jonah dismissed McPhee as a potential boyfriend, but I doubt he knows the ins and outs of Ashley’s dating life.
My master plan, my brilliant strategy has a flaw.
I don’t have Ashley’s phone number.
I could ask Jonah for it. Not that he’d give it to me.
I’ve thought about asking Erik. I know he has it.
There are at least four other people who would have her number, but all of them would question my motives. And I’m not hunting down bird boy to ask him. He probably doesn’t own a phone. Communicates by carrier pigeon or notes pinned to trees.
Dear Diary, I’m officially a creepy stalker.
When Ashley and I were kids, our parents had landlines and numbers listed in the slim yellow phonebook from the Whidbey Telephone Company. A quick flip of the pages and access to a phone was all I needed to call her.
I figure I have three options:
Suck it up and ask Erik for her number, willingly subjecting myself to his endless bullshit teasing.
Steal his phone, crack his security code, and find the number. His code can’t be that complicated. It’s probably something sickeningly sweet like Cari. Or IloveCari4ever! if he was going to make it more secure.
Drive over to town and stalk the coffee hut in Mukilteo.
I check the time on my phone. Three o’clock. There’s no guarantee Ashley will be at one of her huts between Alderwood and Everett. Or what time. I do the math in my head. The earliest boat I could catch would be in half an hour. Not going to work.
I curse living on the island for the millionth time in my life. Beholden to the ferry schedule and wait times can make the rest of the world feel far away, impossibly so.
When I escaped for college, I swore I’d leave this place behind except for holidays and my triumphant return as a success. Escaping the mess of my family, the shadow of my father’s failures and my mother’s crushing ability to pretend everything would be fine.
Ha.
Big shot who dropped out of Washington State. That’s me.
I didn’t flunk out. Or get kicked out.
Even after Dad’s business went ass up, I got a baseball scholarship to cover a chunk of my tuition. Student loans covered the rest. Completely typical American stuff.
Until Dad really fell apart and I needed to come home to help keep the family ship afloat. I decided Erik should be the one to finish college. I never did go back and get my degree.
Hence my job at the golf course. Half a degree for a job that used half my brain. If that. Easy enough to live up to the notion that I lead a half-ass life. If only people knew the sacrifices I’ve made to keep our family together, protect my mom, and keep my dad from destroying himself and all of us along with him.
Erik and I used to joke about me working for a private nine-hole course when I was in high school. He thought it was the best job ever. Free golf and all I had to do was hang around the course all day. How bad could it be? Sweet gig for a seventeen-year-old.
A thirty-one-year-old man needs something more to prove himself. A career versus a job. Something to be proud of, leave a mark, make an impression. A place for himself in this world.
I may not have my degree, but I’ve studied landscape architecture, botany, environmental science. I know about plants and soil.
And now, I know a helluva lot about goats.
Because I’m not going through life only known as Carl Kelso’s oldest son. The one without the world-famous ass and Internet fame. The one without the degree and not much to show for his life.
I’m tired of being a punchline to the joke of my own life.
Things are going to change.
No more fucking around.
Time to grow the fuck up. Something my dad has never managed to do.
I’m not going to live in the past, defined only by my last name.
Enough.
I’m going to get the girl I’ve always wanted and didn’t think I deserved.
I push off the couch.
I have a boat to catch.
Driving up the hill from the ferry dock in Mukilteo, I start to regret my spontaneous decision to come over here. The line is up the hill for the boat back to the island. There’s at least a one hour wait. I may have bought myself a waste of time.
Luck’s on my side when I spot Ashley’s SUV behind the hut by the ferry line. This location has a drive-thru on the back side and a walk-up window on the front for anyone stuck in the line. It’s a brilliant spot and one of their most profitable huts.
I park behind her car and walk around to the front.
A couple of business commuter types chat each other up as they wait for their drinks. I recognize a few familiar faces of guys who work at Boeing among the dress chinos and button downs. We nod and mumble hellos, but we’re not friends. The line moves slowly and I peer through the glass, trying to spot Ashley. A younger woman is taking orders. Her T-shirt sports the emblem of all of Ashley’s huts. Double Shot is emblazoned over the middle of the shirt flanked by two espresso cups, drawing the eye to her boobs. You can’t help but look. I swear it’s all part of Ashley’s branding, and I hope she’s wearing the company uniform, too.
“Hey, Carter,” the girl greets me.
I glance up at her face, but don’t recognize her. “Hey.”
A flash of panic constricts my chest. Have I slept with her and don’t remember? The smell of sulfur from an imaginary match strike hits my nostrils as I imagine my plan exploding in front of me because of an old hook-up.
Laughing, she leans on the counter, essentially pressing her tits farther into my line of view. I brush my hair off my forehead and pretend to study the drink menu written on a chalkboard above the order window.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” she teases.
Shit. I mean, she’s vaguely familiar, but with long dark hair and dark eyes, she’s not unique. I try to imagine her with more makeup and less clothes. Nothing clicks.
“I’m sorry. I’m terrible with faces and names.”
“You haven’t seen me in a long time. I’m Coach Pierce’s daughter. Analee?”
Oh shit. “You were a little kid when I last saw you. Like ten.”
I’m officially an old pervert. I remember Analee as a little girl, playing games with her friends in the stands during our baseball games. She didn’t have boobs or a flirty attitude back then.
“You grew up.”
More laughter. “I did. What can I get you?”
“I have no idea. Make me your favorite drink.” I exhale my discomfort. “How’s your dad doing?”
“He’s good. Retiring next year.”
“Really? He’s so young.”
She smiles at me again. “He got older, too. You know he always talks about your senior season. I think it was his favorite team.”
“Really?” An unfamiliar sense of pride fills my chest. “Tell him I said hello. I should stop by and visit him sometime.”
“You should.” She tells me the cost of my mystery drink and I hand her a ten.
Lost in memories of high school ball, I stall in my original mission in being here. I step aside for the next person to order. Leaning with my back against the side of the building next to the order pick up window, I stare out at the small lighthouse and the ferry approaching the dock.
“Hello, stalker,” a voice greets me from behind my shoulder.
Right. My plan.
Stuck in the past and memories of high school, I feel nervous. My palms dampen. I wipe them on my jeans and then turn to find Ashley’s face a few inches from mine as she leans over the counter.
“Hi.” My voice manages to crack on the single syllable. Hoping she didn’t notice, I clear my throat. “Hi.”
“I’d ask what you’re doing here, but I already know.” Instead of hostile, her expression is open and friendly. We’re making progress, folks.
“How long has Coach’s daughter worked for you?”
“She graduated this year and is working for me for the summer.”
“Graduated?”
“I know, right? Way to feel old when people you remember as little kids are adults now.”
At least she’s legal and Coach won’t have me arrested for looking at her boobs. That’s a relief . . . even if I feel like a dirty old man.
“Wait, were you flirting with her?” She glances over her shoulder where Analee’s helping the next customer.
“Me? Never.”
Pressing her lips together, she makes a little humph sound.
“I swear.” I hold up my hands like she’s pointing a gun at me. “If anyone is to blame, it’s you and those T-shirts. We’re programmed to read, no matter the location of the words.”
“They help with tips. Most of my baristas work for me because they’re in school or moms or artists. They need the money. Amazing how some tight cotton raises their daily tip amounts.”
“Seriously?”
“I’ve studied the data.”
“On the boob to tip ratio?”
She nods.
“Anyone who underestimates you is a fool.” I don’t bother hiding the awe in my voice. She’s the smartest person I know.
“Speaking of fools, how long are you going to loiter around here?”
I ignore her little barb and give her a slow grin. “I’m waiting on my beverage.”
“I meant after you get your pink frappe with extra whip cream.”
“What?”
“You told Analee to make you her favorite drink.” She set a large clear cup filled with the pinkest drink I’ve ever seen in front of me.
“What is that? And how do you get it that color?” I stare at the cup, but refuse to pick it up.
She doesn’t answer me. “Enjoy!”
I duck my head through the window. “Come back!”
I’m now at eye level with her breasts in her own T-shirt. She fills it out better than any of the other woman working in the hut. Damn. Not only did my voice crack, but I’m about to have a problem in my pants like a damn teenager.
“Yes?”
I drag my eyes over the curves of her breasts and the deep V of her shirt, which reveals a line between her cleavage like an arrow pointing to the good stuff.
“Eyes up here.”
I meet her stare. In the shadow from the awning, her hazel eyes are almost brown. “I didn’t come all the way over here for a coffee. Or whatever that is.” I jerk my head down at the pink monstrosity. A maraschino cherry sits on top of the mountain of whipped cream.
“No?” Her lips twist as she fights a smile.
“What time are you off?” I lean on my forearms.
“Why? Are you going to follow me home?”
“Huh. I hadn’t thought about that.” I stroke my beard. “Hold on, does that happen?”
“Only once.” Her voice lowers. She’s serious.
The idea she might have a real stalker, not just me hanging around, hadn’t occurred to me. Now her comments about me stalking her aren’t a joke.
“That’s messed up.”
“No kidding.” Her attempt at sarcasm fails.
Holy shit. I joke about stalking her because I follow her around like I’m a puppy, but I’d never overstep. Or maybe I already have.
“I’m not stalking you. I came over here to see you, because I need to ask you a question.”
“Heard of a phone?” Her tone is teasing and I think I’m forgiven, but I’m not sure.
“I don’t have your number.”
“Jonah and Erik wouldn’t give it to you?”
“I didn’t ask them.”
Her dark lashes narrow. “Why not? Embarrassed to admit to them you want to talk to me?”
“What? Hell no.” I mean, she’s right, but coming from her, I see what a lame move I’ve made. “I can call either of them now and ask for your number if you’d like.”
“You’re weird.”
Someone asks her a question and she steps away. I’m reminded we’re talking in front of an audience of strangers. When she returns, she ducks down and quietly says, “Give me five minutes and I’ll be done.”
After she disappears inside again, I take my Barbie frappe and walk over to the bench facing the view. Between me and the water a bridge spans a set of railroad tracks. A group of boys stands at the railing, staring over the edge. Below a freight train rumbles slowly north. The whistle competes with the sounds of gulls and idling car engines from the ferry line.
Out of habit, I sip my straw. My mouth fills with the sweet, creamy, berry-flavored drink. I expected bubble gum or cotton candy, but it tastes like a mix of raspberries, strawberries and cherries. Like all the red fruit combined into a new franken fruit berry.
Damn, it’s good.
I could probably do without the cherry. I use the straw to lift it to the opening of the domed top. Plucking the cherry between my fingers, I bite into it.
A seagull perches on the back of the bench next to me. His bright eyes stare at the stem in my hand with unabashed want. He’d probably steal my delicious pink drink if he could. As I’m about to chuck the remaining stem at him, another idea comes to me.
The thin stem is long and I wonder if I can still tie it in a knot in my mouth—a talent I discovered in junior high when we used to go to the Dairy Queen in Clinton for sundaes.
I slip the stem between my teeth. “Slow your roll, Mr. Gull.”
Twisting and moving the stem with my tongue, I focus on the task. I’m out of practice. To concentrate, I close my eyes as I slip the end through the loop.
Success!
Opening my eyes, I remove the knotted stem and show it to the gull. “See that? That’s right. Mad skills.”
“Did you just tie a knot with your tongue?” Ashley asks from behind me, making me jump.
“I did.” Embarrassed, I show her my masterpiece.
“Impressive.” She sits next to me.
“I know.” I set the stem on my knee.
“Are you keeping it? Framing it?”
“The gull’s been eyeing it and I’m not going to let him steal it.” I make my voice sound serious and add a dirty look at the bird. “I don’t like birds.”
She steals my drink and wraps her lips around the straw, then takes a big sip. “This thing is crack.”
“Analee is a genius. You need to name this thing and put it on the menu.” I attempt to grab the cup from her.
Staring into my eyes, she takes another long drag on the straw, hollowing her cheeks as she sucks.
When she releases the straw, a faint outline of pink from her gloss rings the plastic.
Struggling to maintain eye contact, I groan. A knowing smile pulls at her full lips.
“You play dirty.”
She takes another sip. “You seem to like dirty.”
I don’t have to follow her eyes to know she’s noticed the bulge in my jeans as I imagine her wrapping her lips around me. This plan of mine is going to be torture.
I steal back the cup and finish the drink, making loud slurping noises to demonstrate my thoughts about her taking my drink.
“We can make you another one, Cranky.” Her smile brightens her voice.
“I might lapse into a sugar coma, but I’ll take a raincheck.”
“Speaking of delayed gratification . . .” She trails off.
“Yes?”
“The kiss?”
I lick the sugary corner of my mouth. “What kiss do you mean?”
“The one at the party. Where you started something and then walked away. I thought you’d call. I sat by the phone waiting for you.” She’s teasing me, but there’s a hint of disappointment behind her words.
“You keep your phone attached to you at all times like the rest of us.”
“Okay, maybe I wasn’t sitting at home waiting for the phone to ring, but what gives?”
“That’s why I’m here.” I bump her shoulder. “I don’t have your number.”
“So lame.” Ashley closes and opens the fingers on her right hand. “Give me your phone.”
“Aren’t I supposed to ask you for your number and then wait three days to call?”
“I think we’re past that.”
I pull my phone from my back pocket and hand it over after unlocking it.
A small smile tugs at her lips as she taps the screen. “There. I texted myself so you have mine and I have yours.”
“Did you send me something dirty?” I take the phone back.
“You wish.”
The blast of the ferry’s horn bellowing its departure makes me look at the wait line extending uphill and out of sight.
“You’re going to have at least a two boat wait now. What brought you over to town on a Thursday afternoon?”
“You.” I go with honesty. “I didn’t really think about the day of the week or the ferry wait.”
“You’re basically screwed now. You can either sit in the line or take me to dinner. Because either way, you’ll be here for a few hours.”
“Why hasn’t anyone developed a valet system for the long ferry waits? Like a reverse Uber or Lyft? Instead of an app to have someone drive you places, there should be one where they get dropped off and wait in line for you while you walk on an earlier boat. Maybe even drive the car to your house or wherever on the other side.”
“Valet ferry service?” She sounds intrigued about my crazy idea.
“Something like that. I should write this down.”
“Logistically it would probably be a nightmare with insurance and liability. Another issue is some stranger would be driving your car.”
“Don’t destroy my brilliance with logic and rational thinking.”
“Sorry. It’s what I do. Too many SWOT diagrams with Roslyn.”
“Should I know what that is?” I’m backing my way into business with a vague plan and a dream. Ashley sounds like she knows what she’s doing with data supporting her ideas and goals.
“Strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats. A basic way to approach a project or business. You didn’t do one for the goats?”
“Not formally. My plan was more like get goats, let them eat stuff, make money. Simple.”
She laughs, but I don’t feel like an idiot. “You probably did one in your head but didn’t break it down into the four parts.”
“Sure.” I agree with her, but I’m not sure I’m that organized.
Her eyes sweep across my face and I study the ever-changing color of her irises. In the sunlight they look more deep bottle green than brown.
When she speaks, she sounds excited. “I can coach you on business organization. If you’d like and it wouldn’t be too weird.”
“Why would it be weird?” Curious, I shift to fully face her, moving into her space.
“You know. Our history.” Her excitement fades when she brings up our past. Her lashes beat against each other as she blinks nervously.
“I’m okay with it if you are.”
“What about your dad?”
“He’s more of a silent partner. The money invested is all mine, so I get the final say.”
“He’s okay with that?”
“It’s for the best for all of us if he’s not connected financially.”
“Worried about history repeating itself?” She meets my eyes.
“With you?” Yes, please.
Ashley gives a slight nod.
“Never. I’m not some dumb eighteen-year-old kid with his head up his ass. I’m not my father. You’re not your parents. We’re adults now.”
She gazes out over the water for a moment. “I don’t see any, do you?”
“Any what?” I scan the sky.
“Flying pigs.” Her smile is shy and more vulnerable than I’ve seen in years.
I bump her shoulder again with mine. “Stranger things have happened.”
“Says you.” She returns the pressure with her arm against mine with a brief nudge.
“You mentioned dinner? Were you serious?” I circle back to her comment before my random business idea.
“We both gotta eat. Plus, the baristas can close up for me. It’s good responsibility for them to have.”
“You trust them?”
“I do. If they mess up, then it’s a learning lesson for all of us.”
“When did you get to be so wise?” I almost say smart, but she’s always been smart. Definitely has the brains along with the body and the looks. She’s the trifecta. With a cherry on top.
I pick up the stem and then toss it over to the other bench.
“Hey! I thought that was my present,” she protests.
“You want a cherry stem that I’ve tongued into a knot?”
“Your tongue’s been in my mouth, so it’s kind of the same thing.”
We both stare at the stem laying on the concrete in who knows what combination of fluids and dirt.
“I’ll make you another one.”
“I have a better use for your tongue.” She surprises me with a small hop to peck my lips.
We’re going to need some rules of engagement. A SWOT of our own.
First, we need to stick to well lit, public places.
Second, we shouldn’t be alone.
Ten minutes of sitting on a bench together and certain parts of my body are coiled and ready to spring into action, not caring it’s daylight and a few hundred bored people are sitting in their cars with nothing better to do than watch us.
Nah, they’re all on their phones. She could probably straddle me on this bench and no one would pay any attention.
Damn, if I’m not tempted to test this theory.
“Are you coming?” She’s halfway back to the coffee hut.
“I wish,” I mumble, dipping my head and mentally cursing myself for setting limits.
Ashley’s smile says she probably heard me and agrees.