Chapter Text
Letter from Marnie to Elliott
Spring 19
Dear Elliott,
How are you doing? It feels so long since our chat at the Egg Festival, and still too long until the Dance! I wish I had more chances to catch up with you and hear about all the fancy new ideas you’ve always got.
I was going through my magazine clippings the other day and found this old recipe I saved ages ago. I haven’t ever gotten around to it, but it looks like it would turn out tasty. It also gives you the chance to put some of that local produce to good use - nearly all the ingredients are crops that should be in Pierre’s right now!
I do hope that the year has been treating you well so far. It’s not my place to worry about you, but I can’t help wondering if you’re eating well. If it weren’t such a hike to get from your place to mine, I would insist on dragging you over for a good meal more often. As it stands, just know you're always welcome to drop by for dinner.
Hugs and Chickens,
Marnie
[The top left corner of the letter shows signs of a staple being torn off, as if an attachment was removed.]
Letter from Elliott to Marnie
Spring 20
Dear Marnie,
Thank you kindly for the recipe! I admit to wandering the produce aisle at times, admiring the season's bounty yet feeling unequipped to properly put it to use. While I would not consider myself a chef by any sense of the word, this recipe looks reassuringly foolproof. I will be sure to write with a review of the dish - or to simply chat if we encounter each other before then!
[A few words are scratched out. Faintly visible through the scribbles are the words “I wish”.]
I appreciate you always taking the time to check in on my well-being. I am doing very well, and perhaps the next time we speak I may have more “fancy ideas" to share, as I have been forging onwards with my novel! I will endeavor to find a chance to take you up on your invitation, when time allows.
Warm salutations,
Elliott
Elliott's Personal Journal
Spring 20
Midday
Today I may try my hand at cooking.
When I stopped for my week's groceries, the produce section was resplendent with fresh vegetables. It seems that the past two weeks or so have seen a steady stock of the best of the season’s offerings. There is little mystery about where it all came from; this is partially due to the large and highly redundant sign that Pierre installed nearby that reads, “Locally Sourced From Local Farms!” The bounty of Outskirt Farm is also evident in Adam’s recent uptick in social activity.
I wonder if the man keeps even a single parsnip for himself. With the amount of food he supplies to Pierre, on top of the amount he has been passing around to the neighbors as gifts, it seems improbable. He must be eating something, but if he gives away all that he grows, what does he have left? Is he subsisting off of sunlight and water himself?
Half the conversations I hear on the street seem to be remarking on some gift or another that came from Adam’s hands. Most are pleased, if slightly taken aback, but it seems that his gaffe with the salmonberries was not particularly unique. I would be well off if I had a dollar for each time I heard someone say, “I'll figure out something to do with it.”
He did talk with me today. A brief hello, without much else to add. He and I both were on separate errands. In fact, we hardly even stopped walking in our respective directions! I did find a moment to compliment him on the marvelous vegetables I had just been shopping for. I can even state that I felt no embarrassment about such a direct compliment - it was not to describe him, and thus I could easily excuse a hint of forwardness in pursuit of honest gratitude.
Adam’s reaction challenged that confidence. Rather than the polite nod I expected, he seemed surprised to hear me say so, almost taken aback. His steps faltered, and his brows raised in surprise. Quietly, he said, “Oh. Thank you.”
His path and mine had already begun to diverge, and in the split-second where I had to decide whether I ought to stop and turn back or to keep going, he continued onward. And so I pressed ahead as well, with an emphatic nod and a parting wave to mirror his.
As I finished my walk home, only one thought dominated my mind. He was surprised by my gratitude. Had nobody yet complimented him on the products of his work? Had nobody thanked him?
I determined that I must show my gratitude and put the vegetables I had purchased to good use. It would be an insult to Adam’s hard work if I didn't.
Luckily, the opportunity to do so had arrived in the mail just the other day. I am tacking the clipping to this diary, partially so that I can return to it later if it proves successful.
Roots Platter (Spring)
Pairs well as a side to kielbasa or pan-seared chicken, or as a vegetarian entree alongside crusty bread and green salad.
Ingredients:
2 large carrots, cut into ¼-inch rounds
2 large russet potatoes, diced into ½-inch pieces
2 large parsnips, diced into ½-inch pieces
1 red onion - finely dice ¼ and cut the rest into thin strips
Garlic - 3 cloves, finely diced (or up to 5 if you like garlic)
Fresh rosemary
Paprika
Garlic Powder
Brown sugar
Salt and Pepper
Butter
Vegetable oil
Directions:
- Preheat the oven to 450 degrees F.
- Peel and cut the carrots, potatoes, and parsnips and spread them all together onto a sheet pan in a single layer. Sprinkle on about a teaspoon each of garlic powder, onion powder, salt, and pepper, and drizzle a tablespoon or two of vegetable oil over them. Toss with your hands to coat the roots evenly in the oil and seasonings.
- Place the sheet pan in the preheated oven, on the middle rack. Bake at 450 degrees for about 15 minutes.
- While the vegetables bake, cut up the onion and garlic as indicated. Set aside the garlic and the finely diced onion - they’ll be used later. Take the thin strips of onion and toss them in just a tiny bit of oil, salt, and pepper.
- After the first 15 minutes of baking, remove the root vegetables from the oven. Add the prepared strips of red onion on top, and toss around all of the contents of the pan so that it cooks evenly. Return the pan to the oven and cook for another 10 to 15 minutes. The carrots should be tender and the potatoes and parsnips should be golden brown. Be careful to not allow the onions to burn.
- While the pan is in the oven again, heat a very small saucepan on medium-low heat. Add three tablespoons of butter, the diced garlic, the diced onion, about two tablespoons of freshly-chopped rosemary, and a half-teaspoon of brown sugar. Allow the aromatics to gently cook for about 3 minutes - lower the heat or remove the pan from the stovetop if necessary to prevent the herbs from burning.
- When the vegetables are done, remove the sheet pan from the oven. Carefully, but promptly, drizzle the butter-garlic-rosemary sauce over the vegetables and toss to coat them evenly.
- Serve and enjoy.
Same day, evening.
I followed the recipe to the best of my ability, though in my letter to Marnie I fear I may have overestimated my confidence in cooking. How is one expected to cut vegetables to such even measurements without use of a ruler to guide them? How much variation is acceptable? Is it better to leave something too large, or cut it smaller than indicated? And I will not even deign to speak on any instruction that includes the word “about”. Give me specifics or give me death!
Despite my fussing, in the end I sat down to a large plate of spring root vegetables. The faint burnt smell from the blackened edges along the smaller pieces of onion and carrot could not compete with the aroma of rosemary and garlic that had suffused every corner of my little shack. The taste was really quite good as well - there seemed to be a balance of sweet, savory, and herbal flavors where none overwhelmed the others.
It also created quite a good deal of food. Too much, I realized. Not only will I have leftovers for multiple days, I may need to eat it for every meal or risk it being lost to the relentless march of spoilage. This was a recipe written to feed a family, and I am only one man. I am just alone.
It is disheartening, at times, how easily I can be reminded of my present loneliness. It seems that nothing is safe from its grasp. Even this recipe, a gift from a friend enclosed with an offer of pleasant company, a recipe built to provide food to be shared, serves only to mock my solitude with a pile of untouched carrots.
It was delicious, though. If it takes work to remind myself of the good, the work must be done. I will want to cook it again, perhaps at a fraction of the quantity for myself, or perhaps as an excuse to ask somebody over to join me for dinner.
Spring 21
Afternoon
I had planned to write today. It was bright and sunny, and I had taken breakfast with the warm salt breeze wafting in through my windows and a sense of wonderful calm. The night before, after dinner, I had begun to sort out my notes on the plot ideas for the novel. After some time, I identified that there were three ideas that had some backbone, and many of my notes and loose scribblings could be assigned to one of the three. There is something like a renaissance-era romance, a mystery-thriller, and a fantasy adventure.
It will take much time to build a good solid idea of what the story for any of those three might be. Less helpful is the fact that in the action of sorting, I kept lighting upon new ideas that had to be noted down immediately. And then those also required sorting!
I had set out on my morning walk to stretch my legs and prepare for a day of productive work. And, who should cross my path but Sam?
I am kidding. It was, as it seems always to be these days, Adam. Nobody else comes down to the beach with any regularity, at least before the summertime.
Unlike yesterday, where our paths only crossed briefly by chance, today he seemed to have some purpose as he walked in my direction. I was happy to see him, of course, but I couldn't help but notice a flutter of nervousness. One thing I can count on with the new neighbor is that he is never predictable.
“Hey, I've been looking for you!” He said as he approached. “Got a second?”
“Of course,” I answered. “What can I do for you this fine day?”
He smiled. “Actually, the opposite. I got something for you!”
“A present?” I blinked. Somehow this surprised me in the moment, despite my observations of Adam’s gift-giving just the day before.
“I feel like I started off on the wrong foot with the last present.” He was slightly more subdued than the last time, less confident, but still smiling hopefully. “So lemme try again.” Almost bashful. I think my heart skipped a beat. Reining in my quickening pulse, I worked to put his anxieties to rest with some humor.
“Not salmonberries again, I hope?” I said with a half-smile.
He laughed as he reached into his bag. “They really oughta have some sort of list of what people are allergic to. I swear. If you’re allergic to this I think I’ll just go home and cry.”
I laughed in return. “I’m sure I’ll be moved by your tears through the throes of anaphylaxis.” Beyond anything, I was glad that he returned the jest. Maybe my previous rudeness truly was water under the bridge.
“On the upside, you can’t eat this. Or, shouldn’t, at least.” The laughter didn’t leave his face, warm eyes crinkled as he briefly shifted his attention to his gift. He pulled something from his bag, stashing it quickly behind his back. “But I do hope you like it.” With a small flourish, he revealed a paper parcel. Wrapped neatly in yesterday’s newspaper was a small bundle of daffodils.
My face fell, and a lump rose in my throat at the sight. Daffodils. Such a well-meaning gift, such a harmless flower. In anyone’s eyes, surely it would only be a sign of intended friendship. I cannot ascribe ill will to any part of it.
And at the same time, I cannot abide being gifted daffodils.
My personal reaction is my own, I am well aware. What was most important to me, in that moment, was that I had failed to hide that reaction from Adam. He wilted, the excitement draining from his posture as he still held the bundle of flowers out to me.
I had to try to salvage what I could of his feelings. My thoughts were shoved into a crate at the back of my mind to sort out later. I stretched my mouth into what I hope approximated a grateful smile rather than a grimace and accepted the parcel.
Humor. Patch things up with a little humor. A little honesty, maybe, but a laugh to soften the impact, and the moment will pass along without any bloodshed.
“Hah, daffodils!” I managed. I think I was smiling with too many teeth. “Mm. I’m not the biggest fan of these!”
It didn’t work.
“Oh.” Adam’s expression crumpled. Something in my chest twisted with a pang at the sight.
It felt as though time were frozen for the span of a heartbeat. Each of us silently took in the other’s disappointment. Then, once the assembly lines had finished their work of synthesizing the other’s disappointment into our own guilt, words spilled out. We spoke over each other in our haste to patch the rupture.
“I didn’t mean to, um, offend you, I just - I read that they’re nice gifts, and I just thought you’d -”
“No, no, I simply - it’s, well, a long story, but-”
“I’ll make it up to you, I really am sorry I got it-”
“Really, you didn’t do anything-”
“- wrong,” we finished the sentence in concert.
For a moment, I stood, torn between relief and shame. Then Adam sighed, his eyes fell to the ground in regret, and shame burned any sense of relief into ashes.
As I write this, it is difficult to say more about what happened. My face was burning with embarrassment and I fear I was rather curt in ending the conversation. In my desperation to escape my embarrassment, I strode away. I wasn’t able to meet Adam’s eyes, in that moment or for the rest of the day. I’m sure he has certainly grown in distaste for me.
I have no skill at all at hiding my emotions. I have been told I wear my heart on my sleeve, and I do not believe it was a compliment.
If only I could keep more of my heart to myself! What is a man to do, when all the world seems privy to every fleeting thought that passes into my head? I am an open book. I value these pages so highly, for being a listening ear to which I can express my thoughts plainly without judgment or reaction. This book, at least, I can close.
I am tired, and I did not write any more today. I do not think I have the heart for it tonight.
[At the end of this entry is a daffodil, pressed into the pages of the journal.]
Spring 22
Evening
Still not much progress on writing, despite my best intentions. I opened this journal in the hopes that I can dredge up some better motivation than I currently possess. My eyes do not want to focus on the page, constantly darting around to some other task that may need my attention. I am aware that no such task exists.
It is not for lack of thought that I have not written, but an overabundance. To write would be to order and prioritize. I know that I should be writing more about my new characters, my crab and my moth, to select and refine a story they could fit in. I was so excited to find them, and I spent that whole night trying to capture every errant image that crossed my mind. Pages upon pages of dialogue snippets, descriptions, the skeletons of scenes, notes on conflicts and catharsises. Catharses? Still disorganized, unstructured. Still no story.
And now, barely a few days later, I look on these notes as if someone else entirely had handed them to me. The thrill that drove me that evening is absent from me now. I think that this absence of excitement is what had kept me locked away from my pen.
It is terrifying to lose. It is a reminder that I walk a cliff's edge, constantly on the brink of falling into the same desperation of last year. For a moment, I had deluded myself into imagining myself on stable ground, and that all there was to do was to walk leisurely to my destination. I have not yet fallen. But I have felt my foot slip, heard the clatter of falling stones as the path crumbles. The void remains, and my path remains precarious.
My effort must remain steadfast or the work will never be completed.
I did not want to acknowledge this terror. Rather than open my eyes and continue picking my way down the path I had found, I simply sat in place and refused to move.
I hope that I can start anew tomorrow.
Spring 23
Evening
Still no progress. I still have not left my house since I received the daffodils on the 21st. I am nearly out of leftovers from the parsnip recipe, but I am loath to drag myself to the kitchen and make more food. This is no simple lack of motivation to write - this is something familiar, darker, and wholly unwelcome.
This is a fear. It is deeper rooted than a simple lack of ideas. I do not often like to entertain this fear. I have known its voice well for as long as I have known how to write, and these days, it is usually easy to ignore. Most of the time, it is altogether silent. But this week - or at least for the past few days - it has been louder and more cruel than it had been in quite a long time.
The fear that I am (crossed out words)[pretentious pompous purple] a terrible writer.
I know that most of my peers - nay, most of the modern world does not speak and write the way I do. I know that so much literature thrives on concise, pruned prose that effortlessly conveys great depth of meaning in the fewest words possible. I know that my writing, my speech, my mannerisms are overwrought in comparison. Overwrought mannerisms communicate to others around you that you believe yourself to be better than them. Overwrought writing in particular is not enjoyed by most, avoided by many, and actively ridiculed by some.
Nobody wants it. Nobody likes it. Nobody will like me if I keep doing it.
People throughout my life have ensured that I am not ignorant of these so-called facts. I have been helpfully reminded of them at many turns. Some are easier to dismiss than others. These others - I feel a pit in my stomach. As I lift my pen, I notice that my hand has begun to shake.
The voice of this fear speaks with familiar words, in voices I would much prefer to forget. It carries reminders of itself in lighthearted advice, in common things. It latches like a tick onto benign moments, draining the joy out of what I should, by all rights, be comforted by. It defrauds acquaintances, coworkers, friends, assuming their identities to cut deeper with its words.
Cruelest of all, this fear has started speaking with Adam’s voice.
It isolates the moments where I spoke and he didn’t understand, conjuring disgust for my opacity. It falsifies and amplifies expressions of disinterest in my ramblings, attempting to convince me that it had been there all along and I had been ignorant of his cues. The thought of explaining my story idea to him dredges images of a scoff, a look of disbelief, of words like “if that’s the kind of thing you think is good, sure.”
Do you see? I am plagued by this parasite. I curse my imagination for rendering these images so vividly. My pen is shaking such that it is becoming difficult to write.
It’s because of Adam. Not because of him. Because of the daffodils. Not because of the flowers. Because of the last time somebody gave me daffodils. Yes. Because of that.
I do not think writing is helping.
I believe I need to talk to someone. Circling these pages like a vulture is not benefiting me in the slightest. I know the root, and I am strangled by its vines, but writing it out has only served to add thorns to the stem. I cannot imagine any other reaction to sharing my work now.
I should call Leah. Of all the voices this fear mimics, it is never able to convince me of hers.
PHONE CALL
ELLIOTT TO LEAH 8:21 PM
TRANSCRIPT
L: Hello?
E: Leah?
L: Elliott? Hey! How’s it going?
E: It is… (beat, halfhearted laugh)
L: Oh boy. Not great, huh?
E: You see right through me. The past few days have been… trying.
L: Well I was just about to head out to the Stardrop, how about you meet me there and tell me about it?
E: If you are amenable, I might prefer a less lively setting tonight. Could I come by yours instead?
L: Fine by me. I have a bottle of wine here, but if you want to bring anything else by I wouldn’t say no.
E: I’ll see what I can scrounge together.
L: Sounds good.
E: Thank you, Leah.
L: Any time. I’ll see you soon, yeah?
E: Yes. See you soon.
CALL END
Leah’s Journal
Spring 23? 24? Late
Elliott called tonight and said he’d had a tough few days. I can usually hear in his voice when it’s just that the boredom is getting to him or when there’s something a lot bigger on his mind. Tonight sounded like the second thing. I set up for a night in so I could cheer him up, or at least try to.
He showed up around nine, carrying a paper bag with some plum sake and most of a box of crackers. Outside it was still a little warmer than inside, even though the sun had set. Just one more reminder that we were closer to Summer than Winter.
He took off his jacket and dropped it over the arm of the couch, landing on the cushions next to it with a deep sigh. He threw an arm dramatically over his face, letting the puffy sleeves of his shirt drape over his whole head. “What a day,” he said, cryptic as usual.
“Has it been?” I asked. I started grabbing a couple of wine glasses from the cupboards. “I hadn’t heard of anything big from out here.”
His muffled voice emerged from beneath the sleeve. “No, I suppose it would appear rather uneventful to an outside observer.”
I circled back around to the living room and handed him a glass. He sat up and accepted it.
“Well, I don’t have anything else going on. Let me get this uncorked and you can give me the scoop.”
I poured him some blackberry wine and sat in the armchair across from him.
It took him a while to get to the point. Longer than usual, and if I’m actually noticing it, that’s saying something. We talked for a while about the wine, winemaking as a profession, the types of alcohol we like and dislike. He opened the plum sake, and we tried a glass of that as well. The wine was originally a gift from Marnie, so he talked about a recipe he got in the mail, and cooking, and leftovers. He vented a little bit about his novel, and motivation, and the difficulty of cleaning up an ink spill.
None of it was what he came to talk about. I knew that for a fact.
We hit a lull in the conversation, where one topic had ended and we were just kind of nodding. I could tell he was thinking of something else to say from the way he was chewing at the inside of his cheek. I thought maybe he would go off on another tangent.
Instead, he went straight to the point.
“Do you think I’m strange?”
I’ll be honest, I hadn’t expected that question. Not an easy one to answer, either. Some days I might have joked at him, said he was the most bizarre guy I had ever met and that’s exactly why I kept him around. Some days I might have made a pun on being strange and being queer, and how us strange folk always find each other somehow. But I got the sense that that wouldn’t help tonight.
“Where’s this coming from?”
“I just…” He trailed off. I could tell he wanted to say something, but it just wasn’t coming out. He took another sip of wine, considered the nearly-empty glass, then drained the last of it. By the time he set the glass down again, he had come up with more to say. “I’ve been thinking of how I come across on a first impression. With the new farmer moving in, it seems as though some of the things I say and do… surprise him, in a way.”
It made a lot of sense when he said it out loud. When you live around the same group of people for years and years, you sort of stop thinking about what they think of you. They see you acting the same way you always do. Nothing to be surprised about, once you know what to expect. But then on the other hand, a new face can really make you self-conscious. Makes you feel like you’ve got to be careful how much you show about yourself, before you trust them.
I nodded, offering the bottle to refill Elliott’s glass. “Yeah, I get that. I still haven’t felt like I can show him any of my art either, at least until I know more about him.” I refilled my own wine glass while I was at it, though I’d only half-emptied it. “He hasn’t been rude to you or anything, has he? I’ll run him out of town if he has.”
I expected him to laugh at my joke. Not for him to tense up and break eye contact with me. “No! No, he - well, I mean, he…”
“Has he?” I sat forward.
“No… well, maybe in a sense, but not…” Elliott held up his hand, stopping me before I could jump in again. He had this uncomfortable look on his face - his lips were stretched in a thin line and his eyebrows were furrowed. “Not on purpose,” he concluded.
If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought he was trying to think up an excuse for Adam. And that’s the thing - I didn’t know any better. I knew Elliott, and I knew he was probably too polite to tell someone to their face if he’s upset. If the new guy was starting to step on toes, he’d probably just grin and bear it until it got to be too much to handle.
At which point… he’d probably call me. At the last minute. To talk about a bad day.
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. I did not feel very charitable towards Adam right then. But more importantly, my friend was not happy, and that was the more immediate issue I needed to focus on.
“Okay, not on purpose. Walk me through that. What happened?”
He sighed, and started fidgeting with his hands. “I really do think that Adam is trying to be friendly. I want to start with that. It’s just that… well, a few days ago, he gave me daffodils.”
“Oh, ew. You hate daffodils,” I said. Elliott joked all the time about how he'd vote to banish that one flower from existence if he could. It was always something he laughed about, though, and I had thought it was just an inside joke from sometime before he met me. Or maybe he just didn't like pollen or something. It wasn't ever that important.
“Quite correct,” he said, smiling a little. “But I don't think I've ever told you why.”
I paused for a beat, waiting to see if he would keep talking. It was a little odd that he didn’t. Usually he’s pretty happy to carry a conversation. There was a moment or two where he took a breath like he was going to start talking, then made a face and stopped again.
I didn't know what to do. It didn't seem like he was really ready to talk, but he looked like he really wanted to. So I went ahead and did my best to keep him from feeling awkward while he put his thoughts together, by making myself busy. I opened up the box of crackers that Elliott brought, and grabbed some of the goat cheese that Marnie had dropped off with me the other day. I put a little plate of crackers and cheese in front of him, and sat back down with a matching plate for myself.
I didn't say anything for those couple minutes. He barely moved the whole time, sitting with his head propped up on his elbow and that weird uncomfortable look on his face. But when the plate landed in front of him, he reached out for a cracker and looked up at me with gratitude.
“It really is such a foolish thing to be putting me so out of sorts,” he said. “And I am finding it hard to decide where to begin, which only makes the anticipation greater. You will more than likely be let down. The story is not worth all these dramatics.”
I sighed. “Quit being such a writer. I’m not gonna critique the plot structure of your actual life.”
Elliott nodded, not looking at me. “Right. I know. Well, the long and short of it is that I’ve gotten daffodils once before, in much less kind circ*mstances. But I should probably start from the beginning.” His eyes were unfocused, almost distant.
“I was in college. I don’t exactly remember what year, but it was at the point where I had finished the general courses, and I was taking mostly literature and writing. And, I’ve told you I dropped out, but I think around here I was still keeping my head above water well enough that I thought I could finish.”
I nodded. So far this was all stuff he’d said before.
“It was in one of those classes that I met somebody. He was well-read, and always had fascinating contributions to discussions on the readings. Sharply intelligent. I caught his attention when I quoted a stanza from the readings from memory.” Elliott swirled his wine glass thoughtfully. “We started talking. Spending time studying, then just spending time.”
“He was always making people laugh, and his sense of humor was always very quick. Sharp, almost. When I would say something I thought to be rather poetic, he would affect even more archaic speech and say something like ‘I beseech thee, speaketh in the current language!’ and get a laugh from everyone. At the time I laughed along.”
“I had already begun to dress more like I do now. I didn't own any blue jeans, and even on a casual day I wore a vest and tie. He would always ask me to dress more fun, or take me out shopping and have me try on clothes. I had a good time with that - he loved fashion and had fun putting together outfits, and I was happy that he was sharing his interests with me. Of course I never bought anything or wore it out, since none of it was my style. And of course at the time I didn't think it was a criticism of me.”
I knew my eyebrows were raising as Elliott talked. Around here he glanced at me and shot me a grim smile.
“I know, in hindsight it all seems like the clearest pattern. But in the moment, he seemed as interested in me as I was in him. His efforts to make me someone who could be better understood by the others in his life just made me think that he cared.”
He sighed, took another drink of wine, and grabbed another cracker. Instead of taking a bite, or talking more, he just kind of sat there holding it.
I grabbed a cracker to break the silence, and gave him a nudge. “What happened?”
He set the cracker back down, along with his wine glass. He leaned forward on the sofa and rested his elbows on his knees with his fingers laced together. “It had been about a semester, and I was spending more and more of my time with him. I had started to think about buying him a bouquet and asking to make our relationship official. And then one day, he gave me one.”
The way he said those words sounded like a death sentence.
Elliott finally looked up at me. “I don't suppose you know much about flower language, would you?”
“No, nothing specific at least,” I said. “You do, though, right?”
He shook his head. “I hadn't known anything about it either. It didn’t even cross my mind. I was just so happy about the bouquet, I thanked him and accepted it right away. I didn't think anything about the fact that it was almost all daffodils.” He paused, his eyes dropping back to the floor. “At least, until he stopped smiling and asked, ‘you don't get it, do you?’”
I felt my heart sink. “Oh, Elliott…”
“Apparently, daffodils convey pretentiousness, self-obsession, narcissism, matching the flower's Classical namesake.” He took a deep breath. His words were getting more academic, his tone more controlled. It didn’t quite cover up the faint quaver that crept into his voice. Still, he pressed on. “To top it all off, there was even a tag on the bundle with the specific cultivar - the Poet's Narcissus.”
He made a little sweeping gesture at himself. I could tell that he meant to indicate his old-fashioned outfit, his ruffles and lace and buttons, his long hair - the signs of a pompous poet. It didn’t even register. All I could see was the face of my best friend in more pain than I had ever seen from him.
“The whole time, he had been getting more and more irritated with the way I talk and dress. He thought I was pretentious, and vain, and vapid, and a caricature of what a real writer should be. All of the times he joked about my speech, or tried to buy me clothes, he has been trying to make me change myself to fit what he thought was normal. But I didn't change, and he took that as a personal insult. So to cap it off, he thought the only thing I would understand is a message as antiquated and pretentious as I was.”
He let out a breath, and for a second I thought he had more he was going to say. He didn’t.
I slammed my glass down on the coffee table and stood. I didn’t have anything I could say. All I could do was march over to the sofa, crash down next to Elliott, and wrap him in the tightest hug I could manage.
He folded around me like a puppet with its strings cut, returning the hug like I was the only thing keeping him upright. His cheek rested against my shoulder, and when he breathed in I could feel the rattle of a sob that he didn’t let out.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I said. “That was f*cking cruel. Plus, he was wrong. You’re the coolest person I know.”
The best Elliott could manage was a sniffle. I squeezed him tighter for a moment, then broke out of the hug. He stayed propped up against my side, slouched over so that despite our difference in height, his shoulder touched mine. Eventually, he said, “It gets to be so much easier to believe that I am just playing a character that the world is sick of by now.” He fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve, tracing his fingertips over the gathered fabric. “A few times now, I’ve come close to throwing it all out. Buying something more normal.”
“Why did you stick with it?” I asked.
“Because I loved it.” The words were so quiet I almost couldn’t hear them. “Anything else I wore, any other way I tried to speak, it didn’t feel anything like myself. I wear this –“ he grasped a handful of his shirt over his heart – “and I’m me.”
“Even though he made you feel miserable about it?”
He let out a shaky laugh. “I was already miserable. I had already lost him. If I gave up the last scraps of what made me feel like myself, I wouldn’t have had anything left.”
“So why does it matter now?” I asked. “He was an absolute bastard, and you’re better off for him having f*cked off to be terrible somewhere else.”
He did smile at that, just a little. “Now, why does that sentence sound familiar? Plagiarism, Leah?”
I crossed my arms and smiled back. “Just because you said it about Kel doesn’t mean I mean it any less right now.”
“My worst enemy. My own advice.”
“Seriously, though. It was years ago, and he’s not around. Why is it still something you’re worried about?”
“Because…” He hesitated. “Because what if it wasn’t just him? What if I really am just too odd for anyone to love? I don’t have much evidence to the contrary.”
“You have me.”
“I know, but that isn’t love in the way I meant.”
I couldn’t let that stand. I sat up and grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him at arm’s length and forcing him to look in my eyes.
“Listen. I could be married, living way out in the desert or something, and you could be married and off on some fancy mountain, and we could only communicate by smoke signals and carrier pigeon. And I would still love you just as much as I do now, because you’re my best friend. And there’s no getting out of that deal, strange or not.”
He pulled me into another hug. Shorter this time, and less tearful, but still with as much force as he could put into it.
“I wouldn’t dream of getting out of it,” he said. “Thank you.”
I took a deep breath as we broke apart. Then my eyes landed on the little calendar on the back wall, and something clicked into place. I chuckled. “You know what else you’re not getting out of?”
“There’s something else? Good God, Leah, you’re merciless.”
“No, you goof. The flower dance is tomorrow.” I peered at the clock. “Or maybe today.”
He groaned and sunk down into the sofa. “sh*t. That’s right. Bright and early.”
“C’mon. Lemme get you some water. You want to crash here or head home?”
“I should go home, I would have to anyway to pick up the outfit.” He groaned again, peering out the window at the night sky. “Of all the days I wish I could skip a festival.”
I grimaced. “You know I’ll have to be there too. We’ll suffer together.”
He smiled and picked himself up from the sofa. “Well, if we must suffer together…” In a very smooth motion, he picked up a cracker, got down on one knee, and presented it to me like a formal proposal. “Leah, would you care to dance with me tomorrow at this oh-so-important event?”
I laughed. I took the cracker and answered, “I definitely would.” I ate it, and when he spiraled into an ornate bow, I almost covered him in cracker crumbs from laughing.
Anyone who can’t see how much fun it is to be over-the-top must not have any sense of fun left in their shriveled-up souls.
Elliott's Personal Journal
Spring 24
Afternoon
Last night was difficult. It took enough out of me to experience, though speaking through it with Leah was a relief and a comfort. I would prefer not to relive it through recording it in full here. I am certainly not at risk of forgetting it.
Today I attended the Flower Dance. When I first woke this morning, my first thought was that I wished for the ordeal to be over with as quickly as possible.
I had spent the entirety of the night before re-examining some of the memories I care least to claim, picking off the beliefs that clung like barnacles onto the rest of my self-perception. I felt drained, wrung-out, tender like a fresh bruise. The last thing I wanted was to put on a scratchy suit in a color that does not suit me one bit, stand in front of the entire town, and perform a historical line dance.
And yet I could not find it within myself to not attend. I had promised Leah. At the appointed time I found myself ironing the wrinkles from my fanciest linen shirt, running a brush through my hair, and pulling the sky-blue blazer from its garment bag. All the while, my thoughts churned like a stormy sea.
With the previous night's confession came some clarity, sunlight breaking through an overcast sky. The mocking thoughts were not gone, of course, but they were quieted. Easier to ignore, easier still to disprove. Swept past my attention on the prevailing wind. However, that made what lay beneath them much, much more difficult to deny.
I will write it here. Here, and no other place. Even with that reassurance to myself, I feel myself stalling. My pen does not want to write it.
I have a crush on Adam.
It is the only explanation for the past months. How much he occupied my thoughts, how my inspiration seems tied to my meetings with him, how the daffodils dredged up such intense emotions when I had passed many unremarkable Springs leaving that stone unturned.
While I can admit it, I am not thrilled at this admission. It is not as though I want to start a relationship with him. I have known him for less than a season, after all! I feel as though we are barely acquainted, not even friends yet. I had so dearly wanted more friends. Leah is fantastic, but a single person carrying the burden of my highs and lows is not a fair arrangement. I had hoped to spend just as many casual evenings at the Stardrop with Adam, laughing over drinks and learning how life looks through his eyes. Now with the tint of this infatuation coloring my thoughts, that friendship seems only to be a step on the pathway towards partnership, not an end result in and of itself.
I feel terrible for having such an obsession with him. There, I admit it. I am obsessed. I feel like I am back in high school, swooning hopelessly over the unattainable class heartthrob. I thought I had matured beyond such a childish thing as a crush. It is downright embarrassing!
I see his arms and I want to know how it would feel to be held by them. I see his hands and I imagine them cradling my face. His eyes crinkle when he laughs, and I feel like I am drowning.
How am I to approach him normally? How am I to build a friendship if I am constantly working to contain these thoughts?
And that is not even considering Adam’s perspective, which is arguably more important than any thoughts of my own. What does he think of me? I am present in his life only as passing greetings, brief salutations, and rejected offers of friendship. I would not be surprised if he would take quite a while longer to warm up to the idea of being friends. From there, romantic interest is an entire separate continent to reach. I have no sense at all of if he is interested in men, let alone if he would be interested in me.
These ideas occupied my attention so thoroughly that I barely noticed the walk from my little shack to the far side of the forest. By the time I arrived, though, a new thought had presented itself. A terrible little voice in my head informing me of an option. It was not a good option. It would not help with my goal of friendship. However, it may have quickly and efficiently informed me of any potential romantic inclinations Adam may hold.
There I was, at the Flower Dance. While the current interpretation of the event emphasizes friendship and connection, the historical romantic implications were still blaring. If I asked Adam to dance, I could cut through months of cautious advances and know what he thinks here and now.
I want to know Adam better, but this event is far from the place to kindle this relationship from scratch. Not in this town, not in this season, not at this festival. There are better places to build familiarity in a dance, and surely better times. A crowded night at the Stardrop, setting down a drink to spin him in a lighthearted twirl to the tune of the jukebox, the din and bustle shielding us from view. The sand shifting under our feet at the Luau, moving with the crowd to the beat of the eardrum-splitting bassline. Connections that speak in a different language than words can convey. There could be many chances for a dance that holds no obligation of anything further.
The Flower Dance is not the same. Asking a person to join you in the Dance is a claim - this person is close to me, and no other is closer. It is not a dance to explore your interest in somebody, it is an announcement that some relationship already exists. It carries meaning. And beyond the symbolic origins of the event: it is strikingly and unavoidably public.
It feels good to say, though. I want to know Adam better. I do think I could be close with him in the future. I am not close yet, at least not today. But… the thought of dancing in the Stardrop is something I hope to have. I want to be closer with him. Maybe, if the stars align, this childish crush may have the chance to find reciprocation, and strike out beyond the shallows of infatuation.
I could even imagine that I could fall in love with him.
Not today.
I physically shook my head as my mind started chasing phantoms of imagination into the rabbit-holes of fantasy.
These were thoughts of someday. The hazy, ever-shifting future. Not today.
Today, I was standing in a grassy meadow surrounded by flower arrangements, wearing a stiff blue suit that never felt as though it fit exactly as it should.
Adam arrived on the early side today, even before some of the other neighbors had. My heart lifted to see him taking the time to have long conversations with Robin and Marnie. Each time I spotted him in the crowd, he seemed to be laughing. Whether he was bantering easily with Evelyn, lingering to window-shop at Pierre’s stand and heckling him about the prices, or getting tagged “It” in a surprise admission to Vincent’s game of tag. Always laughing.
My heart melted. Each time, without fail, I felt myself drawn in by the sound.
Not today. This is not the time to say anything.
I had to keep telling myself so, holding my thoughts to task like a cat owner with a spray bottle of water.
I tried to keep my focus on the rest of the event. The warm weather, the lovely flower arrangements, the lighthearted conversation with Leah. Well, as lighthearted as either of us could be under the sleep-deprived circ*mstances. Anything but this unhelpful focus on Adam.
Not today. You will have chances in the future. Someday. Not today.
And then Adam found his way to me. He waved me over to the side, and with a quick nod to Leah, I stepped away to join him.
I found myself talking about something inconsequential. My shirt, I think. I had begun to notice more and more how the arms of the suit jacket did not quite fit well, and there was very little else in my mind. But this was not an event to complain! This was a celebration, highly formal, and strictly bound by tradition. It would not do to criticize the dress code. I did wear a nice shirt. That must be fine to talk about.
Part of this difficulty was the fragment of my attention, small but persistent, that demanded I throw tradition and convention to the wind and simply ask Adam to dance. No matter how often I batted it aside, it remained.
“Have you done this all before?” Adam asked, gesturing to my rather neon attire.
You could ask him.
“I have, yes. Though the first two years I lived here, I did not participate.”
Not today. I barely know him.
“Oh yeah? Not much of a dancer, or…?”
Just ask him.
“No, no, I do enjoy dancing! More that I hadn’t settled into the community enough.”
Not today. You’ve already told Leah you’d dance with her, would you rescind that for someone you just met?
“So settling in - does that mean you’re close with someone?”
Ask, what’s the harm?
“Yes, of course, Leah is my best friend. But if you’re asking if she and I are partners, that answer is no.”
Pushing too hard could drive him away. Not today.
“Then, would you want to dance with me?”
The air froze in my lungs.
Everything ground to a halt.
A million thoughts crowded into my head, drowning out rationality and blurring into a haze of white noise.
Luckily enough, that militant, autonomous watchman taking its shift in my mind had practice enough to respond to this sort of challenge.
Before I even had an instant to process the shock, much less weigh the social consequences, assess the implications, decide how my response might impact on our relationship and our standing in this town, an answer was already falling from my tongue.
“Excuse me… Not today.”
