Dave looks down at the plate of dried mealworms. The man at the pet store assured me they’re thecrème de la crème of duck treats. And while I promptly lostmyappetite when I arranged them on the plate, pet-store-man seems to know his stuff, because Dave’s little feathered tail is beginning to wag.
He takes two cautious steps forward. Glances at me, then the worms, like he thinks this is some kind of trick. When I remain still, he steps right up to the plate. His wings flutter. His tail wags harder.
Then, with a delighted chirp, he descends on the meal, absolutely demolishing it.
I watch in morbid fascination until he’s done two minutes later. Then the real test begins. I grab my keys and swing the door open wide. “Come on. We’ve got to go to work.”
He stares at me from behind the empty plate, and for a moment, I think my plan’s an utter failure. But then he slowly starts waddling toward me, making his way out the door and to my car in the driveway.
God bless you, pet-store-man.
Grayson’s only been gone eighteen hours, but Dave has already made it incredibly clear how unhappy he is to be stuck with me—refusing to get in Amanda’s car to come home last night, then refusing to enter the house, then refusing to shut up while I tried to eat. So after dinner, I drove two towns over to acquire my bribe.
The ridiculousness isn’t lost on me. I’m aware this is a wild bird, who can surely survive on its own in Grayson’s absence. I could leave him outside, or let him hang at the house while I’m at the farm. But I told Grayson I’d take care of Dave, which means keeping the duck happy, fed, and in his normal routine so he doesn’t throw a tantrum and destroy everything within sight. Or me.
I double-check that I have more worms in the trunk for later, then let Dave hop in the passenger seat before buckling myself in. The drive to the farm is sleepy and quiet, dawn just blooming in the sky.
It’s the only moment of peace I have the entire day.
From the second I arrive, work is certifiably insane. With Grayson out, Steve away, and only one Amanda in existence, I’m covering tours with Kenny and helping with the table at tomorrow’s festival, which is an hour-drive away. While I might not be a farmer, I’ve been on enough tours to have the script memorized, and I know how tospeak well and smile at people. The team agreed to the plan when Amanda asked them last night, and even grumpy old Mark gave us awhatever-the-fuck-you-want-to-dogrunt—though that probably had less to do with his belief in me and more with his hatred for small talk with the public.
Between my regular marketing work, three tours, and festival prep, I’m dragging my feet to the car when the day ends, Dave waddling behind me as he digests more worms.
I’m effectively beat, but not in a way I know. My eyes aren’t fried from computer screens, my back isn’t sore from sitting, and my head doesn’t hurt from fielding asinine feedback or overdramatic “emergencies.”
This is an exhaustion born from sun, sea, and conversations. It’ssatisfied. A tiredness that has me content rather than stressed as I drive to Grayson’s, where a call with Suzanne is waiting—which will undoubtedly invoke all that stress I’m missing out on.
Monday’s interview is only three days away, and she wants to rehearse my responses. I should be eager to practice, but right now, it feels as appealing as rush-hour traffic in Boston.
I’ve just pulled into the driveway when my phone rings. It’s five minutes to six—our scheduled call time. Suzanne must be eager to tear my responses apart.
But when I look at the screen, it isn’t her.
It’s Grayson.
My chest jolts.
Not an hour has gone by where I haven’t thought about him. I’ve been fighting the urge to contact him all day—to ask how Dawson’s doing, howhe’sdoing. But I haven’t sent a message or tried calling, because he’s with his brothers and I don’t know if…if hewantsto hear from me right now.
I’m not his girlfriend. I don’t thinkfriendis the rightword, either. We’remorethan casual, and I’m worried sick, but…I just don’t know if I’m the person he wants to talk to in the midst of an emergency.
Though as I stare down at the screen, I wonder if his call means Iam.
Or maybe he’s just calling to check on work.
“Hi,” I answer softly.
“Hey, Boston.” His voice is tired and drawn, enough for me to wonder if Dawson took a turn for the worse. I steel myself for bad news.
But a thread of good-natured humor seeps into his tone as he asks, “Have you tried selling my duck to a restaurant yet?”
I glance over at said duck, who’s very politely sitting in his assigned seat. “No takers, unfortunately.”
A soft chuckle comes over the line. “Really, is he giving you a hard time?”
“It took a little adjusting, but we’ve…reached an agreement.”
“Are you bribing him?”
