I smile up at him, but that unease in my subconscious grows. This is better than the nosy crowds at the festival or Mrs. Beaufort’s pearl-clutching, but even this effusive attention is more than I want.
After Sawyer orders for us, we sit at a table in front of the windows. Main Street is right outside, but the peak of Ormewood Mountain is visible from behind the buildings across the street, a deep blue in the waning sunlight.
Sawyer pops the cans he bought and slides them both tothe middle of the table. “Are you a blueberry girl or a black cherry girl?”
I look at the two cans. “I’ve never had blueberry soda, so I’m not sure.”
“Well, yeah, they only started canning it in the last five years or so, and they only distribute locally. But it’s the same one they always had at the picnics.” He turns the can so I can see the name on the label, Brume Bubbles.
Of course. Chateau Brume, the largest local winery, used to sponsor annual end-of-summer family picnics. They had finger foods, bounce houses, and water games within view of a wine-tasting tent the parents would congregate under. The winery made special kid-friendly sodas just for that weekend, often introducing a new experimental flavor alongside the regulars.
I know this because it was all anyone could ever talk about for days before and after.
I donotknow this from experience.
As an elementary schooler, I’d listen enviously when someone mentioned anything as exotic as the peach and blackberry sodas. But as I became more self-aware, it was a relief not to attend. I could just picture Dad slipping into inebriation in front of the parents of kids I had to go to school with.
“Which flavor is your favorite?” I hedge.
Sawyer’s eyes are sharp, studying me. “I always liked the black cherry best,” he answers, “but the blueberry was a close second.”
I push the black cherry toward him.
Sawyer opens his mouth to speak, but Ms. Clarke’s voice calls out from the counter, “Order’s ready!” and Sawyer gets up to retrieve our food.
I take a sip of the blueberry soda. The flavor explodes inmy mouth, and I can one-hundred-percent see why kids went apeshit for this stuff. It’s addictive. I take one more quick sip before pushing it away.
When Sawyer returns, he places baskets of fried fish, cornbread bites with honey butter, coleslaw, and potato salad on the table between us.
“Thanks, it smells amazing,” I say.
“It tastes amazing too.” He rips a piece of fish off and pops it into his mouth.
It’s borderline obscene the way his eyes close and he makes a satisfied sound. Maybe it’s the lentil soups and salads I’ve seen him bring for lunch, or the chicken and vegetables we made at his cabin, but his reaction surprises me.
“What?” he asks when I still haven’t tucked in. “Not a fan of fried food?”
“Of course I’m a fan of fried food,” I say. “I just didn’t expect you to be.”
He laughs. “I suggested it.”
“But you just moaned,” I argue.
“And?” He lowers his voice and waggles his eyebrows ridiculously. “Did you feel it in your loins?”
“Ew,” I laugh. “Don’t sayloins.”
Grinning, he pushes a basket toward me. “Try it.”
I do. It’s salty and nutty from the peanut oil and savory from the spices, with just a hint of pepper, before the buttery fish melts in my mouth. Before I realize it, I’m moaning with my eyes half-closed.
“See?”
“I didn’t doubt it,” I argue around another bite.
“You’re right, though,” he says with a smile. “Fried food isn’t my favorite.”
I point at him with my fork. “I knew it.”
