Soft, melodic, and slightly off-key, Fern’s singing greeted him before he reached the open doors to his studio. She was engrossed in her task and singing along to “Big Yellow Taxi,” but then again, who wouldn’t be? Swiping her brush around, she dotted sprigs and sprays of purple, looking completely at ease. Elliott leaned against the doorframe, the early evening air warming his back while she heated him from within.
Fern was... wonderful. Like him, unlike him, it didn’t matter. They complemented one another, and she fit in his life. He wanted to waltz over and kiss her happy mouth, but he didn’t have it in him to interrupt her creative process. Eventually, at a break between songs, he knocked on the open door.
“Wanna eat or keep painting? I’m down to start a new project if you’re not ready to head in.”
Her eyes crinkled at the edges with each word he spoke. While grabbing the brush from the magenta underglaze, she said, “I’m... One second.” Four precise dots later, she dropped her brush into the sink with the others and announced, “All done. Want to come see it?”
He crossed to her side and leaned in. “Would you look at that?”
She’d decorated the platter with a circle of florals in all colors of the rainbow. Their slender stems grew in from the rim, each flower a slightly different height, a different color, a different design than the one before. The center was blank, awaiting a candle, a vase, a wheel of brie, maybe a loaf of bread.
The back of her head bumped his chest, and Elliott realized just how close he’d gotten in his perusal of her masterpiece. “Your talent is unreal, Fern,” he murmured before tugging gently on one of her pigtails. “Wanna go eat?”
She did, so they cleaned up, washed up, and went inside.
“Are youkiddingme? This is amazing,” she gushed, standing on her stool’s footrest to get a full, bird’s-eye view of the tray he pulled from thefridge.
Fern had to stop with the compliments, or his chest was going to burst. Yeesh.
It was a pretty good spread, though. He’d pre-packed a bong, surrounding it with a variety of cheeses—hard and soft—olives, crackers, and crostini. And there was a complementary bottle of wine.
With her lips parted and nostrils flared, she stared quietly at the display, like she was exhaling private words and breathing them in again before he could make sense of the silence.
“Shall we begin with our first course, a sip of finely chilled smoke?” he asked in a shitty British accent.
Blinking back to the moment, she grinned and agreed, so he handed over the bong and grabbed the balsamic glaze to finish their pizzas.
Her hit was long and slow, and she held it in while passing the piece over. Maybe it was his fault for wiggling his hips to the music while he took a big rip—but she laughed, which turned into a cough, which turned into a mild fit.
“Are you all ri—” Elliott’s throat caught on the question, and he coughed once, harshly. “Fuuuu—” The fit got a hold of him, and he doubled over, hacking and laughing, which didn’t help him stop at all.
When he glanced over, he found her cracking up. Pounding her chest with tears streaming down her face, she mimed taking a drink.
He nodded and grabbed them water. Their eyes met over their mugs as they sipped, and he had to spin away until his breathing evened out and he turned toward her again. “Are you all right?”
“Of course.” Fern glanced up and offered a lopsided smile before taking another sip, her eyes slowly going wide. “I’m wicked high now. What were we talking about?”
“Same. And I have no idea.”
She beamed, grabbed herself a hunk of cheddar, and pushed off the kitchen island, floating away toward the shelves across the room.
Grabbing a knife, he cut the pizzas, parsing his thoughts while she explored. This was the greatest date of his life, and he wanted to say something to that effect. But… did she know it was a date? Fuck. Did she still think he wasn’t interested in a relationship? Double fuck.
Fern saved him from having to figure out what to do when she called, “Do you listen toonlysixties and seventies rock?”
Was there a wrong answer here? She’d known every song on his playlist; clearly, it was her era too. But he did expand his horizons every so often.
“What else do you like?” she asked from across the room as she dragged her fingers down one of his earliest vases, lumpy and warped; it had sentimental value, but it wasn’t pretty. “You must have wider interests. I’ll brave the guilty pleasures conversation if you won’t.”
He laughed, grabbing his water and heading her way. Hedidlike other music—who didn’t?—but the stuff he did like was admittedly corny.
“I also like early eighties music,” she offered.
“Madonna?”
“Nope. Stuff out of London, mostly.” Fern moved down the shelf to look at a collection of whimsical bud vases he’d made, each one styled after a tree near his home. “Can I touch?”
“Yes. And what, like, the Smiths?” Watch, she was going to be intocoolmusic. Stuff he could never quite vibe with.
