Page 5 of Wassailing We Will Go
Thank you for the ride, I say. I owe you one. If you need any recommendations for restaurants or anything while you’re here, let me know. I know a lot of the owners.
Ooh, VIP. I’ll take you up on it. Get me the best table at… He narrows his eyes to read the sign of the nearest building as we drive by it. Big Jimmy’s Barbecued Meats.
I laugh. I mean, that place is pretty great, but there are a few others I might put forward first, I say. You’re going to turn up here on the right. We turn onto the winding gravel road that leads down to my cottage, and I sort of like that he continues to use his blinker, even though there are no other cars around for miles.
No, no, only Big Jimmy’s will do, he says. “So…do you want to join me? For some barbecued meats?
I look over, surprised. The cold-blooded surfer angel is asking me to dinner. It’s been a while since I’ve been asked out, full stop, let alone by someone who could freelance as an underwear model. The lizard part of my brain that has not been on a date in several months nearly gets out a way-too-enthusiastic yes, but the professional part of my brain that has recently come back online after fainting just manages to take over instead. That part of my brain forcefully reminds the lizard part that I am going to be spending the next several weeks planning out the cidery’s Wassail events, looking over depressing spreadsheets, working out new licensing contracts, and many other vexing tasks. There is simply no time for barbecued meats or attractive Australian strangers. My lizard brain is sad but gives up in defeat.
That’s very kind, but I can’t right now. Just…really busy at work. Thank you, though, I say. Maybe I’ll see you around soon. That’s me, I say, nodding at the little wooden cottage. Earlier in the afternoon, I had strung up a single strand of multicoloured Christmas lights on the small front porch in an effort to get myself into the holiday spirit. Looking at it now, with an outsider’s perspective, I realize it looks a bit pathetic.
If Harrison is disappointed in my response, he takes it in stride. I hope we do. Last thing, though, before I go—do we want to talk about the fact that you offered me a job earlier?
Oh. Right. I did do that. A few more fuzzy memories come back to me in a rush, and I can feel my face turning red.
I’m sorry, I was very…dehydrated. Hot tubs are not my usual method of talent recruitment, I promise you, I sighed. It all just seemed…too good to be true for a moment there.
Can I at least visit the cidery? he asks. Maybe send you my CV before you shoot me down for both a barbecued dinner and a job?
I look back at him in surprise. You’d consider taking it?
He sighs. Alright, full disclosure: I’m here crashing Christmas at my mate’s house because I went through a bad breakup a few weeks ago, and Australia is very far, and spending the holidays alone was too depressing. I was planning on spending the next few weeks feeling sorry for myself, watching Die Hard and working my way through every flavour of Slickers ice cream.
I mean, it is the best, I offer.
Honestly, so good. Anyway, sorry for the whole meat-invitation thing. You’re just easy to talk to, I guess, and I’m a little all over the place at the moment. And also very dehydrated, he says with a small laugh. But all of this to say, I think working might be good for me. I was going to help out at my mate’s cidery, but they’re a small business and don’t really seem to need me. Working elsewhere seems better, something of my own to focus on so that I’m not always in their way.
I frown, now a little confused. Your friend owns a cidery, too?
Oh yeah, right down the road from you—I drove into yours by mistake today, actually. But yeah, bitter&sweet? Britt’s not as good a cider maker as me, but you know, he says with a wink. She does her best. And Ryan is a sweet guy. Do you know them?
Did I know them? How to answer this. In real life: sort of. I had met them a handful of times, the first being when they had invited me to their cidery’s grand opening. They had an adult-sized bouncy castle and a machine that made frozen cider-ritas. It was incredible. And then there were the owners themselves: glamorous influencer Ryan, a tall Asian man with the sharpest cheekbones you’ve ever seen. And then cider-maker Brittney, who seemed to always be wearing overalls but made them look couture because she’s so tall and pretty. When I got back to my car afterward, I nearly cried from how overwhelmingly great everything had been. I knew then that I really needed to step things up if I were going to keep visitors coming to Sparks. I had seen the couple around a few industry events in the months since but tended to avoid them whenever possible.
Did I know them? Online: if I told Harrison, honestly, how much time I spent looking at their various social media accounts, he would peel out of my driveway so fast that the gravel would need replacing.
Oh, I’ve seen them around, I say and look down at my hands. They seem nice. But this situation seems…messy, Harrison. I’m happy you’d consider helping us, but I don’t know if working for a rival cidery from your friends is the best idea.
Rival cidery? he laughs. So, in this situation, are you the Jets or the Sharks? They’re not like that; they’ll just be glad I’m leaving the house. They’re the ones who sent me to the spa tonight, actually. They’ll both be thrilled to hear that I’m looking into a job prospect. Sparks Cidery looked beautiful, and I’d love to work for you.
I hesitate and look up from my lap to meet his gaze. Harrison’s whole face is lit up with hopeful expectation that is full-on golden retriever. I truly think that if I put a cute little bandana around his neck, he could beat out Milo the blue heeler for social media engagement. It’s an effective negotiation tactic.
Come by tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. and see what you think, I sigh. Well, I do need a cider-making assistant.
Cheers, he says. See you tomorrow. His car remains in my driveway until I am safely inside the cottage before he drives off. I am not sure what dangers he thinks are lurking around the house I come home to every day, but it’s a cute gesture all the same.
When I go inside, I blearily eat a piece of toast with Nutella and drink another full glass of water. It feels like I went straight from tipsy to hungover in the space of an hour, which seems deeply unfair for having only consumed one and a half glasses of wine. The spa had not had the restorative effect on my spirit that I had hoped, but with a potential assistant for Charlie lined up, I suppose it was still net positive. I try to think of that as the high note of the evening, and not just the attractiveness of said potential assistant.
When I finally fall into bed, I fall asleep so deeply that even Steven’s loud snoring doesn’t faze me.
CHAPTER FOUR
NORMALLY, I TAKE SUNDAYS AND Mondays off, and as a result, I did not have a daily alarm preset for the morning. I am also a morning person by nature, and I’m bad at sleeping in—even on nights I go to bed late, I’m still up by 8:00 a.m., maybe 9:00 a.m. if it was a really wild night. So, when I wake up and see 9:27 on my phone, my first thought is confusion. My next is panic.
I remember that I had told Harrison to meet me at 10:00 a.m., and I rush to shower and get ready. I haven’t done laundry in weeks and end up throwing on my least dirty jeans and a flannel shirt. My wet hair goes into a braid that I know I’ll regret later when it comes out frizzy and weird, but there’s no time for anything else. I make the time for the world’s fastest application of the makeup basics, determined to look at least marginally better than I did last night. However, given that I was frizzy-haired, tear-stained, and delirious, the bar is low.
I feed the cat, grab a stale store-bought croissant from a container on the counter that I probably should have thrown into the compost a few days ago, and fly out the door.
The drive is typically only about fifteen to twenty minutes, but at the height of the summer tourist season, it can nearly double due to the traffic. Alternatively, it can be prolonged if you happen to find yourself behind a tractor or a snowplough in the winter. Today, I am behind one of my neighbours, who takes the speed limit very seriously and who is going in the same direction as me but determined to only go 67 km in an 80 for the entire way. I hate passing people in the County, as our poor elderly locals get honked at by speedy city tourists all the time, and it’s not really fair when they’re just trying to get to the dentist or whatever.
