Page 20 of Wassailing We Will Go
Hm, might be oversaturating it, but we can try. If it slows down, maybe we alternate weeks? says Daniel.
Yeah, good call, Dan, I say, which earns me an absolutely scathing glare from Daniel.
Alright, tomorrow’s Friday. Hopefully another big day, I say and get caught in a yawn. See you guys tomorrow. Thanks again for tonight, Harrison. Great MCing.
He holds his ginger ale up in acknowledgment. Anytime. It was fun. I’m also amazing at weddings, for the record. And once, I—
Hey. So, uh— We all turn to see that Rodney has reappeared, looking sheepish. My car is out of gas, he says. Can you give me a ride home, Daniel?
Daniel looks crestfallen. Ugh, Rodney, you live in Belleville, he groans. Belleville is actually not that far, maybe about thirty minutes. Honestly, everything in the County is about thirty minutes.
I can drive you home, I say to Harrison. The thought entices me for a few reasons: one, I have thought about my last drive home with Harrison more than I care to admit and the possibilities that were there if I had done anything differently. Second, I have a very nosy desire to see what the owners of bitter&sweet’s house looks like.
Oh, cheers, he says and drains his glass of ginger ale. Daniel looks to me with one last look of sadness, but I’m not volunteering to drive his weird cousin home. I simply am not that good a person.
I grab the two glasses and bring them to the dish room, and when I return to the restaurant, Harrison is bundled up and ready to go. I throw on my own scarf and jacket, which is a tasteful black peacoat rated for weather about thirty degrees warmer than Harrison’s. We lock up and walk through the parking lot, where his PT Cruiser and my mid-priced SUV are now the only vehicles. Some wet, chunky snow is starting to fall, and beside me, Harrison shivers.
He sighs. I wish the long-underwear situation had gone down differently. It’s so cold again.
Was BC that much nicer? I ask.
Not where I was, but I only moved to BC when winter was wrapping up—this is my first Canadian winter. The UK and France got cold, too, of course, but here, it just really seems to get right deep into you, he says. I feel like I will never have enough layers.
It’s a wet cold here, I say, as we get to my car. Here. I remove my dark green wool scarf and drape it around his neck. He smiles and gives it a wrap around.
It’s made of local wool from an alpaca farm. Organic fibres only, I laugh. Nothing that should get you back in the ER. But if it turns out you’re allergic to alpacas, I don’t know what to tell you.
This is really nice, he says, and he looks less happy than I would have anticipated, given that so far this evening, I have seen him get absolutely hyped over: 1. receiving a plate of free sweet potato fries. 2. seeing a dog in the parking lot wearing a coat. 3. when Greg gave him a fist bump after his performance (legends recognize legends, mate).
I start the car and automatically turn the heat on high. The radio is playing Christmas music, and with the snow, it’s all starting to seem very festive.
I can’t take your scarf, he says, looking back to me. It’s too nice.
I know the alpaca people. We’re friends. I get a special deal on all of my alpaca products, I say. This is actually true. Stephanie, one of the owners of said alpaca farm, is in my book club, and she’s a very kind woman who makes amazing cinnamon buns that only sometimes have stray alpaca fur on them. She also has a toddler daughter named Hazel, who is so cute that she made me reconsider my stance on kids entirely, going from nope to I can be in the room with them sometimes and enjoy it to okay, fine, I see the appeal.
Also, I add, it’s a gift, for rescuing me in the face of a karaoke performance that I was in no way prepared to give.
Ah, well, that was my pleasure, he says. And I aspire to someday also be friends with the alpaca people.
I’ve invited them to our end-of-year Wassail party, I say. Maybe then.
At this, Harrison grimaces. Right, about that. I am sorry, I know you hate this—but Ryan wanted me to ask if you had thought about moving it so that we can do a joint party thing? He mentioned he saw you the other day.
I groan. I know they’re being nice and don’t mean anything by it, I say carefully. But it’s been our thing for years. It’s tradition. All the locals come to it.
They don’t want to take that away from you, he says, and I can tell he’s treading carefully, too. They just want to show their appreciation to the community for giving them such a warm welcome.
Too warm a welcome, I think moodily—and unfairly, I can admit to myself. They’re allowed to be successful. It doesn’t make them bad people to have opened a business that people like. But it also doesn’t mean they can take my end-of-the-night tour spot. I pull out of the parking lot and pause before turning onto the county road.
I’m sorry, I say. This just means a lot to me. Does it? Or am I just being stubborn? I see Harrison wince—less, I think, because of a personal stake in the situation and more because he has to be the bearer of bad news. He sighs.
You were maybe right about my position being a little difficult with the two cideries. I mean, Ryan and Britt are super nice! And you’re great! But…they’re going to be disappointed. But I also see your point. So—he shrugs—I don’t know where that leaves me.
Well, for starters, I need to know which direction to turn, I say. We’ve been idling at the end of the cidery driveway for a full minute with no traffic.
Oh, sorry, left. This is a thing for us, I guess, he says, and a bit of a smile has returned.
I think we just need to keep the lanes divided, I say. You’re here to make cider, so there’s no reason we need to even have this conversation. Ryan has my business card somewhere; he can text me to talk about this. I’m not scary.
