Page 26 of Wassailing We Will Go
The small mercy is that unlike the other three, he is not wearing a Speedo, though he’s likely the only one who has any business wearing one in the first place. That’s where the grace ends, however, as I am not prepared for any of the rest of it: the general lack of clothing, the close quarters (did I mention that it was not a big sauna?), the glistening sweat. I guess that was true for the other three men, too, but I’ve always spent more time trying to look away from them rather than notice any details.
There she is! Kate! says Stan. That’s Kate, right? he loudly whispers to Rick. Stan usually wears glasses but obviously does not in the sauna, so this is my usual greeting from him.
Lorenzo just smiles, and Rick says, We just met this Harrison lad here, and we were educating him about the County! He says he works for you and your aunts now? Where’s old Charlie going?
Heyyyy, guys, I say, taking all of this in. My aunts are retired, so technically, he just works for me, and Charlie is still around. Anyways, it looks pretty full in here, though, so I’ll just—
We were just leaving, says Lorenzo with his slight accent. He has a nice, earthy voice, and I’ve always found him the most reasonable of the three. However, his swimsuits are also the most European among them, so I guess that evens it out, on balance. We’ve been in here too long, and I am bored of this conversation. Time for a nap, anyway.
Lorenzo, telling it like it is. Rick and Stan seem like they would like to do some more arguing, but ultimately, without Lorenzo, they decide to split as well. Without an excuse not to, I stay, and Harrison and I are left alone. We’re awkwardly sitting as far as possible from each other inside the sauna, but that only amounts to about two feet apart.
Hey, he says. He has a small smile, but he’s sitting very stiffly, his posture too straight. Figured I couldn’t keep spending all my money on the spa every time I’m cold and was referred to this place instead. Not bad for four dollars.
I’m sorry, I blurt out. For being a jerk about your friends winning the cider award. At the time, I actually was going for sincerity, but the tone was off, and it came out jealous and weird instead.
Thanks for that, he says, and his shoulders soften a bit. It’s all just hard. I want what’s best for you and Charlie, but also for Britt and Ryan, and I hate that sometimes those things are at odds. I mean, they’re a small business, too, right?
I know. I’ll…try and be less weird about it, I say. I’m a little competitive about some things. About a lot of things. And often in competitions with people who might not even be aware that we’re competing because I have fully made up the competition scenario in my head. So.
Are we competing in any made-up scenarios? If we are, I want to know, he says. I’m competitive specifically when it comes to foot races, beer pong, Risk, the board game, and risk, doing stupid dares for fun, which I should probably outgrow sometime soon. Maybe some others, but those are the ones that come to mind.
That’s not a long list. If I did mine, we’d be here forever, I admit. I can’t imagine what it’s like to not want to win at everything, consequential or not. Earlier today, I rushed to beat someone to a stop sign for literally no reason. For a three-second right-of-way head start, I guess.
He shrugs. Honestly, I’ve always been kind of like, why bother? I’ll focus on the things I like doing and really care about and then work at getting better at those things. I dunno, maybe because I was never super great at the things my parents seem to really value, like sitting still and retaining information about things that didn’t particularly interest me and then repeating it back on demand. Thank God I really cared about learning about cider, I guess, he says. Who knows where I’d have ended up otherwise.
I strongly suspect you would have done alright. I envision a tragic alternate career for Harrison where instead of a cider maker, he’s become some sort of male model who specifically only models haute couture surfing gear.
Maybe, he says. But I’m still glad the cider thing worked out. What would you have done if you weren’t in the cider business?
Apparently, sales analysis for a supplement company. I shrug. That’s what I was doing for years in Toronto before my aunts announced their retirement. It was fine, I guess. I like this better. Even when it’s hard. Even on days when our sales are bad, or customers are rude, or when Linda calls the cops on us. At least I feel some feelings, you know? I felt like a robot before, but I don’t think that was necessarily the job’s fault.
I can’t picture you anywhere else, he says. You seem like you belong at the cidery, no matter what you’re doing. The other day, I saw you clean up a few pieces of stray garbage on the driveway, and you still looked like it was the most important thing in the world to you.
I vaguely remember doing this. A bunch of stray newspapers and bits of recycling had blown along the road in, and I had collected them all and brought them in to recycle properly. I hadn’t known at the time that I had an audience. It’s maybe a good thing that my face was already red from swimming laps and the heat of the sauna so that Harrison can’t see me blush. When I look over to him, he’s smiling at me, and it’s back to full eye-crinkled radiance, not the polite version I was getting earlier when he was clearly annoyed with me.
I didn’t realize anyone saw that, I say. Other duties as required, I guess.
I had been trying to track down Wendy to ask her something, and I remember it because I thought to myself that that was the kind of person I wanted to work for. Someone who can be in charge of a hundred people but still picks up some stray rubbish from the ground, he says.
Oh, I say. Well, you can. Work for me. As long as you want to.
I have one question, though, he says. And I realize it’s maybe a weird one to ask in a sauna in swimsuits, but here we are. Again, I guess. If I wasn’t working for you…let’s say, in this situation, I’m not even working for a cidery at all, maybe a winery or something completely different. In that scenario, could I take you out to dinner?
My chest tightens, and I can’t decide if it’s in a good or bad way. It feels like maybe good, because he’s leaning in a bit, and he’s got that two-day stubble that I’m kind of getting fond of, and I’m feeling a kind of warmth that has nothing to do with the exterior temperature. Or I’m having a heart attack from being in the sauna too long, it’s hard to say. Either way, I can’t lie my way out of this one. I just don’t have it in me.
Yes, I admit. Honestly, I was almost all in on the barbecue dinner invitation the first time, and tragically for me, I’ve only gotten to like you more since. I think the ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ karaoke rescue mission might have clinched it. I turn toward him. But we suspect Charlie’s about to announce his retirement, Harrison. And so I think a date is possibly an even worse idea than before.
The words coming out of my mouth are logical, sound. The problem is that as I’m saying them, I’m closing the gap between us until we’re next to each other, our knees touching.
Is it that bad of an idea, though? he whispers and leans in the rest of the way so that our foreheads are nearly touching. I did just say I liked taking dumb risks. Competitive about it, even. Maybe you should try and out-risk me. Bet you could win.
I laugh and tilt my head toward him, inviting him to close that last inch or so—
—and the door creaks open, and a middle-aged couple I vaguely recognize from town smile and wave as they enter, completely oblivious to the fact that I had been seconds away from fully making out in a sauna, something that would have previously horrified me.
The rush of cool air that accompanies them also reminds me that I have a bad history of fainting in these situations as well and that it’s high time I got out.
I need some air, I say and rush to leave.
