Page 25 of Tributary

CHAPTER TWENTY

Asa

I SPEND MY afternoon in meetings with Rose Mitchell at Oak Creek College. The faculty I’ve sponsored are doing some pretty amazing shit. But what really surprises me are the ideas I hear around town.

I feel like a local walking back toward my house. I drop in at the little market on Main Street to grab some food and the woman at the counter ushers me around the store until I have three reusable bags full of snacks I never heard of and tiny packaged meals that seem mostly to be made from kale. Along the way, Mary Pat talks about her social media ideas and promotions at the co-op. The town people are cooperative owners, who volunteer there periodically. She also sells products on consignment to support local small businesses, like the witch hazel astringent Diana makes. I get lost in her passion for the business and don’t even realize when she walks me outside.

The whole town feels charming and homey. Even though I’ve lived in the same part of New York City my entire life, the storefronts keep changing. The flood of people makes it impossible to stop and say hello, even if I do see someone I recognize. Here, I get a hearty handshake from Matthew the solar engineer, and he helps me carry my stuff while he asks if I’ve got solar panels installed on the house he somehow knew I just bought.

By the time I get home, it actually feels like that: home. Once I catch up on email and finish with paperwork, I look around my new digs. I’ve bought a few of these crash pads—I’ve got a place in San Francisco, a penthouse in Chicago, and a brownstone in Boston. I can’t even remember the addresses on most of them, let alone piece together positive memories there. Here, with the window cracked open, I can hear the bubbling water of Oak Creek flow past my backyard.

I can see a neglected rose garden from the previous owner that will, no doubt, bloom fantastically in a few months. And I feel surprised by the urge to be here and see it. This house, this town, and these people feel like home to me in a way I’ve never experienced. They’re interested in talking to me, not finding out who my father golfs with or which club my mother joins.

I pop my organic, grass-fed freezer meal in the microwave and change into sweats, stripping out of my button-down. The new couch still has the plastic on from delivery, and I rip that off before sinking down into it. The absolute decadence of watching reality tv in leisure clothes is so addictive, it’s dark outside before a sound jolts me back to reality.

I hear a horn honking outside, persistently. The singularity of it delights me at first. A single horn! At home, the cacophony of honks persists around the clock in all corners of Manhattan, and I would never notice an individual car horn. Here, it is clearly an anomaly and I wonder which of my neighbors is failing to come outside and acknowledge their ride. It beeps for several minutes before I finally stick my head outside to see what all the ruckus is about.

An electric car is parked at the curb and I can hear a rash of giggles from inside the vehicle. There seems to be a commotion inside, and I approach the driver side, curious. Squinting in the street light, I see the car is filled with women and…I see Abigail Baker in the back alongside Diana.

The driver slides her window down and leans out of the car. “Hi there!” She says, cheerfully. “I’m Indigo from the Inn! We haven’t met yet but I know you have a magic tongue.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Indigo! I hate you!” Diana screeches from the back seat as my chest swells with pride. She definitely talked about me to her friends. I notice Diana struggling with the door and I reach for the handle to help her.

I give it a tug and she tumbles out into my arms, a mess of hair and beer breath and soft, worn denim. I’m in no hurry to set her upright on the sidewalk, keeping my arms around her waist as she finds her feet. Indigo leans out of the car again. “Diana here needs a hand getting home. Would you be a dear and help her? By the time I drive Abigail up the street, it’ll be way past my pregnant bedtime.” She flutters her eyelids at me as Sara shakes with laughter in the passenger seat.

Diana growls and tries to stomp down the sidewalk, but I reach for her arm as she trips on the uneven pavement. “I would be happy to see her home safely,” I say, grinning.

“Thanks! Use a condom!” Indigo cackles and peals out, driving up a block before screeching to a halt in front of Hunter and Abigail’s house. I can hear all of them laughing as they help Abigail inside, but Diana is struggling in my arms and I need to focus.

“Look, let me just grab some shoes and I’ll walk you home,” I say.

“You’re not coming to my house,” she mutters. She tries to blow her hair out of her eyes and mouth, but it seems sticky and tangled and she just keeps puffing at it uselessly.

“Want to come in for a glass of water then? I think I have glasses…”

“Ha!” She starts up the walk toward the front door. “Of course you wouldn’t even know if you have glasses.” She strides right inside and huffs, looking around. She stumbles into the kitchen and puts her mouth under the faucet for a good long while. She stands and wipes her mouth with her wrist as I stare at her. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted the Espenshade house for myself?”

“I take it this is the Espenshade house?”

She scoffs. “I didn’t even realize Mr. Espenshade was looking to sell. He must have snuck off to Arizona to live with his grandkids in the dead of night.” She runs her hand along the counter. “How did you slither in and buy this place so fast?”

I shrug. “I pay cash.” She doesn’t say anything, and I walk around beside her to grab a glass from the cupboard. I fill it with cold water from the fridge door and hand the glass to Diana.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice softer. She drinks for awhile and we make eye contact. The hair on my arms rises and I can feel the electricity between us. I have no idea why she’s so fired up, but I love this about her. I love almost everything about her.

“I keep trying to hate you,” she says, leaning back against the counter, plunking the empty glass in the sink.

“How’s that working out for you?” She shrugs. “Did you ever plant the hops?”

Her eyes brighten at that. “I did,” she says. “And they’re fabulous. Didn’t I show you today? They’re in my grow room. I’ve got something special aging from them right now, actually. It’ll be ready in May…I guess I should send you a bottle.”

“Seems fair,” I say, risking the chance to reach out and tuck her hair back behind her ear, smoothing it back behind her shoulder. “Or I could come back and drink it with you here.”

Diana is quiet for a minute. I enjoy the chance to just stand with her, peacefully. I can feel a charge between us, pulsing, but she seems so hesitant behind her glassy eyes.

“I never thought you’d help dig a chicken grave,” she says, letting me play with her hair, her breath quivering a bit as I keep running my fingers through her wavy locks.

“I never thought I’d get so turned on watching a woman slaughter a bird,” I tell her. This time I let my hand rest on her shoulder, moving my body closer to hers. I let the heat build between us until I see her shiver. But I know she’s drunk, and I can’t do anything more than I am right now. “Will you let me walk you home? I want to make sure you get back safely.”

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