August
Emerson shouldn’t be here.
It was the height of summer: every day a harvest, every hour something to do. He could almost hear them talk, even from nineteen miles away, the strawberries nestled in the soil, the tomatoes just starting to ripen, the almost-wilting greens, all coalescing into a reprimanding murmur:
You don’t have time for this.
Emerson knew it.
Yet here he was. Sitting alone at the bar anyway.
Even if he had somehow had the time, a single drink made him too sluggish these days for what the early mornings demanded. He knew this, too.
But Ben had texted a few hours ago, something about color schemes and vibes. It was one of Emerson’s weeks without Daisy. And after Jansel had left for the day, Emerson had started to feel a bit panicky. A bit lonely.
And somehow or another, he’d wound up here.
He felt half daring about it, if he was being honest. Making the irresponsible decision. Choosing distraction over wallowing. Choosing a different way to wallow, at least. He almost wanted to text Jay to tell him.
No, he definitelywanted to text Jayden. See? I’m part of the world.
But he didn’t.
And that made him feel strong. Sort of. Strong wasn’t the right word. Whatever strong in a sad kind of way was.
But anyway, the beer tasted good.
So he wasn’t going to text Jayden tonight, or stress about Ben’s wedding, or think about anything related to Short King Farms and the entire mess it had made of his life. He was thinking about the pint in his hands, the glass cold against his sore palms. He was thinking about the bartender sashaying back and forth behind this bar, wrists strong as he poured and mixed, as he leaned forward to wink at every patron who ambled up to his domain. He made every server who picked up an order from the counter laugh. He was a light in the world, this brave twink bartender of the mid-Oregon Coast, and watching him work made Emerson somehow want to cry.
Emerson was thinking about maybe getting really fucking drunk.
“Probably not the best idea for what you need.”
Startled, Emerson turned to the man who’d apparently sat next to him. Who…well. Was one of the most attractive men Emerson had ever seen.
His dark hair was shorn close to his head. His eyes were equally dark, as was the shadow of stubble along the tanned skin of his jaw, the stretch of neck underneath. His lips were barely tilted in one corner, an almost-smile that made his eyes seem to sparkle. He was staring straight ahead, bringing his own pint to his lips, but Emerson knew the hidden laugh of that quarter-smile was directed at him.
“Pardon?”
The man tilted his chin toward the bartender before placing his beer back on the bar.
“Matt. He’s a fun time, but—” He shrugged. “The look on your face…I don’t know. Just wanted to warn you that you might not find what you’re looking for there.” He took another sip while Emerson’s jaw slowly unhinged. “Then again, maybe having a fun time is exactly what you need. So actually, maybe you should go for it. Matt’s great. You can ignore me. I’m in a weird space.”
Emerson watched the man’s next swallow travel down his throat.
Promise me, Jay had said that day he’d stood on the gravel, his final suitcase in hand, that you’ll talk to people. That you’ll leave here sometimes—he’d motioned toward the fields, the farm, Emerson’s home—and talk to people.
But I talk to Jansel every day, Emerson had replied with a furrow of his brow. And I’ll talk to you each time we swap out Daisy, right?
And Jay had smiled at him, but it was sad. A smile that said Emerson had broken both of their hearts and they would both always know it.
People other than me and Daisy and Jansel, Em.
Emerson looked at the handsome stranger next to him now a moment more. Those eyelashes. Jesus. So long and dark and pretty that Emerson had a hard time thinking about anything else.
But after an indulgent few seconds, he mentally shook himself, and he did. He thought about his berries and his squashes. Measured the anxiety that leaving the chickens and the goats and Sally always gave him, resting in the back of his stomach. Manageable, he thought. He hadn’t been gone too long. And he thought, okay. Okay. Here I am, Jay.
“How do I look?” he asked, half trepidation and half bravery, both curious and embarrassed at being perceived by this gorgeous man. “That look on my face.”
For the first time since Emerson had noticed his presence, the man glanced at him. Shrugged again.
“I don’t know. Serious. Desperate.”
“Christ.” Emerson covered his face with his hands. Jay had always told him he couldn’t hide a single emotion.
“Sorry.” The change in the man’s voice made Emerson drop his palms. A hint of color had risen in the man’s cheeks, that secret of a smile wiped away as he shifted on his stool. “I don’t mean to be an asshole. It’s just a look I, ah, recognized. I’ve been there before, so.” Another chin tilt toward the bartender. Matt, apparently. “But I’ll leave you alone.”
“No, it’s okay.” Emerson found himself laughing a little. The man had somehow said it without judgment, and, well. He rubbed his face. “You’re not wrong. Although I’m, uh…” His cheeks heated underneath his fingertips. “Not necessarily desperate in that way.”
Except—the divorce had been finalized for a few months now. Jayden had moved out a year ago. Emerson had signed up for a dating app once, but he’d never actually used it. Farmers didn’t have time to date. At least, farmers who were as overwhelmed and under water as Emerson was.
Emerson was possibly also desperate in that way.
But it was true that sex wasn’t what he’d come for—he’d come here to feel sorry for himself in the outside world instead of his inside one, and he’d been doing a bang-up job of it—and this perceptive stranger didn’t need to know everythingabout him. Even if it was freeing, admitting his desperation out loud.
“I just…came here to look, for a little while. Oh god. Does that make me a creep?”
“Nah.” The quarter-smile returned to the stranger’s lips, accompanied, to Emerson’s extreme relief, by a bit of a laugh. “Nothing wrong with that. I think at least half of Lincoln County’s queer population comes to this bar every now and then to do just that. Matt knows his importance.”
Emerson smiled. It had been obvious from the start of this bizarre conversation that this man assumed Emerson’s attraction to Matt, even if Emerson was only, in truth, mildly attracted to the bartender at best. Still, hearing the man say queer out loud, attaching it to the both of them, made a swell of pride lift in Emerson’s chest. Most people looked at him, his receding hairline and faded clothes and overall Boring White Man exterior, and assumed he was an accountant who played golf for fun. Not that there weren’t queer accountants who played golf for fun. Regardless—being that Emerson had only realized his own queerness a few years ago, it pleased him that this ridiculously attractive guy had chosen to sit next to him, had chosen to speak to him, had seen something of himself in kind so confidently that he’d called it out.
Although Emerson supposed openly ogling the bartender had helped with that assertion.
“He was fun, though, huh?” he asked. Perhaps inappropriately, but the man smiled, that hint of color creeping into his cheeks again.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “So what are you desperate about, then?”
“Oh.” Emerson sighed. “Just my farm.” It slid past his lips, lubricated by the beer and the bar and the out-of-time-and-space quality of talking with a hot stranger.
He was a bit proud of himself for this too, though. Even four years after they’d purchased the land with the help of Emerson’s in-laws, he still sometimes stumbled over introducing himself as a farmer. People looked at you, sometimes, like you’d said you worked in the circus, or in the coal mines, or…something most people didn’t do anymore.
This man looked at him, too, but only raised a neutral brow.
“Justyour farm?” Those lips shifted into another teasing barely-there-smile. Was this man flirting with him? Emerson was pretty sure he was flirting with him. Which was hard to believe, being as this man was so clearly out of Emerson’s league. But then again, there were slimmer pickings when you lived in a small town. Maybe you saw a sad man eyeing the pretty bartender and took what you could get. Either way, Emerson’s face warmed under the weight of the curve that deepened on the man’s cheek when he contemplated smiling. “Having a farm doesn’t seem like a small thing.”
“No.” Emerson returned his gaze to Matt, the whimsy of perhaps being flirted with swirling away as quickly as it had appeared. “No, it’s not a small thing at all. That’s sort of the whole problem.”
“Ah.” The man took another sip of his beer. After a long moment, a moment that felt almost peculiarly comfortable, he asked, “Want to talk about it?”
Emerson stared at the bartender for another thirty seconds.
And then, pathetically, he hung his head in his hands once more.
Where to even start?
Perhaps the fact that he desperately needed more employees, especially now that Parker and Myriah, his summer help, had just left for the season. With teaching being their actual full-time jobs, they had to head back soon for before-the-school-year training. But Emerson couldn’t afford anyone else. He couldn’t afford anything.
Or maybe he could lead with the truth that, while he still clung with gratitude to any time with Daisy he got, he had no idea how to be a single dad and run a farm. He’d thought it’d get easier, somewhere over these last twelve months, but it never had.
Maybe this man would find his broken two-wheel tractor or rotting fence posts interesting. Or the fact that he’d maxed out another credit card last week when one of the goats needed a visit from the vet. Again. Or he could cry a while about his busted greenhouses, or how glad he was that market season would be coming to an end soon(ish), even though farmers’ markets were one of the main pillars of his business plan. He was just…so fucking worn out.
Oh! Or! The best one of all! Maybe he could rhapsodize over the reality that he’d promised two lovely people a space to get married in a month. And without Jayden, he had no idea how he was going to pull it off. Short King Farms was barely presentable to a farmhand, let alone a hundred strangers.
“You all right there?”
“I”—Emerson took a deep breath—“need help.”
“Like…of the psychological kind? Or the farming kind? Not that I’m judging the former. Lord knows I’m at least twenty years overdue for that kind of help myself.”
Emerson finally dropped his hands. Dared to glance at his neighbor again. And there those dark brown eyes were, looking right at him. Smiling. His lips had curved a bit higher, too, but his eyes. The lines around them. Those were definitely smiling.
Emerson’s stomach swooped.
“Both,” he eventually answered. “I need both. But the farming kind is the most urgent.”
The man held their eye contact for another beat before he dipped his chin and picked up his beer. Emerson’s heart thudded in his ears. He wondered what this man’s skin smelled like. For a second, the stress of his life faded, just an inch.
“Tell me about this farm,” the man said. Emerson watched the bob of his throat once more before he faced forward.
“It’s called Short King Farms. We—”
“No shit.”
Emerson couldn’t help himself. He looked back again, and—oh. The man was actually smiling now, a slash of white teeth, eyes bright. A smile like a surprise, like the man hadn’t expected it either.
“You’re Short King Farms?”
Emerson cleared his throat, held out a hand.
“Emerson King.”
The man laughed as he leaned over the bar, a rich, deep rumble that changed his entire mysterious demeanor.
And then he reached out a hand to meet Emerson’s.
In the trance of the man’s laughter, Emerson had somehow forgotten he was still holding out his palm. The contact hit him like an electric shock.
“Are you actually that short?”
The man was still holding his hand. His fingers were long and smooth, the pressure of his thumb firm against Emerson’s. Emerson’s brain had largely stopped functioning.
“Or did the name just make you laugh?”
“How about we never leave these bar stools,” Emerson said, “so you never have to find out. But both. The answer, again, is both.”
The man’s smile deepened. They were still shaking hands. Every inch of Emerson’s skin buzzed.
“Well.” Finally, the man dropped Emerson’s hand, turning back to his beer. His teeth had disappeared, but the smile remained, retreated back to that corner of his mouth. Emerson pictured dipping his tongue right there, an audacious surprise to his own imagination. His hand hung limp off the side of the bar, like it no longer knew what to do with itself. “Well done on that. You’ve been making me laugh every time I see your label.”
“Yeah?” The word came out in a happy haze before its meaning fully penetrated. All Emerson had heard was well done and you’ve been making me laugh. But after a beat, the rest followed through. “You’ve heard of us?”
Us, he still always said.
Even though, for most intents and purposes, for a year now, it had been me.
But maybe that wasn’t fair to Parker and Myriah; certainly not to Jansel, his sole full-time employee. There had been Bree, too, for a while, the part-time social media manager Jay had made him hire when he’d left, even though Emerson had let her go six months ago. Still, maybe he shouldn’t feel as alone as he did. And he knew Jayden still cared about the farm. Maybe it was okay to still say us.
“Of course,” the man said easily. He brought his elbows to the edge of the bar, crossing his arms. He wore a heather-gray t-shirt, jeans. Emerson thought that if he spent more than two seconds glancing at those forearms, he’d probably pass out. He forced himself to take another sip of his beer. “I see your stuff all the time at the IGA.”
Right, of course. Liv was Emerson’s top commercial distributor. He talked to her every week.
The brewery where they currently sat, though, was at the edge of Lincoln City. Close enough to drive to when you needed an afternoon to feel sorry for yourself, far enough away from home that you never knew where anyone was actually from. But this man must also live in Greyfin Bay. Had seen Emerson’s produce, his jams and his salsas and pickles in Liv’s IGA.
“The bookstore carries your stuff now, too,” the man added.
“Yeah,” Emerson said. “Mae. They’re real nice.”
He remembered all of his customers: every business owner, the organizers of every farmers’ market, every single one of his CSA members. Just like he knew every single crop that still needed picking, every hen that was still laying, every inch of the property that needed weeding, every bed that would soon need prepping for winter. Emerson had always been able to remember everything. His brain was a stockpile of information.
He just couldn’t take that information and turn it into enough profit—enough earnings against the massive mortgage, the credit card payments, Jansel’s salary, the taxes and the repairs and the supplies and the vet bills—to make it make sense. To be able to hire more people. To make it all work.
It took Emerson a second to realize the beautiful man’s smile had faded.
“Yeah,” he said, face turning thoughtful. He took another sip of beer. “So. Short King Farms is struggling?”
“What farm isn’t? I mean, the farm itself has been good, great, in terms of the land and health of crops and everything; it’s just—” God, Emerson loved the actual farming. And the land was so, so good. Had only dealt Emerson grace. It all got more exciting every year. He was the luckiest son of a bitch there ever was, in so many ways. Sometimes, when he got too in his head like this, when he spent too long with the business side of it all, he forgot. And then he got up at dawn the next morning and went outside again, and he remembered.
He knew he had to keep remembering the deep-down good stuff. He had lost his marriage because of this farm. If he woke up one day and didn’t still love it—
If he woke up one day and didn’t have the farm at all, whether he loved it or not—
He didn’t know what he would do with himself then.
“Things are supposed to be better for us small-time folks,” he started, “compared to the industrialized farms that have to deal with the Farm Bill and all that.” Emerson didn’t have to fuck with a government subsidy, and he never would. “But profit margins are still thin. And I lost my…business partner last year, and I promised some friends they could get married there in September. I need the money they’re giving me for it, and I’m happy to be part of their big day, but my hu—business partner always handled events, and marketing, and all of that. And now he’s gone, and I can’t afford to hire someone to take his place, and the farm is such a mess—”
Emerson couldn’t help it. He covered his face with his hands. Again.
“September isn’t very far away,” the man noted.
“I am so fucked,” Emerson concluded. He’d skipped, like, seventy-five percent of the details of the whole story, but the conclusion was definitive.
“What kind of work do you need help with, exactly?”
Emerson dropped his hands and blew out a breath.
“Honestly, I just need more farmhands. Ben and Alexei—they’re the ones getting married—have already planned most of the wedding; I just need to make sure the farm looks acceptable for the public. We’ve held small events there before”—when he was still married, when Jayden was there with his smooth smile and social skills to make sure everything went right—“but this will be the biggest one we’ve ever done, with a bunch of people flying in from the East Coast and…I need help getting the farm under control. I want it to look good. But I’ve been working sixteen hours a day all summer and there’s never enough time and”—Emerson’s breath hitched, a small but audible sound, before the final words rushed out—“I feel like I’m drowning.”
Only a beat of silence passed, and Emerson knew it was probably a shorter beat than all the moments that had passed before, but this one gaped open, loud and ugly, the sounds of the rest of the brewery dimming in Emerson’s ears as he felt on the verge of crying again.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. I don’t even know your name. I haven’t asked a single thing about you! I’m just so tired and came here to get drunk and you’ve been very nice to me but maybe you should talk to someone else now because—”
Because farming thrived on hard work and routine. Not…this.
Emerson needed to finish this beer and get the hell out of here.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, barely audible to his own ears. “I think I’m going to need to leave soon.”
He sucked down his beer like a frat boy. A more rational person would just leave it, but he had paid for it. Someone had worked hard to make it. Emerson had never been able to let hard-earned things go to waste.
Maybe the man next to him wasn’t fully rational, either. A rational person probably would’ve made their polite leave from a stranger who was clearly starting to unravel.
But he only sat stock still, the thoughtful look on his face turning ever more serious.
“My name is Luca,” he said after Emerson plunked his empty pint glass onto the bar. “And maybe I can help.”
Anita Kelly 