Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Amores (VIII)” - e. e. cummings

dear girl 

How i was crazy how i cried when i heard 

                                                                              over time 

and tide and death 

leaping 

Sweetly 

               your voice

It felt like sitting at that desk in that poorly-lit office, gazing at that headache-inducing monitor, was going to kill you. Listening to the dull tick of the analog clock that hung overhead felt like a countdown, not to the end of the workday, but to the end of existence. Each tick was a fresh reminder of how many seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years you wasted clacking keys and clicking mouses to pad the wallets of a corporation that didn’t know a damn thing about you, and certainly didn’t care to know.

So, it felt like getting on that train was your second chance at life — that you had been flailing in the monotony, struggling to breach the surface before your body gave up and sunk you down into soullessness. You were pronounced dead in that city only to be resuscitated back to a new life the moment it started chugging along its tracks to Stardew Valley — a new life that would no doubt be much more fruitful and more meaningful than the one that had almost ended you.

But, as you lie in bed, now, listening to the rooster’s ruthless crow, with daylight beginning to peek through the slots in your one-room home’s blinds, you realize that this new life is trying to kill you, too, and doing a much better job of it. You quickly realized why farmers wake up before dawn when you arose at a leisurely nine in the morning yesterday only to find the merciless sun beating down on you as you took your grandpa’s rusty old hoe from its cobwebbed corner to till the land. Your arms, soft and lackadaisical from years where the hardest labor they had to handle was carrying a bag of groceries inside, are now pulsating from the prior day’s toil. Your back and legs aren’t much better, and you groan audibly as you realize pressing snooze is only going to make it worse, as the sun will only continue to rise. 

Staying in bed isn’t an option if you want to turn a profit on those seeds you bought from the general store and try to turn this second chance at life into an actual living. After paying for the train ticket, the supplies needed, and the fine for breaking your apartment’s lease, your wallet’s about to have cobwebs in it, too. Not to mention the state of the farm… it’s not exactly the idyllic rolling hills of corn that you’d been expecting to see from the Pelican Town postcards Grandpa used to send you and the few sepia-toned memories you still have of your visits here. And deep down, you know it’s not just about you and how many hours of sleep you want. It’s about the old man too, and doing something he’d be proud of with the land he loved.

As you empty the last bit of water from your watering can into the soil, you hear footsteps approaching on the cobblestone path that leads from your farm to the town. You look up to see Lewis, the mayor and your grandpa’s oldest friend, coming to check up on you. He’s still pretty sturdy for a man his age, and seemingly sweet. He took time to show you the ropes on your first day and has since then sent you letters of encouragement with well-intended tips and pointers that have mostly wound up crumpled into balls and thrown into the garbage bin.

”Well, it looks like you are making a good start, eh?” he says. You nod, hoping he doesn’t stay for long, so you can go inside and rest your throbbing everything. “Looks like you’ve already been to Pierre’s. Not quite ready for Marnie’s yet, since you don’t have a barn or a coop. Robin can fix you up with one of those once you get your footing.” Keep smiling and nodding, pretending you know who all of these people are so that he’ll leave faster. “Have you met everyone else yet?”

”Just a few people here and there,” you say, resting the watering can against the side of your deck and squatting down next to it to catch your breath. “I’ve had my work cut out for me here just getting the farm set up.”

”I’m sure,” Lewis says, pulling his newsboy style hat further down over his eyes to shade his eyes from the sun, which keeps shining relentlessly. Not a cloud in sight. “I wish I had upkept it a little more after your grandpa died, but truth be told, I had a lot on my plate running this town and unfortunately, I let it go to the wayside a little.” A little? You’ve considered asking if anyone in town has a machete to help you clear through the brush, but it doesn’t seem like that kind of rodeo.

”Don’t sweat it,” you say. “It’s not your responsibility. I wish I had come here sooner. It took me way too long….” Your voice trails off, as you think with a little guilt about what your grandpa would say if he saw the state of his property now. You shift into a full sitting position and look out over the overgrowth, dreading the hours of clean-up that await you when your body isn’t screaming at you, whatever distant day that is.

”I know it seems daunting, but this place has real potential. By the end of this year, you won’t even remember what it used to look like. And, the people in town will help you with the things you need to make it what you want it to be. Everyone in the town loved your grandpa. They are sure to love you, too. In fact, I wanted to encourage you to introduce yourself to the folks in town. Most of them have been asking about you. I told them it’d be best to give you a few days to get settled before bombarding you with visits and introductions, but, now that you’ve been here a few days, I think they’re growing impatient. Plus, you haven’t really explored the place, have you?” You look up at Lewis and shake your head. “It’s a beautiful town, with a little bit of everything. Take the backwoods and start at the mountains.” You try to hide your grimace at the thought of trekking uphill when you’re seriously doubting if you’ll even make it up the stairs to your bed. “You’ll be able to meet Robin and her family and see the caves in the back, then make your way downhill to the town. You can even go to the beach.” Your ears perk up at the mention of it; you had forgotten that there was a beach here. It’s been years since you visited Grandpa and saw the sea for the first time. It would be nice to revisit it and relive those memories of an easier time. “By then, it should be just about time to turn in, and you can stop at my place for supper. It’ll be a well-earned reward for your hard work.” 

Considering you only have 20 gold in your pocket and you’ve been living off of the food you’ve been able to forage from around your farm, a home-cooked meal, even from a chef as dubious as Lewis, doesn’t sound too bad. So what if your legs are adamantly protesting? You’ll survive. “I guess it’s only a matter of time before people start knocking at my door anyway,” you say and push yourself up off the ground to begin your quest.

Bombarding was probably the most apt description of Lewis’s task, as the next few hours are filled with more names and faces than one person could possibly be expected to remember. Not only that, but some of the townspeople are downright rude and unwelcoming, or wildly strange, a motley crew, to be sure. It’s not quite dinner time, and you can see that the stone bridge over the river turns sandy and further out are the blue waves. A bit of marine serenity before dinner sounds like what the doctor ordered. Well, not literally. The doctor actually seemed a little scatterbrained and mentioned something about how he wasn’t making enough money at his clinic. Mark him down as one of the strange ones.

The beach is small, with some intact shells scattered in the sand and a couple of simple wooden docks for fishing. You walk to the end of one and take off your work boots and socks, plopping down on the damp planks to dangle your feet over the edge into the water. It’s still springtime, so the water is cold. Definitely not swimming weather, but the chill feels good on your aching feet, which are even more worn out from your walking tour of Pelican Town. You look out onto the waves, listen to their gentle breaking and watch the white foam build up in rhythmic repetition. It’s slightly entrancing, especially since your energy levels are low, and your mind can’t help but wander to the first time you were here, chasing the tide back and forth with Grandpa and giggling as the waves licked your ankles with spray when you were too slow. 

You’re not sure how much time has passed since you started sitting on the dock — no ticking clock of doom here — when you hear a voice behind you over the waves. “Pretty, isn’t it?” You jump a little, not expecting anyone else to be around, although you did notice a few small, plain structures as you walked to your spot. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the voice says. You wave your hand dismissively to show that no apology is needed. “May I?” the man asks, gesturing to the place next to you on the dock.

”Please,” you say, although you secretly want him to leave you alone with the sounds of the sea and your memories. He sits down next to you, slipping his feet out of his boat shoes and putting them into the water next to you. He audibly reacts to the coldness of the water, but quickly recovers and turns to you. “I’m Elliott,” he says, smiling and sticking out a hand. You shake it and introduce yourself. You try to muster up a smile, though you fear any sign of genuine pleasure at human contact has been lost twelve introductions ago. “Everyone has been talking about you,” he says matter-of-factly, facing the sea with a slight smile on his face. 

“Yeah?” you ask, politely feigning interest as you turn towards him. He nods, kicking his feet back and forth in the water gently, careful not to splash. You study him briefly without staring. He looks much more solid but less agrarian than most of the men you met earlier, and he’s not as young; his jaw is pronounced, but in a handsome way, and around his mouth are faint smile lines. You also notice he has impressively long, copper hair that tangles just a bit at the ends, probably from the sea breeze; you wonder how long it took him to grow it out. It’s nicer than yours, you realize, thick and voluminous, streaked with gold. Likely, it’s natural, highlighted by the sunshine, since you didn’t see a salon in town. “Do people come to this beach often?” He frowns slightly for a second and shakes his head no.

”Not really. It’s mostly just me and Willy. He runs the tackle shop over there,” he moves his head towards the shack on the edge of the neighboring dock and the now-setting sun casts a ray over him, making his hair shine. “I live up there,” he says, tossing his head again in the direction of another small structure further up the beach. It didn’t make an impression on you when you passed earlier. “I’m a writer,” he explains. “I spend most of my time scribbling away in there, but I come out here quite often to clear my head, get inspiration, stuff like that.“ 

”Do you like it here?” you ask. He frowns again a little before nodding.

”Yes,” he says in a way as if there were more to say. After a breath, he continues, “I’m from the city and I definitely like it here better than there. But, it takes some getting used to. I’m guessing they didn’t exactly roll out the welcome wagon for you?” His eyes meet yours for the first time since he introduced himself. Green, you notice.

”Not exactly.” He smiles with a look of recognition.

”The townies, they’re a little strange at first. They don’t know anything outside of the life they’ve always lived here, and sometimes it’s like you’re speaking a different language. You’re from the city too.” It’s more of a statement than a question, but you nod anyway. His gaze is back out at the ocean. “I could tell from your ’accent.’ They say I have one, too.” He leans back, resting his hands on the dock and smiling contentedly out into the sunset. He seems to be truly delighted by the warmth and glow of the sun, and you realize that you probably interrupted him; he was more than likely heading out to watch the solitary sunset, and not looking for an excuse to introduce himself to the new neighbor. “You’ll get used to the townies. Don’t take it personally if they’re a bit gruff with you at times. They’re remarkably simple and yet remarkably complex at the same time.” It seems like what he said made no sense, but maybe it’s just a paradox or oxymoron, or whatever the fancy term is. This guy would probably know. He’s a writer. “There are a few of us transplants around if you ever need to seek refuge. Now you know where to find me, and Leah lives near you, in the cottage under Marnie’s shop. Have you met her yet?” 

“No, I don’t think I have,” you say, silently dreading another introduction.

“You should stop by tomorrow and say hello. She lives just outside of town, south of your farm. She’s an artist.” You set your hands on your thighs, watching the sun sink farther down towards the horizon. It’s about time for you to leave for that dinner reservation at Lewis’s. You get ready to make an excuse for an exit when Elliott asks, “And what are you?” turning back towards you. 

You let out a short hah of disbelief, but when you study his face, you realize he’s not joking, but looking at you head-on with intent curiosity. “Well, I’m a farmer of course,” you say, not sure if you quite believe it yourself, but somehow, saying it out loud makes it more of a reality.

 He laughs lightly and claps a hand on your shoulder, friendly and reassuring. ”Good,” he says. “Just making sure.” His hand pulls away, and he sets it down gently on his lap. “Looks like it’s time for you to go.”

”Yeah,” you say, attempting to pull your thick socks back on your wet feet, a challenge that makes you look less than graceful. You try to make peace with looking like an idiot in front of the one townsperson you seem to have struck a chord with. “I have a hot date with my grandpa’s best friend,” you say and Elliott laughs, a real, robust laugh. 

“That sounds marvelous.” By now, you’ve managed to lace up your shoes without completely embarrassing yourself. “See you around, farmer,” he calls after you as you make your way back up the dock. You turn around and deliver a weak wave to him as a goodbye before scurrying up the sand and back into the town. 

Chapter Text

“Station Island VII” - Seamus Heaney 

I had come to the edge of the water,

soothed by just looking, idling over it

as if it were a clear barometer

or a mirror, when his reflection

did not appear but I sensed a presence

entering into my concentration

on not being concentrated as he spoke

my name. And though I was reluctant

I turned to meet his face and the shock

is still in me at what I saw.

You wouldn’t have believed it just weeks ago, but Lewis was right. Things got easier. You didn’t realize it as it happened, but one day, you looked in the mirror hanging in the glorified shed you call home and noticed you suddenly looked strong, skin taught across the blossoming muscles in your arms and legs as you twisted this way and that. The hoe started to feel lighter when you struck it against the ground, preparing to plant your summer seeds, and you made enough progress and funds in your first season to start considering expanding. You’ve been building up a sizable wood pile in the corner of your farm, and you expect that you’ll be able to construct a small chicken coop and order a hen from Marnie’s by the end of the summer. 

Once you get a chicken, you can start having eggs, and you might not have to depend on Lewis’s freebie meals, which you hate to admit you’ve been relying on quite a bit these days. You don’t think Lewis minds too much, though. You talk a lot about the town and his work as mayor, about how things have changed, and of course about Grandpa. You smile a bit as you think that even though the farm is still a mess, you can at least picture the old man looking down on you with a little more pride than when you started.

You’ve been able to save a bit of money by doing errands for the townies. The requests are posted up a few times a week with a “Help Wanted” flyer and a payout amount to incentivize, which definitely motivates you. The townsfolk are either too industrious or too lazy to go out and find things for themselves, so you run around catching fish, foraging herbs and hitting rocks with pickaxes, all in the name of earning a few gold pieces. Whatever it takes.

 Most people are appreciative when you hand over what they’ve asked for, and you’ve made a few friends and acquaintances out of strangers. There are still some who keep their distance or brush you off with a snide comment, even after you’ve helped them, but you put your head down and keep walking. 

Elliott never posts on the errand board. He seems to live quite frugally, and probably doesn’t have much coin to offer, or many needs for that matter. Sometimes he’s ”clearing his head” out on the sand, when you head down to Willy’s for more fishing bait or to pawn off your latest catch.

“Hey, farmer!” he calls to you, smiling and waving, and you give a wave back. You don’t want to interrupt him as he’s searching for inspiration or engrossed in whatever book he’s reading that day, so usually you try to leave it at that. Most times, though, he approaches you, and asks you how things are going, if you’ve heard about the upcoming town holiday or the newest bit of neighborhood news. It’s all small talk, but you find it comforting each time he looks at you with his kind, calm eyes, which make you feel like you didn’t totally mess up your life by moving here. At least there’s one friendly face besides Lewis’s in the village — two, actually, if you count his counterpart, Leah. 

Leah sometimes posts to ask for things, mostly ingredients for recipes. Even though she’s living the artistic lifestyle, she doesn’t seem to be as much of a starving artist as Elliott. Her cottage seems much more established than either of yours, and paints and clay, her preferred media, get expensive. You try to stop by her place often, since she and Marnie are the closest things to neighbors you have. You hand over any extra clay you find in the soil for her sculpting, like you are today, when she invites you in to look at her newest work-in-progress.

”This is really good, Leah,” you say, checking out the abstract sculpture she has laid out in her workshop space. Its coils twist in on itself, circles intersecting in different directions from the square base at the bottom. It’s enigmatic to you, but you can definitely picture people fawning over it in a modern art museum exhibit.

”You think so?”

”Yeah. I mean, I think people would really like it if you showed it to them. Some of them might even be willing to buy it.“

”I don’t know,” Leah says, looking away in thought. “People can be so stingy with art. They think I should just be painting them murals or carving them mantelpieces for free. For exposure. Or for the love of the art.”

 “Nonsense. You just draw a hard line and make it clear from the start. Price tags and everything, like Pierre does at the festival stalls. I could see Robin or Jodi wanting to spruce up their living rooms a little. And Caroline, too. She’s definitely an artsy type. Once one of the townies has one of these, everyone will have to have a Leah to keep up.”

“You’re probably right,” she says. “I’ll think about it. Come on into the kitchen. You drink, right?” She doesn’t even wait for you to respond, but takes out a bottle of wine and pours two glasses, placing one in front of you. ”So, how do you like it here? It’s been about three months, yeah?”

”Pretty well so far, thanks,” you say, taking a sip. It’s a chilled white, and it’s refreshing in the humidity of the early summer. “I’m getting more used to everything, at least. When I first moved here, everything seemed impossible. Now it only seems implausible,” you say. Leah laughs. You like the smooth quality of her voice, especially when she laughs.

”You sound like Elliott,” she says. “Speaking of which, I’m sure you’ve noticed that there are lots of singles in Stardew Valley.“ Her glass is almost empty, so you take a bigger gulp to keep up. Honestly, you’re impressed by her speed; she might even beat Pam. “Has anyone caught your attention?” You look down into your glass, a little embarrassed. “Come on, don’t be shy!” she pushes on your arm playfully. 

Your mind drifts to those legs kicking back and forth in the salty water, the sun catching those copper tresses, the footprints left in the wet sand as he paces back and forth, teasing out the plotlines and trying out lines of dialogue in his head before committing them to paper. Or, at least that’s what you imagine he’s doing as he walks back and forth on the shoreline. But, you’re not really sure if there’s a real spark there or if it’s just giddy exhaustion when your heart jumps a little when you see him wave at you from afar. You know you definitely want to be friends with Elliott; besides Lewis, he’s the first person in this valley to show you any real kindness, with nothing expected in return. And more than anything, you definitely don’t want to do anything that would lose you your first real friend in your strange, new life.

”Well, I don’t know if there’s anyone in Stardew Valley for me, but I definitely know there are some people here who are not for me,” you say.

”Amen,” she says, and holds her glass up for you to cheers.You clink them together and laugh. 

“What about you?” you ask.

”I’m kind of getting over a break-up right now,” she says, looking down into her glass.

”Oh,” you say, a little surprised. You had seen her and Elliott dancing at the flower festival last month, but you thought they were just friends. “I’m sorry to bring it up.”

”Don’t be,” she says, looking up and smiling a little forlornly. “It’s not with anyone here. Some jerk I knew back at home. But, anyway, I think I ought to focus on myself right now and put everything I have into my art before I worry about anyone else.”

”I think that’s very wise of you,” you say before you finish your last sip and stand up to leave. “If you need any help with setting up an art show, I’d be more than happy,” you say.

”You’re a doll,” she says, kissing your cheek before you leave and pouring herself a second glass.

You dart through town before making your way to the beach to check your crab pot. Willy set it up with you yesterday, showing you how to secure the pot in the water using rope and giving you some bait to put in gratis to help you get your start.

”You should come back and check it every day, every other day. Usually something will wash up. Just have to hope it’s not trash,” he said, stepping away from the trap, which was then fully functional. “It’s a damn shame how much trash flows in from the city. People not even thinking and then it washes up here. Promise me you’ll pick it up when you see it.” You nodded eagerly, but you were mostly thinking about the crabs and shrimp you were hoping to catch in the red cage as it bobbed up and down in the surf. No more pity meals at Cafe Lewis with this baby in action.

As you approach today, you can see that you’ve hit the jackpot. There’s definitely something in there, and it’s not a broken CD or pair of glasses, which both washed up on the shore last week (probably the inspiration for Willy’s lecture). You’re so focused on finding out what your bounty will be that you don’t notice Elliott, sitting beside his house, back leaning up against a post, reading, although today’s book must not be that good, because he quickly closes it and starts walking towards you.

”Hey, farmer,” he shouts. You look up at him as he crosses the beach and finds a spot next to you, book in hand. It’s closed, but his thumb is still inside holding his page, and you can see that the paperback book is worn. Its spine is ripping — part of the title is actually peeling off — and the pages look water-damaged, like someone was reading it by the pool or in the bathtub.

“I hope that’s not a library book,” you say. He closes it completely and hits you with it playfully. Ooo, this is fun, you think. Elliott strikes back. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me,” you recite sing-songily, and he laughs a real laugh again. It doesn’t seem like there are many who can get that kind of laugh out of him.

”I thought you were a farmer, not a comedian.” That’s something this town is missing. “Did you catch something?”

”Yeah. Let’s see,” you say, taking off your shoes and socks again and crouching down in the shallow water to open the trap. Whatever is inside definitely has claws, so you make sure to grab it as far away as possible from the pinchers. That’s just what you need, a sore thumb while trying to do your farm work. “Holy,” you say as you lift it out of the trap. Its claws start to snap, but luckily it’s too far away to get you or Elliott. 

“It’s a lobster!” he cries out. “It’s your lucky day!” You turn it around to look at it head-on, making sure to hold it away so you’re not in the danger zone.

”I guess it is,” you say, smiling, and thinking for once, things didn’t turn out half bad.

”I haven’t had lobster in years,” Elliott said, admiring the creature as you turn it to face him. “Have you ever had it?” he asks. You shake your head. Not many lobster dinners where you came from. “You’re in for a real treat. It’s delicious. I wish I had one of these so I could catch my own. But, with my luck, I’d turn up with nothing but soggy newsprint,” he laughs. You can’t help noticing that he hasn’t taken his eyes off the lobster. You recognize the look he’s giving it, like someone who hasn’t eaten a satisfying meal in weeks. It’s the same look you see peering back at you when you look in the mirror most mornings.

You hold the lobster out towards him. “It’s yours,” you say, hardly able to believe you’re offering it up. He takes a step back, holding up his hands in surrender.

“Don’t be silly,” he says. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“You should,” you say. “I don’t even know how to cook this thing. I don’t even have a kitchen,” you admit.

“Neither do I,” Elliott says, frowning slightly as he looks at the creature, its legs flexing unhappily since it’s been removed from its aquatic home. You’re wondering how he cooks if he doesn’t have a kitchen, but realize that he probably doesn’t. It explains the longing look he gave to the lobster. “But, I do have a pot,” he says. “You have a fireplace, don’t you?” he asks. You nod, silently swallowing down the disappointment of dipping into your chicken coop lumber supply for firewood. There are a lot of trees in the Valley, you tell yourself, but lobsters don’t come around every day.

Chapter Text

The Waste Land - T. S. Eliot

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

It’s hot in your little farmhouse with the fire going. Even though it’s getting close to evening, the humidity is still clinging to the rafters, and the flames below threaten to make the temperature unbearable. Elliott has shed his burgundy coat and emerald cravat and is unbuttoning the cuffs of his white shirt. You’re melting in the sole wooden chair at your simple table, unable to remove any clothes without allegations of indecency. 

“Where’s your kitchen knife?” he asks, and you point to the chest that houses your tools and the various possessions you’ve accumulated since you moved here. He opens it and takes it out, unwrapping it from the protective cloth you folded over its blade when you arrived as you take a paper fan out of your pocket and start flapping it towards your face. It provides little relief. “Is it sharp?” he asks. You shrug. He examines it, and seems satisfied enough after a moment. He starts rolling up his sleeves from the wrist, and you can’t stop yourself from peeking at the skin of his arms that has been hidden under his shirt. “You’re going to want to look away for this part.”

You’re thankful for the convenient excuse to turn and face the wall. It’s safer that way, so he can’t see the blush you’re sure has painted your cheeks when you saw the veins of his inner forearm protruding as he braced to cut into the lobster. You’ve never seen forearms like that in real life, just on marble statues and magazine covers. There’s a brief crunching sound but no other unpleasantness, and Elliott wipes his hands on his trousers. “There, all done,” he says, bringing the lobster over to the pot, where the water is now boiling. Your face feels a bit cooler, and you think it’s safe to look towards him again.

“I always thought you put the lobster in alive,” you say, just to make conversation. 

“No,” he says firmly, putting a lid on the top of the pot. “It’s more humane this way,” he says. “A quick death. I can’t say it’s completely painless, but it must be agonizing to boil alive,” he says, shaking his head quickly to dispel the thought. His jacket is folded over the back of the chair you’re sitting in, and something in its pocket is poking into your back. You reach back and pull out the ripped paperback he was reading earlier.

“What book were you reading?” you asked, flipping through the pages casually.

“It’s not a book,” he corrects you. “It’s an anthology. A poetry anthology.”

“Ohhhhhh,” you say, teasingly, like he’s so kind for correcting you. “And what poem were you reading?”

“The Waste Land,” he answers.

“Hmmm, just some light reading then,” you say. He looks up at you, grinning a little at your joke. “By?”

“By Eliot,” he says, still smiling.

“You wrote this?” He doesn’t even bother to respond to that one, but his grin hasn’t dissipated. You like the way you can keep it plastered on his face, like a sculpture. “The Waste Land,” you repeat, mulling the title over in your mind. “That’s some very serious reading material. Are you always reading something so…” you search for the word. “...heavy?”

“Not always, but I try to read the greats as much as possible. They say the best way to become a better writer is to read widely.”

“And is Eliot one of the greats?” you ask, needling him a bit more.

“He’s generally considered one of them, yes,” he smiles, looking down at his feet like he’s not totally sure what to do next, hands idle as he waits for dinner to cook. “I noticed you don’t have any books here,” he finally says, sending a needle back. Are we flirting? you ask yourself. It’s been so long that you don’t trust yourself to remember what it sounds like, what it feels like. Your skin prickling and the warmth spreading across your face... are those butterflies, or is it heat stroke?

“No, not one,” you say, looking around the bare walls. “I honestly haven’t read a book in years. I could have really used Farming for Dummies.” He laughs again, and you’re definitely starting to like it when that happens.

“Now I know what to get you for your birthday.“ He’s good at bantering. “You’re not a reader then?” he asks.

“I wouldn’t say that,” you say. “I‘m fine with reading, when I have a book I actually like, but I don’t really have time to nowadays, anyway. Maybe when things die down in the winter, I’ll grab a book or two from the library. Back in the city, I wasn’t really the reading type. My days were mainly wake up, punch in, punch out, go home, eat a microwave dinner, numb myself with TV and go to sleep to do it all over again the next day.” 

It sounds way more pathetic when you say it that way, but he doesn’t look at you with any pity. He just says, “Not much to live for.”

“Nope,” you say, dropping your hands onto the table, giving up on the fan. “What’s your favorite book?” you ask. He hums for a second, raising his hand to his lip in a thinking posture. 

“I’m honestly not sure. It’s so hard to pick. I feel like my answer would change every day. What about you?” You put your hands on the table again, running your thumb over the raised design on the plastic handle of the fan.

“I’ve never thought about it,” you say.

“Well, what types of books did you like to read, back when you used to?” he asks, propping himself up against the side of the brick chimney and unbuttoning a few of the collar buttons on his shirt. You quickly look away, hoping your cheeks don’t betray you again. You think you averted just in time, and bring your hand to your mouth to pantomime thinking as a convenient cover-up.

“Okay, promise not to laugh,” you say, looking back at him when you’re sure you’re not blushing, and he smiles, but complies. “There was this book we read in middle school that I really liked. I know it’s for kids, but if I could find another book like that, I’d probably read a lot more.”

“What was it called?”

“It’s called The Giver,” you say, remembering the black and white cover with the old man’s face on it.

“I’ve never heard of it,” he says. “What’s it about?” he asks. 

It’s been a while since seventh grade, but you can still remember the basic framework. “It’s a world where everyone is the same, and they’ve eliminated all differences. No wealth, no sickness. They created a machine that controls the weather, so no rain or snow. Not even color,” you say.

“Huh,” he says, pondering. “A world where everything is the same… Kind of a funny book to be a farmer’s favorite,” he comments. “Imagine trying to farm with no rain?” 

You shake your head. “I can’t,” you say. Every day it rains is a blessing – a day where you don’t have to lug your watering can to the lake countless times to try to keep your crops alive. You would cry if it all of a sudden stopped raining. You might even move back to the city.

“I can’t imagine a world with no color,” he says. “I mean, color is what adds vibrancy to existence. Without it, everything would seem so flat. Think of the ocean without blue or the trees without green. I wouldn’t even be able to know it’s you whizzing by my cabin without seeing that red ribbon in your hair,” he says, and that red is most certainly seeping into your cheeks again, too late to hide it. It doesn’t seem possible that you’re not flirting, but he seems unfazed, like he could say anything and remain unshaken. You envy his composure. “Speaking of red,” he says, and you think he’s going to draw attention to what just happened, but instead, he uses the cloth that was wrapped around the knife to lift the lid off the pot and looks inside. “I think it’s ready.” 

Thankful for the change in subject, you go over to the chest to take out the few porcelain plates Grandpa left behind. They’re a little more than rustic, you realize as you turn them in your hands. You’re suddenly embarrassed by how homely they look now that you’re presenting them to another person. 

“I’m sorry that I have so little,” you say. “I can’t believe I don’t even have a pot,” your voice trails off. “And these plates are all chipped.” 

Elliott shrugs. “It doesn’t bother me,” he says, using the pair of tongs he brought along with the pot to lift the lobster from the water, shaking the excess drips off. “This is a farm. Everything should be well-loved. You’re used to that city lifestyle, but here, it would make no sense for everything to be shiny and new.” As he sets the lobster down on the plate in the center of the table, you consider his words and realize that he’s right. “It’s not going to change how the lobster tastes.” 

“But there’s only one chair,” you say, realizing that there’s not even enough furniture to accommodate your guest. He’s already at the door, letting the orange and pink hues of the sunset in through the open frame.

“Come on, farmer,” he says, beckoning you to join him outside, lobster plate in hand.

You end up sitting on the edge of your porch, legs dangling over the side, his kicking back and forth like they did on the docks that first day, feasting on your lobster, with some wild blackberries you picked earlier as a side. He showed you how to cut it open with the knife and crack its claws so that if you catch another lobster, you can repeat the process on your own. You eat in comfortable silence, letting the sunset wash over you, an extra reward added onto this meal, payment for a day of hard work. 

After he finishes his plate, Elliott sets it over to the side and leans back, just like he did on the docks. He turns to you and asks, “So, what did you think of your first lobster?”

You nod your head eagerly, facing him. “It was really good, and so much sweeter than I expected,” you say, popping a tart berry into your mouth. He nods in agreement and then turns to look out over the sunset again, his eyes dreamily taking in the sherbet sky.

”It’s so beautiful,” he sighs, when the last light has dissipated and the surroundings start to turn thick and grey in the dusk. “Thank you for sharing it with me. All of it. I know you don’t have much here, and I have little more than you, but we should look out for one another, you know? Share what little extra pleasures we do have. You don’t have to stay tucked up here all by yourself. Or scrounge around in trash bins like Linus,” he jokes. He looks out into the distance to the place where the farm becomes the forest. “The Valley provides. It always has, for centuries, through times of plenty and tightening the belt. It will provide for you too,” he says, laying a reassuring hand on your shoulder again, just like he did when you first met on the docks. “It continues to provide for me,” he says, now wistfully staring into the trees. “I should go,” he says after a few moments, and goes back into the house. You stay outside, unsure how to slow your heart after that same touch on the shoulder felt so totally different than the first time. 

When he comes back out, he’s fully dressed, his tie straight and jacket unbuttoned but on. “The pot,” you say, realizing he’s not carrying it back with him.

”Keep it for now,” he says.

”What?” you ask, protesting.

”I said we have to start looking out for each other. What am I going to do with a pot and no fireplace? Plus, now I have an excuse to come back and get it, when I decide it’s time to see you again,” he says, throwing a playful look at you over his shoulder as he starts walking towards the clearing. He’ll make his path through the forest and pass Leah’s before getting back to the beach. You wonder if he’ll stop there, too, as you watch him all the way until he disappears behind the tree line.