Happy Medium

by Sarah Adler

Now, so accustomed to the conveniences of city living, she can’t imagine willingly settling anywhere that it takes half an hour round trip just to get a Slurpee.

“Fine!” she shouts, turning back to face the closed door. “I’d rather lick a goat’s asshole than help you anyway!” Well. That was a very weird, very gross place to go with that. Hopefully, Charlie got the gist of her fury without actually hearing the specifics of it.

“I haven’t been this excited since Charles accidentally left the TV on the entire weekend.” Everett smiles wistfully. “It was just the Weather Channel, but it sure beat sticking my head into the creek and making up soap opera plots for the tadpoles. Though I am rather proud of some of their character arcs.

His sudden departure without bothering to shower after a long day of work makes a date seem somewhat improbable, but maybe this is just how rural folk live. What’s a little livestock residue between friends?

“You woke me up because you have an idea,” Gretchen repeats, her tone much less enthusiastic. “Yes. And also the show stopped playing to ask if I’m still watching, so I want you to fix that. But that’s not as important.”

“Will you at least put something else on TV for me first? Something that won’t question my endurance.” He scowls at the screen’s Are you still watching? prompt. “Fine,” Gretchen says, switching over to regular live television to ensure it’ll continue playing all night. It’s mostly infomercials this late on basic cable, but eventually, Everett brings a stop to their channel-hopping with a shrieked, “Oh, oh! That’s what I want! The Golden Girls! I love The Golden Girls!”

She wakes briefly sometime later at the sound of the front door closing, and Everett’s subsequent, “Gretchen! Help! Charlie turned off the TV! And in the middle of a St. Olaf story. Help!”

“Wow, the sexual tension between you and Charlie is really bomb-dot-com tasty.” “Oh my god, where did you learn that term?” she asks, tossing the T-shirt and olive overalls on the bed. Maybe if she rolls up the legs a couple times and adds in one of her dangly necklaces . . . “The spiky-haired guy on the food show says it. Didn’t I use it right?” She thinks for a moment. “Do you mean Guy Fieri?” “Yes, him! Ellen loved her some Triple D. I like it too. That cat is really money.”

“Mm, yeah, no. I can’t deal with you using Guy Fieri catchphrases.” “Well, that’s not very Flavortown of you,” he says, frowning.

“Trying to get the goats to imprint on you, Acorn?” “You’ve caught me. I’m hoping they’ll think I’m their leader and do my bidding.”

“Whatever I do next will ideally involve more sitting around than sailing and farming allow. I’ve always thought I might like being a librarian.” “A librarian? Really?” It seems incongruous at first, but then it becomes so easy to imagine Charlie shelving books and shushing people. The man can pull off a ridiculous sweater like no one’s business; she can only imagine how well he might wear a dress shirt and cardigan. The mental image has her feeling a little flushed.

“I’d rather not have pictures of me on the Instagram.” “Oh, there are definitely going to be pics of you on ‘the Instagram,’ babe. A tattooed and bearded goat farmer? It’s gonna be a virtual panty-dropping spree.” “I hate everything you just said.” “Fine, fine, we’ll focus on the babies for now.”

“You were right, Ev. He’s a good egg, and his yolk’s real runny.”

“Acorn suits you,” he says after a brief silence. His fingers continue combing through her hair, periodically tugging on a strand, making her body buzz all over again. “A little thing, tough on the outside, a world of potential within.”

Just a fact of life now: Water is wet, grass is green, and she doesn’t like the idea of Charlie with anyone that isn’t her.

Charlie sighs, flinging an arm over his head. “Guess that wasn’t very good.” “What? Are you kidding me? That was amazing. I came so hard I almost bit your arm off.” “Couldn’t have been that amazing since it didn’t get you to confess to any crimes.” Gretchen turns her head to give him a look. “I figured that’s the gold standard,” he says, trying to suppress a smile.

There’s lust, of course, but there is also a fierce affection crossed with the profound need to do anything in her power to ensure and support his happiness, even if it does mean making herself unhappy in the process. Is that love?

“Why would I care what your father has to say about anything when I already know you, Acorn?” The hand that isn’t holding the lighter comes up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “I already know that you pick the peas out of your vegetable soup, and you don’t know how to whistle.” Their eyes lock in the reflection of the window above the sink, the darkness outside making it almost mirrorlike. “That you take ridiculously long showers no matter how many times I remind you we’re on well water. I know that you’re still a little nervous around the dogs, but that you’ve really taken to the cats. That you sing goofy made-up songs to the goats when you think no one can hear you, and that you’ve started bringing them almonds after lunch every day.” His voice goes quieter as he bends toward her ear. “That you always bite your bottom lip right when you’re about to come.” Gretchen swallows, heat flooding her as she takes in the words. “Do I?” “You do,” he whispers. “And I know that you care intensely about people, that you hate to see anyone suffer when there’s something you can do about it.” “We don’t have to pretend I’m a good person, Charlie,” she says, looking away, his eyes in their reflection seeing too much. “How could you think— Jesus, you’re not a good person, Acorn, you’re the best person. You could have easily walked away from all of this and left me to die, but you didn’t. You refused to give up on this place. You refused to give up on me.” Out of her peripheral vision, Gretc...

Gretchen always wondered what it would feel like to return somewhere and feel like she was home. Like she belonged to a place and it belonged to her. She thought that she was close to feeling that way about the farm. But when Charlie kisses her, she realizes that it’s this. This is the feeling she’s wondered about her whole life. This is what it feels like to be home at last.

“This is . . . this is very sweet,” he says. “But it’s . . . You aren’t going to grow anything. Not with roasted seeds thrown into a single pit in the shade.” She looks at the five-by-three-by-six-inch hole she dug beneath the weeping willow, then at the dirt covering her hands to the wrist, then at the half-empty resealable bag of David Original seeds.

Charlie slowly lifts his head and takes her hands in his, not caring that they’re mud-caked. “The truth is this: I want to stay here. And I want you to stay with me. I want to work together every day. Sleep together every night. Plant a field of sunflowers together, one that will actually grow. I just want to be together for as long as we can. I want you to be my family. And even if it doesn’t work out and I wind up stuck at Gilded Creek for the rest of my life, it’ll have been worth it.” He pauses and takes a deep, slow breath before continuing. “Loving you . . . loving you will always be worth it. And I do love you, Gretchen Acorn. I do.”

Love, she’s found, is a lot like the gotcha euphoria she used to experience, but steadier. Reliable. Something she can hold on to for longer than one rapturous moment.