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Elliot lurches onto the dark sand, his big, clumsy steps sliding across the less solid ground. Jerking forward to catch his companion’s arm, Harvey forces Elliot’s bicep over the back of his neck, stabling the drunken writer.
“Yoba Elliot, please be careful.” Harvey pleads. Too far gone to apologize fully, Elliot instead registers the Doctor’s complaint with a small giggle and another, somehow shakier step on the beach. The pair surge ahead as Harvey stumbles forward to compensate.
“Pause,” using a sterner voice, he grips Elliot’s wrist hard and pulls at the drunken man’s ribs with his other arm in an attempt to regroup. “Please tell me you don’t do this regularly?”
“Hemingway was famous for addiction and I’d rather be dead than derivative.” Elliot playfully pokes Harvey in the ribs with his free hand as they keep an unsteady pace. “I wouldn’t add another drunk to your plate, you’re already outnumbered as it is without me to add to the tally.”
“I wish you wouldn’t joke about that.”
The writer flippantly waves his hand in dismissal, “Oh please, it’s not like Shane would claim anything against the statement's validity. And Pam is a miserable hag, I’m allowed to say what I please about that one.” Elliot glances up, smirking at the doctor, knowing that although Harvey is too professional to outright agree, he won’t reproach Elliot for his cattiness. Rolling his eyes, Harvey looks exasperatedly down at the writer as he slows his pace to a stop, causing the pair to situate themselves closer to the dock than Elliot’s beach shack. “Just a moment,” says Elliot, slipping his arms away from Harvey as he uses them to lower himself roughly to the ground. “I’d like to look at the view if you wouldn’t mind,” he motions his arm toward the black sea and the warmly illuminated docks.
“Elliot, please. The jellyfish left hours ago and I need to get you home safe.” Harvey replies calmly, though futilely because of the mutual understanding that the redhead will not get up until his whim is sated.
“Sit with me,” Patting the sand next to him, Elliot makes way for Harvey to join him, “Take a moment, Doctor."
Sitting down, Harvey gives his companion a wary look as he stretches onto his hands and feet to find a comfortable and relaxed, partially prone position. Tilting his head back to the night sky, he imagines it's a funny sight, the two sitting together as mirrors of the other. Harvey’s posture mimicking the laidback nature of the writer and Elliot’s straight-backed, cross legged position reflecting the high-strung attitude of the doctor. His deep sigh is interrupted by Elliot’s chirpy voice, taking the infuriating teasing tone he does when he’s about to chide Harvey for his lack of artistic vision.
“You’re a blind man” Elliot sighs as he rolls his neck to look over his shoulder at the doctor to his right. “If you’re going to look at the stars then open your eyes. But I sat us down to watch her.” He gestures again to the docks and the ocean beyond them as Harvey raises his head in search at the mere mention of an anomalous “her.” The sight of Harvey’s immediate posture shift illicits a boisterous laugh from Elliot as he watches his companion lock his gaze upon the dancing woman on the docks.
The two men sit together on the dunes, watching the farmer sway and twirl along with the song warbling faintly from the speaker. They watch the loose fabric of her skirt struggling to curl with her as stray ocean winds blow in opposite directions. They watch her hair trail along behind her, performing an accompanying routine.
In his chest, Harvey feels his heart swell with affection and, to his embarrassment, a growing feeling of need that colors his cheeks with a surge of heat. He cannot take his eyes off of her, a simple fact that has not changed since he first saw her months earlier at the flower dance. Harvey watches as she jumps and spins carefree across the worn, wooden planks of the fishing dock. He wonders if she’s drunk too. It wouldn’t be surprising, most of the town ends up at Gus’s after the jellyfish festival each year, and each year most of the town leaves sloppily. He resolves to check on her after he drops off Elliot, reasoning that is is out of a healthy concern for her safety rather than a burning desire to be close to her in even the most innocent capacity.
“I'm writing a story about her.” Elliot’s slurred speech breaks their vouyeristic trance.
“What?” Harvey looks over at his friend, watching as Elliot brushes his sandy hands across his rumpled pants and gathers up his loose long hair into a low ponytail.
“She’s otherworldly. How could I not?”
Harvey feels his face drop and watches Elliot as he continues to watch Leigh’s performance. Jealousy is a feeling Harvey is not well acquainted with but realizes the familiar acid as it develops in his stomach watching his friend’s transfixed gaze at Leigh.
“Does she know?” Harvey takes a deliberately calm tone as he asks the question, careful to sound measuredly aloof.
“About the story?” Elliot lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I asked her for plot suggestions awhile back and she said to try science fiction. I don’t care for the unserious genres but I didn’t have the heart to tell her at the time.” Sand parts in raked lines as Elliot drags his fingers slowly back and forth on the ground in front of his crossed legs. “But, to your question, no, I haven’t told her,” he smiled knowingly at the finger-drawn lines before continuing, "Though I’m not the only one holding onto badly concealed secrets here.”
Harvey doesn't have a reply outside of an unconvincing, sputtering denial that would quickly incriminate him. He resorts to waiting until the alcohol flowing through Elliot’s veins compels him to fill the silence again.
“Before you ask, I’m not in love with her any more than I am with the rest of the tragic souls in the village.” The writer yawns emphatically. “Plus, even if I was, I don’t know that I could live on a farm… dirt and bugs and manure and all…” A shiver runs down Elliot’s spine as the ocean breeze picks up and the night cools, preparing for the chill of the first of autumn tomorrow morning.
“Sand and dead fish are all that better?” Harvey jokes back, making a motion toward the rickety shack in the distance, a move that he hopes will entice Elliot to decide to head home. He gets his wish as Elliot briefly nods and begins to stand while brushing sand off his pants and hands. Harvey quickly follows suit, eager to end the conversation before an uncomfortable question or further insinuation slips out of Elliot’s lips.
“The beach is a far easier setting to romanticize, dear.” The writer moves more fluidly and assuredly toward home and Harvey jogs after him to catch up. When they meet pace, Elliot waves away Harvey’s outstretched arm as an offer of support for the remaining trek. The two walk in relative silence the short way back to the beach cabin. Arriving at the unlocked doorstep, Elliot dismisses Harvey’s concern about the following morning’s hangover and thanks the doctor for his help and patience before bidding him goodnight.
His more pressing safety concern now home, Harvey directs his attention to checking on the farmer who appears to have finished her dance and has taken a position sitting with her legs dangling over the calm waves of low tide. The music from her speaker grows louder and he find its impossible to gather his thoughts as he approaches closer to where Leigh is seated. Before reaching the warped dock stairs, Harvey watches as the farmer takes a deep pull from a shiny silver flask. Conscious not to scare the woman perched precariously above the water, the doctor shifts his weight awkwardly on the steps up, enticing the old boards to creak loud enough to announce his presence. On the second to last step up, Harvey watches as Leigh’s head jerks to the beach and towards him, clearly caught off guard. Smiling, he waves to her awkwardly in response.
She mirrors an equally awkward wave as Harvey makes his way to her midway down the dock. He watches as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looks away from him, back down at her dangling feet and the ocean below them. His hands prick with sweat as he quickly imagines his own fingers sweeping the loose curl and banishes the thought when he feels the impending flush threatening to betray his emotions.
When he reaches her, he realizes he never figured out what exactly he was going to say. Luckily, she saves him from having to justify his rationale by scooting slightly left and patting the revealed space to her right gently before smiling shyly, almost apologetically, up at his looming figure. He sits quickly and closely beside her. They don’t speak at first, nor do they look at each other, the air charging awkwardly until Leigh wordlessly unscrews the flask and passes it to Harvey.
Eagerly, he takes a full swig, not anticipating the rancid burn of an obscenely high alcohol percentage. The accompanying choking cough he lets out elicits a sympathetic smile from Leigh who breaks the silence as she gestures in an effort to take the flask back.
“I should’ve probably warned you, sorry.” She apologizes, still smiling at him as he begins to collect himself. “Shane’s cocktail.” She raises her eyebrows at the metal container as means of explanation. Harvey nods understandingly, not yet composed enough to respond verbally. She lowers the volume of the speaker as she waits for him to reply. He wants to ask her why exactly she’s drinking what Shane has referred to as “his motor oil mix” but quickly sends away the thought in fear of coming off haughty rather than concerned. As he feels the shot hit his stomach finally, Harvey finds himself making a decision beyond rationality as he brings the drink to his lips again. A surprised expression crosses Leigh’s face as she watches Harvey take two more hearty swallows.
“I heard you were more of a wine guy?” Leigh asks bemusedly, still watching as Harvey leans his hands back on the dock and lowers his feet over the edge before looking at her with what he hopes is a sufficiently confident smirk.
“It’s a festival day.” He shrugs looking her in the eyes finally. She barely holds his gaze before flushing and leaning her head up to look at the sky. Harvey takes her in in such a way that he’s relieved her gaze is elsewhere. Cherishing the brief moment of unabashed admiring, Harvey commits the intricacies of her face to memory. Their proximity allows him to see her finer details, like the dark freckle situated on her neck, just below the back curve of her jaw, and the slight tint of crimson throughout her dark brown hair.
She breathes deeply and again it seems like she’s waiting for him to explain himself. “I can’t be the responsible doctor every day of the year,” he continues by way of explanation.
The music plays softly between them as Leigh offers her quiet challenge: “So who are you tonight then, if not the responsible doctor?”
Harvey flounders, he wonders if he really caught a faint blush spread across her cheeks or if it’s a drunken glow. His response is stuttering, knowing what he wants to say but not knowing if he should. He made a risky decision tonight with the extra alcohol and thus settles for a less directly intention-revealing reply.
“Ah, maybe a friend?” The suggestion is nervously charged, though he hopes well disguised tonally. Harvey wordlessly prays that she doesn’t notice how desperately he needs her to alleviate his growing worry that she wants little to do with him.
Since moving to the valley, the young farmer acquainted herself with only a handful of people and made even fewer close friends. Harvey suspected he qualified as an acquaintance at least due to her few visits to the clinic in the early summer for a sprained ankle acquired in a harvesting accident. The farmer was always polite to him, though abundantly brief. He so badly wanted her to talk to him in the carefree, unreserved way he occasionally heard excitedly joking with Emily during the infrequent times he saw both women together at the Stardrop.
Breaking out of his jealous reflection, Harvey notices a mischievous look cross Leigh’s face while she fidgets her hands together in her lap.
“Are we friends, Doctor Harvey?” He can feel his blood boil as soon as she asks. He knows how disheveled he must look by the question, can feel the heat of his embarrassment wave out of his stomach and through his limbs. She observes him amusedly, not offering him an escape from answering.
“I’d like to be, if we weren’t already.” An honest answer. He presses his lips together, checking her posture to see if his reply caused her any discomfort. To Harvey’s relief, Leigh tilts her head before smiling at him more fully this time. To his delight he discovers the depth of her dimples, a quality unknown to him until now.
“I’d like that, too” she says, reaching for the forgotten flask in his now very sweaty hand. Emboldened by her reaction, he moves the metal container out of her reach, taking one final swig before offering a scheming look as he hands it back to her. She squints at his display playfully, feigning annoyance before accepting the flask. The farmer takes a small sip, then tucks it away into her canvas tote.
“I’ll also point out that friends offer to walk their inebriated companions home, to make sure they get there safely.” Harvey says as he pushes himself to a standing position beside the farmer. For partially polite and partially selfish reasons, he offers Leigh a hand.
“So am I the one walking you home then?” she jokes, as she reaches her calloused palm into his.
“Nope, but you can assist me back to my place after the Valley Fair.” Just like the feeling of her hand in his, he’s electrified by the verbal the back and forth. Perhaps it’s the alcohol energizing the teasing, and if it is, Harvey can’t help but feel guilty thankful for the substance-induced confidence.
“Planning on getting sloppy?” Leigh asks as he helps to pull her up. “If you black out, you’ll miss the look on Pierre’s face after I beat his grange display.”
Harvey allows himself a second of delay before releasing his grip on her hand. Readying some remark about how Pierre won’t go out without a fight, he looks down at the farmer and notices that he perhaps too enthusiastically helped her to her feet. Standing so closely to her, Harvey can’t help his gaze as it flickers from her grey eyes down to her mouth, then quickly back up. She notices his flush before she notices the lack of friendly distance between them and a look of apologetic embarrassment clouds her features. Still pleasantly shocked, Harvey only registers her quick step backwards when he realizes it’s his turn to speak--and in his flustered state he unthinkingly lays his cards on the table:
“Will you dance with me?"