Page 9 of Unsteady: How to Fail at Flirting
A few minutes later, he replies.
Oliver
Technically, that building is still owned by an absentee if you know what I’m getting at. Why don’t you come up to the mountains and tell her yourself?
I shove my phone in my pocket. My brother is right.
I have a few phone calls to make before I can just up and leave the way that Oliver did, but I get those all done before my truck finds its way to I-40. I’m headed west, and I’m never going back.
Five
Skylar
It’s the first of May, which means the town has something to celebrate once again.
I mean, Songbird Ridge folks would come out for the opening of an envelope, let’s be real.
But May Day is one of my favorite annual traditions. Not only is it the day before my birthday, but it’s colorful, sweet, kind of strange, and best of all, short. A lot like me.
Songbird Ridge’s May Day celebration is less than an hour long. Everyone gathers around noon, when the sun is at its highest. The local florist passes out flower crowns to anyone who wants one. We all go to the downtown Square and gather around the flagpole that normally flies our state flag and town seal. For one hour every year, the flags are taken down, and we’ve got ourselves the tallest maypole on the Eastern seaboard.
Everyone grabs a strip of silk, and the music begins. In years past, it’s been the high school pep band, but last year, there was a tuba incident brought on by some teenage TikTok challenge, so no more of that. Instead, we have traditional music fromsome of Maddie’s students, one of our local music teachers. It’s a little rusty-sounding and a bit comical, or it would be, if everyone in town wasn’t so earnest and unequivocally encouraging of budding artists.
It’s delightfully silly and corny the way we all dance together, weaving in and out in sync with the music, all of us barefoot, haphazardly making our way around the pole as we wrap it with colorful strips of cloth. Old and young alike get into it. There’s something very sweet about watching very old Appalachian folks flail around, barefoot in the grass with flowers in their hair. I can see the secrets on their faces. I can see the youthfulness on their faces. Maybe some of them, back in the day, met their true loves on May Day. There are a dozen stories about lots of babies having been conceived on this day every year. Stories that could make the younger ones blush. In their laughter and their dancing eyes, they tell the stories of our community.
I love it here. My love for this town is so big it pours out of me, and I wish I had someone to share that with. Someone I could have a secret smile with, like all these old people around me.
And just like that, I plow into a brick wall. Someone who doesn’t understand this dance, who is not moving an inch, is blocking my way.
He’s tall and sturdy, with back muscles that bounce me back three feet.
Excuse me,” I say, trying to weave around him.
He looks down, and that’s when I realize it’s him.
Finn Harris.
The contractor. Oliver’s brother. The one who made promises and lots of big talk and then left.
I want to stand there agape and feel my feelings. I want to question him. I want to find out everything. Where did he go?What is he doing here now? But you see, I can’t do any of that because the May Day dance is not finished. We cannot simply stand here like dummies.
So I hook my arm inside of his elbow. “Follow me!”
“We need to talk,” he says.
That we do. “But first, dance.”
I lead him around the pole, weaving and dodging all the familiar faces. There’s Rowdy, the guy who can literally fix anything, with baby’s breath in his long locks. Riley, the painter, with a crown of lilies. Foster, the grump from the sporting goods store, and his girlfriend Ari. Even Patty is here, probably telling herself that this is not a totally pagan ritual she’s participating in. I’m giving her grace these days, as she and Iris seem to have started mending fences.
And then there’s Iris and Oliver, both smiling, and both in flower crowns—his made of olive branches and little daisies, hers made of giant pink peonies. When we weave and dance and dodge past them, Iris looks stunned, open-mouthed, and gives a happy little shriek that makes me laugh. Oliver gives us a knowing look. I think he knew that Finn was coming to this.
But why today? This man has no idea that he has clearly never done this before.
He’s not even wearing a crown. Nor is he barefoot, and he’s probably going to step on my feet with those steel-toed boots.
As if reading my mind, he says, “How long do we have to do this? I’m afraid I’m going to step on your feet.”
“Just follow my lead. You’ll be OK!”
