Page 23 of Baby, It’s You (Clairesville #1)

Hunter

I turn to Olive when we get outside the store and ask, “Okay, whose car are we taking?”

“Definitely not mine,” she quickly says. “Barney is not reliable.”

“Barney?” I laugh.

“Yeah. That’s my big purple car’s name. Every car has a name.” She says it as if it's a matter of fact.

“Mine doesn’t,” I tell her.

She looks at me as if I’m insane. “Are you kidding me? You haven't given your car a name? That should be reported as a crime. Your car deserves a name.”

I grin down at her. “Okay, then you give it a name.”

“No way.” She shakes her head. “Only the owner can choose their car’s name. It wouldn’t be right; I don’t have that kind of relationship with your car.”

I tilt my head back and laugh at that as she continues speaking.

“I’m serious. By the next time I see you, you better have a name for it.”

“Okay, I will,” I promise her.

She holds out her pinky and I stare down at it momentarily. Olive smirks. “Everyone knows a pinky promise is a legally binding contract.”

I chuckle and shake my head slightly before I link my own with hers.

Since our cars are the only two there, she automatically heads over to my truck.

I walk to her side first and unlock it, opening the door for her.

She almost seems a little taken aback at the gesture as she slides into the passenger seat.

I walk to my side of the car and wonder if she's not used to someone opening doors for her.

I get in the truck and start it up, the engine loud and commanding in the silence between us. The smell of roses and orange blossoms drifts to my nostrils. I realize it’s Olive; being this close to her makes me feel drunk on her scent.

I lift the aux cord towards her. “Want to choose the music for the ride?”

“Although I am highly honored that you just offered me your aux cord,” she teases, “I want to hear what kind of music you like. I’m curious.”

“Okay. Where to start…” I say, feeling temporarily vulnerable.

She might as well have just asked me to get naked.

What if she hates my taste in music? Music compatibility is a big thing, I don’t care what anyone says.

You have to enjoy the same music to coexist with someone.

Imagine if you married someone that only enjoyed listening to bagpipe ballads all day. Nightmare fuel.

I scroll down my playlist and click my favorite band.

“Enjoy the Silence” by Depeche Mode begins to play around us.

I glance over and watch Olive’s face for cues to see what she thinks.

She listens intently and I see her fingers start to tap her thigh as the melody continues.

After thirty seconds, she turns towards me.

“I like this song.”

“Good. Me too,” I respond. “Windows down?”

“Is there any other way to drive while listening to music?”

I manually roll down the driver's side window as she cranks hers down as well.

She reaches over and turns up the volume dial. That’s more like it.

Smiling, I back the truck out of the parking lot.

“Where are we headed?” I ask her.

“To see Mr. Ray’s wife, Sonjia.” She smiles. “She’s our first subject.”

Olive navigates the way for the fifteen-minute drive. We are currently curving up the side of Jewel Mountain, which happens to be one of my favorite lookout spots in town. Surrounded by trees as we head around a narrow turn, Olive suddenly points to the left.

“There!” she blurts out, and I slam on the brakes. I see the small dirt road she’s pointing to and take the turn.

“Man, they really live up here on their own!” I exclaim, heading slowly onto the rocky path.

“I know. Isn’t it amazing?” she gushes. Her eyes sparkle as she inhales the fresh air deeply. “We’re almost there. Just follow the road to the end. It’s the only house around here so you can't miss it.”

I nod and take in the nature around me; pine trees stretch as far as I can see. I turn the music off, so the only sounds left are my tires crunching over the crushed rocks and birds singing to each other. I see a small natural wooden cabin ahead and Olive seems giddy in her seat as we approach.

She claps her hands on her thighs. “You are just going to love Sonjia.” She pulls some hair back that has blown in her face. “I hope you’re hungry, because you won't be leaving until she feeds you. It’s her love language.”

“I can always eat.”

I pull up in front of the cabin and take in the place.

There are decorations everywhere: gnomes, little stone frogs, rocks painted in rainbow colors, wind chimes of assorted styles, and a porch swing with more pillows than space to sit on it.

The wooden front door swings open suddenly, and a beautiful older woman with long dreadlocks wearing a floor length floral dress and lace cover-up steps out.

“Olive!” She holds out her arms and Olive hurries out of the truck to give her a hug.

I get out of the driver’s side and approach the two of them. After finishing the hug, the woman looks over her shoulder at me.

“And you must be Hunter,” she says warmly, as she walks around Olive, then pulls me into a hug also. “I’m Sonjia.”

Olive's smile consumes her face. “I’m glad Mr. Ray filled you in on all the details.”

Mrs. Sonjia pulls back from our hug, still holding onto my arms.

“That he did. He didn’t tell me how handsome this young gentleman is, though.” Her tan skin is covered in freckles that crinkle on her nose as she laughs. “A creative and easy on the eyes.” She says it like a statement as she looks quizzically at Olive.

“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “Your house is amazing, Mrs. Sonjia.”

“It’s special, isn’t it?” She continues to smile. “Conner built it for me.”

“Mr. Ray,” Olive clues me in.

“That’s incredible.” I look around in awe. “I never even knew there were houses on this side of Jewel Mountain.”

“We are the only ones,” Mrs. Sonjia explains. “Follow me inside, I just finished baking a loaf.”

Olive looks at me and smiles in an “I told you so” way, and I hold back a laugh.

Mrs. Sonjia guides us in through the front door of the cabin and the scent of freshly baked bread consumes the space.

“It smells amazing,” Olive tells her.

“Thank you, I made a lavender and herb sourdough today.”

She takes us to the kitchen and points to a natural wood table that is next to a huge window. “Sit,” she commands.

We both comply and she slices the bread, then brings us each a plate. Mrs. Sonjia turns to the fridge and pulls out a little blue tray with butter and sits it in front of us as well.

She stares at both of us then, waiting expectantly. “Well, go on. Eat it while it’s hot,” she encourages.

Olive reaches out and cuts off a huge chunk of the butter with her knife. She drops the butter on top of her bread and then takes a bite without even spreading it.

I stare at her in shock.

She feels my eyes on her and freezes before she takes another bite. “What?”

I chuckle. “You really like butter. I’ve never seen someone put that much on toast in my life.”

Olive shrugs. “Life’s too short to not eat copious amounts of what you like.”

“I think there’s a little bread on your butter,” I snort.

“Oh, be quiet!” She playfully shoves me. “ Eat .”

Both women are staring at me now, so I lean forward and take a bite of the bread. It’s crunchy on the outside, warm and soft on the inside, and has a savory kick of herbs at the end.

I smile up at Mrs. Sonjia. “This tastes incredible.”

Olive nods next to me as she shovels more bread into her own mouth. “It’s delicious,” she agrees, her words almost unintelligible from the large bite she's chewing on. Then I watch her slice off another chunk of the butter and plop it onto my bread this time.

“Try it. Sonjia makes it.”

I look up at Mrs. Sonjia in shock. “You make butter, too?”

“And honey,” Olive adds. “Which is why we’re here.” She glances at the oven clock. “Speaking of, we have to get started because I need to get back to the bar before Tripp comes in.”

I completely forgot the fact that I don’t have unlimited time to spend with Olive today. I wish I did; our interactions feel so natural, like we have known each other for years.

I toss the piece of bread with the insane amount of butter into my mouth and give Olive a thumbs-up. The butter is delicious, she’s right. But I’m not used to eating it in a layer thicker than icing on a cupcake. I swallow it quickly, apologizing to my arteries, and try to hold in a small cough.

Mrs. Sonjia hands me a glass of ice-cold water, then asks, “Where would you guys like to film?”

“Let’s go to your porch! Is that fine with you, Hunter?” Olive’s brown eyes grow wide as she anticipates my response.

“Sounds great. Let me run and get my camera bag from my truck.” I excuse myself and jog out to my car so I can grab it out of the back seat.

As I head back inside, I hear Mrs. Sonjia speaking to Olive. “He is so cute. Is he your boyfriend?”

Olive lets out a small laugh. “Sonjia, no. We barely know each other. He’s just helping me by making the video series for Whiskey’s. That's it.”

The way she says that’s it sounds so final, like there is no room for anything else to happen.

I lean against the hallway wall as I continue to listen. I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but I can’t help the temptation. I want to hear what Olive has to say about me.

Mrs. Sonjia continues, “Olive, you have to give someone a chance someday. Not all men are bad.”

“I know. It’s easy for you to say that when you have Mr. Ray.” She sighs. “I’ve never found a man worth dating. The guys my age are horrible, and you know how my dad was…and then all my mom’s boyfriends…” She trails off.

“You don’t have to tell me, honey. I know he caused you indescribable pain and that you witnessed unhealthy relationships in your formative years. Just be open is all I’m saying. There is someone good out there for you. A guy with a golden heart, I just know it.”

At that, I walk backwards and shut the front door firmly. I feel a twinge of guilt but also worry for Olive’s sake. Who hurt her so badly that she doesn’t trust men now and what pain did her father cause? I casually walk into the kitchen and their conversation silences quickly.

Olive gives me an overly bright smile, trying to compensate for the sudden awkward silence, and hops out of her chair.

“Ready?” she chirps.

I nod. “Of course. Lead the way.”

Mrs. Sonjia opens the fridge and pours some iced tea into three mason jars. She hands us both one and takes a sip out of hers. Then she guides us through the living room and out onto a porch. It overlooks the town below; we are literally hanging over the side of the mountain.

“This view is awesome,” I say softly, while taking in the picture-perfect scenery in front of us. Two small birds fly by together and swoop down to rest on a tree branch below.

Mrs. Sonjia sits down on a bench with a colorful quilt. “Do I look camera ready?” she jokes, touching her dreadlocks and smoothing down her long dress.

“You're perfect, Mother Nature .” Olive smiles at her. This must be a nickname she has given her.

I chuckle. “You really do remind me of Mother Nature!” I open a zipper pocket of my bag and pull out my tripod.

“I’m just going to set up the camera here.

” I unsnap each leg of the stand until it’s a few feet high.

“And I want you to talk to me like we are having a normal conversation.

Don't worry about the camera at all. We are just two friends talking.”

I have always found that the best footage is the stuff that is filmed organically—not overly composed or set up, but just showing everyday life. That's what people relate to and root for. The audience wants something real.

When I film skaters, I leave in a lot of the shots where they don't get the trick. The clips show how hard they work, so when they do land a trick, it’s incredible. You celebrate with them as the viewer.

I twist my camera on the tripod stand and then press record. Olive grabs two stools from a porch table and drags them over for us. I thank her as she sits with me behind the camera.

Mrs. Sonjia stares at me. With the sun glowing down on her, she looks ethereal.

I begin to talk. “So, tell me, Mrs. Sonjia. What does Whiskey Jane’s mean to you?”