Aluma
I had seen Sylph do just about everything at this point.
He had repaired the ice machine, rebuilt half a motorcycle, fixed the heater, restocked candies, and spent an extraordinarily long time explaining why the toaster Wyatt brought over was a danger to civilized society.
And I mean extraordinarily long.
That poor toaster hadn’t stood a chance against his inspection. Wyatt eventually took the thing home, muttering something about wanting breakfast without a lecture on electrical safety.
What I had never seen Sylph do, however, was nothing.
Not once.
Even when he sat still, those ridiculous star-filled eyes were always studying something. A loose screw in the counter. A crack in the plaster. The way afternoon sunlight shifted through the blinds.
Mostly me, lately.
Not that I was complaining.
There was something rather flattering about being observed with the same intense curiosity he gave to the workings of the universe.
But it occurred to me one morning, while folding the last of the clean towels, that the poor man might not know how to take a break.
He was always finding another little thing that needed fixing.
Another way to make himself useful.
Now, I appreciated a handy man as much as the next woman.
Still, enough was enough.
And I intended to fix that.
So on Tuesday, after the morning guests had checked out and the laundry had been folded, I marched into Wyatt’s garage.
The big door stood open, letting in the warm Meridian sunshine. The place smelled of old motor oil, hot metal, and the faint sweetness of the wildflowers growing along the fence.
Sylph was hunched over the workbench, examining a small mechanical contraption with several delicate-looking wires sticking out of it.
I didn’t even bother asking.
“Put that down.”
His head lifted immediately.
“Miss Aluma, it is not dangerous.”
“Didn’t say it was, pumpkin. We’re taking the afternoon off.”
His hands went still.
“What do you mean, off? From what, exactly?”
“Everything.”
He looked over my shoulder toward the lodge, then down at the machinery in his hands.
The expression on his face was positively troubled.
“But Room Six needs—”
“Whatever it is, it can wait.”
“But the vacancy sign continues to flicker.”
“I like it that way. Gives it that ol’ retro charm.”
He frowned faintly.
“The flickering is not intentional.”
“Well, neither was half the decor in that place, but here we are.”
He considered this without looking particularly reassured.
“How long will this period of inactivity last?”
“As long as I say it does.”
“Should I bring any equipment?”
“Just yourself, sweetheart.”
That earned me another puzzled look.
But, bless him, he set the contraption down.
And that was our first little victory.
Ten minutes later, we were sitting behind the lodge with two sparkling glasses of lemonade and a pair of folding chairs.
I’d chosen the prettiest spot I could find.
The western fields stretched beyond the old wire fence, all golden grass and late-afternoon sunlight. The road lay a little farther out, its pale ribbon disappearing between distant trees and low, dusty hills.
The sky was a beautiful washed-out blue, with just enough wispy clouds to make a person want to spend an hour deciding what they looked like.
A warm breeze moved through the grass, carrying the smell of sunbaked earth and a faint trace of gasoline from the highway.
Somewhere in the distance, a bird was having a heated argument with a squirrel.
Or perhaps another bird.
Whatever it was, neither party sounded particularly willing to compromise.
I settled into my chair with a satisfied sigh.
Sylph, meanwhile, examined his lemonade as though I had handed him a mysterious chemical compound.
“Did you prepare this?”
“Sure did.”
“You have added more sugar than the previous batch.”
“Then don’t drink it, darlin’.”
He took a sip.
Then another. And another.
Sylph refusing something sweet would have been about as believable as Wyatt showing up on time.
I watched him quietly enjoying the lemonade, though I suspected he’d never admit just how much he liked it.
For a few minutes, everything was lovely.
My feet were up. The sun was warm against my cheeks. Nobody needed a towel, a room key, directions, or a refund.
There wasn’t a soul demanding that I explain the difference between a queen bed and a double.
I closed my eyes.
Ah.
Peace.
Then Sylph leaned forward.
“Are we waiting for something?”
“Nope.”
“Is someone joining us?”
“Nope.”
“Have you arranged an activity?”
“Nope.”
A pause.
“Then what is the objective, Miss Aluma?”
I stretched my legs out a little farther and tipped my head toward the sunshine.
“Sylph, sweetheart, the objective is to not have one.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Welcome to being human.”
He looked toward the garage.
I didn’t even need to open my eyes to know what he was thinking.
“Don’t even think about it. I know you were thinking about that vacancy sign.”
“Its flickering is most irregular.”
“So are you. But it’s endearing.”
He went quiet at that.
I opened one eye just long enough to catch the hint of a smile.
Then his attention shifted.
A butterfly had landed on the fence between us and the fields.
It was a pretty little thing, yellow and gold with delicate black edges along its wings. It rested there in the sunshine, opening and closing them as if testing the afternoon air.
Sylph turned toward it immediately.
Not admiring it with childlike wonder, mind you.
Studying it like he intended to write a research paper.
“Does your species deliberately allocate time to inactivity?”
“Course we do. It’s called living.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes, darlin’, you’re damn tired. Or the clouds have a pretty shape.”
I took another sip of lemonade.
“Maybe you just wanna sit beside somebody you like. Does that really sound strange to ya?”
He went quiet.
The butterfly opened and closed its wings.
Inside the lodge, the old ice machine gave a distant, metallic thunk.
I could practically hear the wheels turning in Sylph’s head.
Then, very softly, he asked, “You like sitting beside me?”
I opened one eye.
“What?”
“You said a person might choose to remain inactive in the company of someone they like.”
“I did.”
“And you have chosen to sit beside me.”
“That’s generally how this works, sugar.”
There it was.
That small, shy smile I’d come to recognize.
I loved it whenever he figured out something he thought the rest of us were keeping secret.
He looked down at his glass, then back at me.
“I am merely asking whether my proximity improves the experience of sitting.”
I nearly spat out my lemonade.
“Yes, Sylph.”
“Considerably?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“That is...” He seemed to search for the proper word. “Satisfactory enough.”
He leaned back in his folding chair.
“I think I understand now.”
“Wonderful.”
And for a little while, he actually seemed to relax.
An old truck rattled down the road and disappeared beyond the trees, kicking up a little trail of dust.
The breeze shifted, making the grass ripple in long golden waves.
Ice clicked gently against our glasses.
Nobody said a word.
I watched Sylph watching the butterfly.
After a moment, he spoke again.
“It has returned to the same place three times.”
“Maybe it likes that darn fence post.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s warm or maybe it likes the view.”
“Can butterflies appreciate a view?”
“Beats me.”
He studied the little creature.
“You do not wish to know?”
“Not particularly.”
“But there must be a reason.”
“There probably is a good one. Doesn’t mean we need to figure it out, sweetheart.”
He considered that.
The butterfly lifted off, made a lazy circle in the warm air, and landed a few inches from where it had been before.
Sylph watched it go.
And something about that made me smile.
I’d spent so much time watching him learn our peculiar little human habits.
Our jokes and our food. How to use money. Why people sometimes said the opposite of what they meant.
The appropriate times to eat caramel.
That last one had taken a surprising amount of explaining.
But he was getting there.
Slowly, surely, this strange and wonderful man was learning how to live among us.
And I supposed I was learning a thing or two from him, too.
Sylph approached everything with such sincerity.
If something broke, he fixed it.
If someone needed help, he offered it.
And if he didn’t understand something, he’d work at it until he did.
There was a sweetness in that determination, even when it drove me half-crazy.
I admired that about him.
But lately, I’d noticed something else.
He was always trying to be useful.
And while I was grateful for every last thing he’d done around the lodge, I didn’t want him thinking he had to earn his place here by fixing every broken thing in Meridian.
Especially not with me.
So I turned my head toward him.
“You know, you can do this whenever you want.”
He looked over.
“Sit outside?”
“Do nothing.”
“Even when there is work to be done?”
“Especially then.”
I thought about that for a second.
“Well, sometimes. I can’t have you doing nothing all the time. Who’s gonna fix my ice machine?”
He smiled at that.
A real one this time, with no attempt to hide it.
And heavens, I liked that smile.
“I’m serious, though,” I continued, softening my voice. “You’re allowed to just... be here, Sylph.”
He grew still.
“You don’t have to be doing something for me every minute.”
“I enjoy helping you.”
“I know you do, honey.”
He looked down at his hands.
I reached across the little space between our chairs and took one of them in mine.
“And I enjoy having you around.”
His gaze lifted.
“Even when you’re not helping.”
For a moment, he didn’t answer.
His gaze drifted toward the fields, where the afternoon light had begun to soften into deeper shades of gold.
I could see those strange little stars shifting in his gradient-touched eyes, even beneath the bright Meridian sky.
He looked comfortable.
A bit thoughtful, perhaps.
But not troubled.
I didn’t ask what was on his mind.
That was another thing about doing nothing.
Sometimes, you could let a thought be just a thought without needing to drag it out into the open.
His fingers moved gently over my knuckles, as if he were learning the shape of my hand all over again.
Then his hand settled more firmly around mine.
And we stayed like that for a while.
The two of us.
Two empty lemonade glasses.
And a curious golden butterfly, which seemed perfectly content with the same old fence post.
The afternoon stretched on around us.
The lodge sat quiet at our backs, its little neon vacancy sign probably flickering away without a care in the world.
Nothing needed to be said.
Nothing needed to be fixed.
There was absolutely nothing that required Sylph’s attention.
Except, perhaps, the feeling of my hand in his.
Eventually, I caught him looking at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Well, would you look at that. You’re getting pretty good at this.”
He glanced toward our joined hands.
A thoughtful little smile touched his lips.
“I believe I understand completely now.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Yes.”
He gave my hand the gentlest squeeze.
“I would like to accomplish doing nothing with you again tomorrow.”
I smiled at him, feeling something warm and tender settle right behind my ribs.
“I’d like that too, pumpkin.”
And just like that, I decided tomorrow’s vacancy sign could flicker all it wanted.
