Chapter Text
The final day of the Desert Festival shimmered under the mid-spring sun, golden and wide. Everything in the Calico air felt stretched too thin—like color on a canvas that had been watered down, overworked. The Oasis courtyard bustled with the sleepy energy of a celebration winding down: half-packed vendor stalls, kids chasing tumbleweeds, fabric flags fluttering in lazy arcs.
Leah shifted behind her stall, fingers curled around the chipped rim of her water bottle. Her sculptures—desert stones shaped like crescent moons and wind-worn figures—sat arranged on linen-draped crates. A few canvases leaned behind them: muted cactus blooms, light caught in sandglass shadows.
Across the dusty path, Emily stood at the fashion booth, chattering animatedly to Sandy.
Leah’s gaze lingered.
Emily wore a sunhat too large for her head, the brim constantly slipping sideways. Sandy, laughing, reached out to right it—fingers brushing Emily’s cheek, then her arm, too casually. Too long. Emily didn’t move away. If anything, she leaned into the touch.
Leah blinked and looked away, adjusting one of her clay pieces with more care than necessary. It wasn’t surprising. Emily’s affection had always been kaleidoscopic: vivid, strange, and a little too much for the daylight. Still, there was something in the way Sandy smiled at her—soft and a little crooked—that made Leah pause.
She turned her attention back to her own booth. A couple from Zuzu City wandered by, the woman pointing to a sculpture shaped like a falling droplet. “Like it’s melting,” she murmured to her partner. Leah smiled and made the sale.
By late afternoon, she’d sold five pieces—three sculptures and two cactus-themed paintings. Not bad. Better than last year, anyway, when she’d sat behind her stand in silence and sunburn and hadn’t moved a single piece.
She packed up slowly, wrapping everything in newspaper and linen, tying it all down with twine. The sun hung lower now, painting the edges of everything in orange. As she lifted her crate, she caught sight of Emily and Sandy near the bus.
They were hugging.
It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t quick.
Sandy had her chin tucked over Emily’s shoulder, her eyes closed like she was remembering something. Emily’s hand rested at Sandy’s waist, her thumb moving slowly, back and forth. Neither of them spoke. Leah turned away before they pulled apart.
The bus smelled like dust and exhaustion.
She found a seat near the middle and slid in. A moment later, Elliott dropped into the seat beside her with the kind of theatrical sigh that meant conversation was coming whether she wanted it or not.
“Unbelievable,” he said, tossing his silk scarf dramatically over one shoulder. “No one appreciates the allegorical nuance of a man thirsting beneath twin suns. I sold precisely one poem—and I think it was out of pity.”
Leah made a sympathetic noise. She was still half watching Emily, who’d just climbed aboard, cheeks flushed and hair windblown, like the desert itself had tried to keep her.
“Don’t they understand,” Elliott continued, undeterred, “that The Dunes of Desire is a metaphor? The thirst is spiritual, not—” He paused, waving a hand vaguely. “Not literal.”
Leah let him talk.
Outside the window, the desert blurred past, all copper light and fading heat. Behind her, someone laughed—Emily, probably—and Leah closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sound settle deep in her ribs.
As the bus pulled into the edge of Pelican Town, the valley already bathed in twilight, Emily bounced on her heels near the front. She turned, her earrings catching the fading light like tiny windchimes.
“Hey! You two,” she called, eyes bright. “Backwoods afterparty. One hour. I’ll bring blankets and weird snacks. You in?”
Leah raised a brow. “How weird are we talking?”
Emily grinned. “Let’s just say—spiritual.”
Behind her, Elliott made a noise like a wounded bird. “I have nothing to celebrate,” he announced, as though delivering a line from one of his lesser tragedies. “The desert was unkind to my prose. I shall retreat to my study—and weep.”
He turned on his heel, pulling his dramatic red coat tighter around him like a rejected poet prince. Leah watched him go, then called after him, voice dry: “I’ll bring cherry wine.”
Elliott paused. Turned back. Sighed. “Fine. But only for the vintage.”
(...)
It was full dark by the time Leah wandered into the backwoods clearing. The fire was already crackling in the pit—burning low and lazy, with that pleasant woodsmoke twist. She stopped in the shadows for a moment, watching the shape of the gathering: mismatched blankets, cushions dragged from someone’s porch, a metal thermos half-buried in grass.
And Haley.
Leah blinked. There she was: curled up in the softest-looking pink dress, her perfect blonde curls backlit by firelight. She was twirling a strand of hair around her finger like it owed her something, looking utterly unbothered. Like she’d wandered out of a romantic photo shoot and just happened to land here.
Leah approached, still carrying the bottle of cherry wine in one hand. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Haley.”
Haley didn’t even look up. “Emily said there would be wine.”
Of course she did.
Leah sat down slowly, not too close, letting the fire warm her legs. Haley’s presence felt… strange. Not hostile, but familiar in a way that brushed old bruises.
She’d tried, when she first moved to the valley. Haley had been the only other openly lesbian she knew of—out in the way that was actual, spoken, not just rumor passed through Pierre’s checkout line. Leah thought maybe they could be something like friends. She’d initiated small talk three times: once at the beach, once near the fountain, once at a town meeting. Each attempt had been met with the same bored detachment, the same passive-aggressive glance toward her outfit or her hair, or worse—comments framed as compliments that left Leah bristling hours later.
After that, Leah stopped trying. She had better things to carve with her time.
Still, she was here now. And Haley wasn’t exactly being hostile. Maybe the wine helped.
Emily appeared from the shadows like a forest sprite, arms full of pillows and a tin of something probably not FDA approved. She collapsed between Leah and Elliott, leaning against both of them at once with theatrical weight.
“Mmm. It’s kind of chilly,” she sighed, snuggling closer. Her head landed against Leah’s shoulder, hair still carrying a hint of desert dust and lavender oil. “You two are the best. I love you both so much. Like… friend-love. Or sibling love. You’re like my beautiful siblings.”
Leah smirked. “Emily… are you high?”
Elliott sniffed. “Her pupils suggest a mild psychotropic enhancement, yes.”
Emily giggled. “Only a microdose.”
Leah looked into the fire. It cracked softly, throwing golden shadows across the trees. Haley sipped her wine like it was something stolen. Emily nestled closer. Elliott muttered something about Greek philosophers and emotional honesty.
And somewhere under all of that—Leah let herself feel, just a little, that maybe spring was finally starting to mean something again.
[---]
Leah stared at the half-finished sculpture on her worktable and felt… nothing.
The piece—an abstract twist of driftwood and copper meant to mimic desert wind—just sat there, inert and heavy. She rotated it for the fifth time, squinting at its angles, hoping they would whisper something different. They didn’t. They hadn’t since last night.
Maybe it was post-festival exhaustion. Maybe it was the emotional static she hadn’t been able to shake since watching Emily and Sandy hug like that. Or maybe—Leah pushed back from the table, frowning—it was just another slow day, the kind that left her fingers itchy but unwilling to move.
Around lunchtime, she gave up.
She slipped on her jacket, grabbed her phone, and texted Elliott:
“saloon? food. maybe inspiration if we ask nicely.”
The reply came ten minutes later.
“Perchance. If my lost muse deigns to meet me beneath the neon glow of bar signs and fried pickles.
Also I’m broke.”
Typical.
She left the cabin, the lake glittering behind her like a coin half-buried in sand. The sky was soft with mid-spring sun, clouds drifting lazily as if they too had stayed up too late partying in the backwoods.
As she rounded the bend near the cemetery, she spotted Maru and Penny sitting on the bench. Penny was eating an apple, Maru gesturing with one hand as she explained something with her usual quiet enthusiasm. Their heads leaned toward each other, their knees almost brushing.
Leah’s gaze lingered.
She’d seen them together a lot lately—by the community center, near the library steps, once leaning against the old Junimo shrine like the past had offered them a place to rest. Always laughing in that soft, contained way. Always close.
They were probably dating. She wasn’t surprised. It made sense.
Everyone in this town was a little gay, once you started really paying attention.
(...)
The saloon was quiet for once, the late lunch lull stretching between jukebox tracks. Leah took her usual seat by the window, a salad in front of her, sunlight catching in her hair.
Elliott arrived five minutes later, looking like he hadn’t slept and had enjoyed every moment of it. He slid into the booth with a dramatic sigh, as though the weight of his creative suffering had become physical.
“I saw Maru and Penny together again,” Leah said casually between bites. “They were on the bench near the cemetery. Looked cozy.”
Elliott raised an eyebrow. “Ever since you came out, you’ve begun to interpret every display of platonic affection as a clandestine queer romance.”
Leah smirked. “That’s because people are gay, Elliott. Sexuality is a spectrum. We exist.”
At that moment, Emily swept past their table carrying a tray of drinks. She grinned down at them, mischief in her voice. “It’s true. And you—” she pointed at Elliott with a cocktail straw—“are tragically straight.”
Elliott looked genuinely offended. “I beg your pardon. I’m a deeply nuanced individual.”
“Tragically nuanced, then,” Emily said, winking, before disappearing toward the bar again.
Leah laughed, warm and easy for the first time all day. The kind of laugh that started low and stayed with her, even as she sipped her drink and stared out the saloon window.
The sky outside was changing, just slightly. Like the light was shifting color. Like something was on their way in. Leah picked at the last leaves of her salad, pushing a soggy crouton in slow circles, and sighed.
“I haven’t finished a piece in weeks,” she muttered. “I keep starting things—wood, clay, even tried watercolor again—but nothing lands. It’s all just… shapes. Empty.”
Elliott, elbow propped on the table, was staring dramatically at the condensation on his glass. “I know precisely what you mean. I have four unfinished sonnets, two desert-themed vignettes, and one sea shanty I began in a moment of desperation. None of them make sense. It’s like my thoughts fell out of rhythm with the world.”
Leah raised an eyebrow. “You wrote a sea shanty?”
“An existential sea shanty,” he corrected, straightening with wounded dignity. “There were metaphors about lighthouses and regret.”
Just then, Emily reappeared, balancing three mismatched wine glasses and a bottle of something dark red. “Look what I found hiding behind the pickled eggs.”
“Is it wine time already?” Leah asked, amused.
“Judgy,” Elliott muttered, pulling the bottle closer. “She who hath not been possessed by the torment of the muse shall not cast the first cork.”
Emily poured for them, flashing her usual bright grin, but Leah caught something off about it—a flicker, too quick to name. Her hands moved on autopilot, but her eyes kept darting toward the bar, or maybe her phone.
As soon as Elliott excused himself to the restroom (with the declaration that “good ideas often arrive mid-urination”), Leah slid from their booth and perched on one of the closer stools by the bar. Emily was drying a glass with a slightly frayed towel, her rhythm a little off.
Leah nudged her with a soft shoulder. “You okay?”
Emily blinked, then offered a crooked little smile. “Yeah. Just… brain static. You know the kind.”
Leah nodded. “I’ve been in it too. Creative quicksand. I can’t make anything lately—not really. And the desert didn’t help. Felt like I was carrying dust instead of ideas.”
Emily put down the towel and leaned on the bar. Her eyes softened. “Hey. The festival was, what, twenty-four hours ago? You’ve got post-art burnout. You should rest a little. Seriously. Not everything has to come out of you all the time.”
Leah smirked. “I didn’t realize you’d gone full spiritual guru on me.”
“I’m like half a guru,” Emily said. “The other half is just glitter and snacks.”
Leah was about to reply when Emily’s phone lit up on the counter. She glanced at it quickly—too quickly—and smiled before locking the screen.
Leah tilted her head. “So… what’s going on between you two?”
Emily blinked. “Who?”
Leah arched a brow. “You and Sandy. And don’t dare say you’re just friends.”
Emily laughed—light, airy, a little too practiced. “We are good friends. That’s all. We hadn’t seen each other in forever, and you know how Sandy is. Warm. Familiar. Flirty without even meaning to be.”
Leah nodded, but said nothing. She watched as Emily turned away, already mid-motion back into her rhythm behind the bar, but that flutter of doubt lingered in Leah’s chest like smoke from a fire not quite put out.
Something was there. And it wasn’t just friendship.
Leah had just settled back at the bar, swirling the last of her wine and mulling over Emily’s answer—or lack thereof—when the saloon door opened, and someone unfamiliar stepped in.
A girl. Woman, really. Maybe mid-twenties, though something about her looked both young and old, like wind-polished wood or a pressed flower between pages. She had light brown hair twisted up in a lazy knot, a few strands escaping to catch the light. Beneath the collar of soft brown overalls and a linen shirt, a bracelet caught Leah’s eye: pink, blue, and purple beads threaded in a loop, like a secret half-spoken.
Leah’s artist instinct perked up immediately.
The way the fabric folded at her elbows. The sun-dust on her cheeks. The soft-focus warmth in the way she laughed—light, like windchimes on a front porch.
She didn’t know this girl. Which meant—
The newcomer moved to the counter, scanned the chalkboard menu, then told Gus, “I’ll have the fries. Extra crisp, please. I’m starving.”
Leah found herself watching—not staring, exactly, just… observing. Measuring. Wondering. The bisexual flag bracelet had definitely not gone unnoticed. Neither had the hint of grief around her eyes, the kind that didn’t announce itself but still hummed underneath, low and constant.
As if sensing the attention, the girl glanced her way and smiled. Then, to Leah’s surprise, she walked over.
“Hi,” she said. “You look local.”
Leah chuckled. “That obvious?”
“I’m Faye. Just moved here. I guess I’m your new resident farmer—took over my grandfather’s old place on the edge of town.”
“Leah,” she offered her hand. “Artist. Lake cabin.”
They shook. Faye’s grip was warm, grounded.
“You missed a pretty great festival,” Leah added, sipping her wine. “Desert-themed. Weird poetry. Glittering cacti. Very... interpretive.”
Faye frowned. “Yeah, I… I moved in early this season, actually. I’ve just been fixing up the stable. Oberon needed a warm place to sleep.”
“Oberon?”
“My horse,” Faye said, like it should have been obvious. “He’s—he’s kind of everything to me.”
Leah tilted her head, half-smiling. “Sweet. But wait… didn’t you get the mayor’s letter about the festival?”
Faye paused. “…There was a letter?”
Leah raised an eyebrow. “Did you check your mailbox?”
Faye’s eyes went wide in horror. “Do people still do that ?”
Leah laughed, full and sudden. “Yes. And now you’ve probably got an inbox overflowing with passive-aggressive notes from Lewis and a flier for JojaMart’s new fertilizer.”
At that moment, Elliott emerged from the hallway, blinking like someone who’d had a spiritual experience with a bathroom mirror. His gaze swept the room, landed on the empty booth, then snapped to Leah.
“Ah,” he said, crossing the room with a theatrical sigh, “I vanish for five minutes, and my dearest companion forsakes me for someone with a symmetrical face and excellent posture.”
“Elliott, this is Faye,” Leah said, biting back a smile. “New farmer.”
Elliott bowed slightly, the picture of dramatic charm. “A pleasure. I am Elliott, poet laureate of the coastline and recent victim of creative drought. You bring a new wind into this humble town—may your crops grow wild and your heart remain unbroken.”
Faye blinked, then laughed. “That’s a lot to wish for over fries.”
“I like her already,” he declared, settling into the empty seat beside them.
Their chat wandered easily after that—Leah listening more than speaking, her gaze flitting between Faye’s hands, the way she cradled the warm plate of food, and her voice, so quietly thoughtful when she spoke. Faye didn’t say much about her life before the valley. Just enough to hint at edges and shadows.
Eventually, Emily reappeared, carrying a tray of drinks like it weighed nothing, her earrings catching the light with every bounce of her step. She glanced toward the bar, then did a little double take when she saw the unfamiliar face beside Leah.
Curious, and ever the hostess, she veered toward them.
Leah didn’t catch every word—they were just far enough away for it all to blur—but she watched as Emily greeted Faye with her usual warmth, hands moving animatedly as she spoke. Faye introduced herself, said something that made Emily laugh, and just like that, they were off. Ten minutes passed in an easy current of conversation—soft smiles, nods, a few shared glances that lingered a moment too long to be purely casual.
Emily leaned in, gesturing with her hands as she talked about something—a memory, maybe, or an idea—and Faye listened closely, her eyes lit up in a way Leah hadn’t seen until now. There was a softness between them already, some quiet chord tuning itself without anyone noticing.
Elliott took a long sip of wine and narrowed his eyes—playfully, but with intent. Then, as if struck by sudden inspiration, he straightened and lifted his glass with a flourish.
“Hear me out—you could join us on the beach at dusk,” he said, voice rich with theatrical gravitas. “That’s when Leah and I convene for our… inspiration hours.”
Leah groaned, resting her cheek against her hand. “It’s just when the light is good.”
“And the metaphors are ripe,” Elliott added with great seriousness.
Faye laughed—an automatic sound—but just before it left her lips, Leah saw it: a flicker. A tiny pause. The way her shoulders stiffened, only for a breath, like something invisible had brushed too close. She covered it quickly with a smile.
“That sounds like a nice idea,” Faye said, her voice warm but not as easy as before. “I’ll… think about it.”
It wasn’t much. Just a note gone a little flat in a song otherwise perfectly in tune.
Leah felt Elliott glance her way. She didn’t look back, but she knew they’d both noticed it—the way something shifted behind Faye’s eyes. But neither of them said anything. They just smiled, nodded, as if nothing had changed.
“Great,” Elliott said lightly. “We’ll bring wine and absolutely no expectations.”
“Except brilliance,” Leah added. “But no pressure.”
Faye chuckled again, this time more genuinely, and they all reached for their phones to trade numbers—one more small ritual of belonging.
Soon after, the plates were empty, the glasses half-full, and the golden light of the saloon had softened into dusk-gray. They lingered a little longer, talking about everything and nothing.
But even as they laughed and clinked their glasses in easy rhythm, Leah couldn’t help thinking about that single flicker in Faye’s body language. The kind that artists notice. The kind that never quite leaves you.