all it takes is you

christian ford. 28. full-time novelist and part-time home chef (the cooking is not perfect but we're not getting hung up on that). dependent blog for @windsorbay

[christian-ford]

Christian Ford: What You Need To Know

Talkative, passionate, and strong-willed, Christian Ford is either the life of the party or the person that turns on the lights…depending on the day. In actuality, he’s a thinker, and every action means something; still, something about him remains spontaneous, as if he’s playing life by ear just as much as he’s absorbed in a world of decision. What will he do next? Read on to get some idea.

Basics

Name: Christian Victor Ford

Age: 27 (born May 9, 1997)

Gender and Pronouns: cisgender male, he/him/his

Hometown: Seattle, Washington

Occupation: published novelist (two books in a series out, with a third on its way)

Residence: a surprisingly tidy condo on Coral Coast

Brief Biography

Christian was born to two seemingly loving parents in a seemingly perfect place. If that were the case, though, why did he feel so out of step? Seattle was beautiful, at times; but Christian longed for different vistas, a place where he could “imagine”, as he put it. “Imagining” meant dreaming of different universes, different people. It meant the beginnings of what would become his occupation: writing novels.

Christian’s father Michael did not “imagine”. He charmed—neighbors, public figures, extended family (on his mother’s side). And he seemed to change in different lights—in one situation, a leader, then all at once, an avid supporter. In fact, he didn’t seem to have a personality at all. Christian suspected that his father was less than genuine when they were eating Christmas dinner one year and his father said, “I hate this.” The remark was worded so succinctly (unlike him), so callously (what Christian was forced to acknowledge was really him) that Christian could no longer deny what had been in front of him the whole time. His “businessman” of a father really dealt in promises—promises that were paper-thin.

When Christian left for college, flying halfway across the country to Chicago, he implied that he would return home. This was something that his mother, who he loved (and loves) deeply, could have discerned was false. His dad bought it, however. The college graduate that emerged from U Chicago and moved to Windsor Bay made Michael Ford absolutely livid. But that was life! If Christian’s father wanted to enter the town that his predecessors had founded, taking on the dark legacy of the Fords, he could do so. But Mr. Ford would never follow his son anywhere, least of all to a destination of Christian’s own decision. And Mr. Ford had no idea that Christian’s motivations for choosing Windsor Bay were truly Christian’s own. He liked the idea of continuing something (though he’d learn the full extent of what he’d be “continuing” later, once he’d settled into town). And he liked small towns. This would make the move well worth it.

Now Christian writes to his heart’s content, settled on the beach the way he likes. It’s not all fun and games. He’s restless; and he hates the very recent loneliness his lifestyle has granted him (via the popular duology he wrote that seemingly must be “lived up to” with a showstopper of a third novel. It’s driving him absolutely insane). But Christian will likely find that life, despite its reliability at times, doesn’t play by rules and doesn’t do what it “did before”. He’ll learn something; the only question, and one he asks himself on these new, lonely nights with his thoughts as company, is what can be taught to someone with such anger.

His secret, well-kept, is that he is deeply angry. And the kicker? It’s not directed at anything at all. That’s pretty dangerous.

Wanted Connections

Testing the Waters (1/2)—While Christian doesn’t do casual hookups anymore, he does date. (Maybe too enthusiastically… He really likes romance.) If your character (identifying as female) wants to “test the waters” with Christian, going anywhere from Java Junction to Christian’s own place to see if they have a spark, this connection is for you. And you can opt for the meet-cute, or the date itself, or even something more unique. This connection is to learn if there is a connection…or to ease into one.

Closer Than Brothers (0/2)—Christian already has a brother (who he honestly doesn’t like), but if your male character wants a close friend—someone who is loyal and dedicated to those he trusts—then this connection may be for you. Christian loves all kinds of company, but he cherishes those most who are open and real with him. Maybe that’s your character?

Taken Connections

Exes (1/1)—Christian has an ex in town, one that he fell in love with and ended things amicably with (it was a mutual agreement). But something about her still gets to him late at night… If your character wants an ex who is somewhat moody, extremely passionate, and loves both mixed signals and big gestures, this connection is for you.

[hxnrycomeon]

"You would be correct." He nodded his head. Henry got recognized a bit since he had worked at the same bar the entire time he had lived in Windsor Bay. "I'm now deadly curious about this story. You have to tell it to me."

Christian had Henry's full attention now. Whenever someone had a story to tell about Henry his mind rattled through all the potential things he could've done that left an impression. Henry had a habit of doing stupid things, and being at work never stopped him. There was a time where he tried to feed a racoon on a smoke break, and all the failed stunt attempts.

[christian-ford]

Christian groaned and put his hands over his eyes. “Oh my god. Okay. Okay, the story is coming back to me now. I’m so sorry to rope you into this, Henry. This is the most fascinating thing I heard that entire night, but oh my Lord, you do not deserve to have been talked about this way.”

Christian swallowed hard and launched into it: “So there were these two girls who were sitting on the end of the bar. One of them was young—college-aged, probably, maybe a Windsor Community College student. The other was a lot older than her. Early forties, I’d say.

“The one who was older started talking about all the ways she’d been pleasured in her romantic life. I say pleasured, and I mean everything—kissing, bedroom, the whole nine yards. I thought, okay, she likes talking about herself. But then the younger girl started spilling everything, too, and I thought, they’re leading up to something. This is something they do. They talk about themselves, and then they talk about a person that hasn’t been connected to the topic of conversation yet.

“And they kept going on and on about the ways they’d been wooed, and how their boyfriends did it ‘better’, and what their parents would think if they knew. (If they knew what? That they’d had sex? Seriously, grow up.) But then they said, ‘Henry likes it spicy, too.’ And they started cackling. Guffawing. Snorting up their drinks and wheezing. I thought, ‘Henry doesn’t even know these two’s names.’

“And the older one said, ‘His eyes are the key to his soul. You look into them, and you know he’s a wild boy.’ That may or may not be true, I have no clue. And the other one said—and I quote—‘Only for the Bossy Bitches of Windsor Wasteland.’ And she looked right at me and winked.

“They were making passes at everyone there. They wanted the bar something nasty. I tried to interrupt with my thoughts on objectifying random strangers, but the senior Bossy Bitch of Windsor Wastelend stood up and immediately threw up on the flooring.”

Christian stared blankly. “And then they left without telling anyone.”

He looked at Henry, tried to smile but could not. “So that’s my story about you and your fan club. I hope you and the Brash Bitches of Windsor Worthless are very happy together.” He finally was able to laugh, and realized once he started that he could not stop.

[aslandemirci]

Poshed and Sloshed was busy tonight– just the way Aslan liked it. If he was constantly moving through the crowd or helping out behind the bar, there was less time for his mind to linger in places it had no business dwelling in– and he was alright with that. In moments like this, the bar felt more like his saving grace, rather than the burden he hadn’t really wanted. This place hadn’t been his dream, but now it had to be, and Aslan was doing the best he could with that. But when anyone else showed interest in the bar and even went as far as to praise it, he couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride in that, even if he felt he couldn’t take credit for it.

That didn’t stop him from grinning wide when the younger male approached the bar and instantly started chatting him up, his comments rife with praise for the place. “Thank you– first time stopping by?” He asked, figuring that it probably was. First time visitors were some of his favorites because the conversation flow was usually effortless. Most of it entailed talking about his family’s legacy, the bar’s history– the easy stuff. “Yeah? Well, I can’t exactly take credit for the decor, or…much of anything, aside from keeping the drinks flowing,” he admitted, shrugging a shoulder. No, the real credit belonged to those who were no longer around to revel in it. 

“Sure– care for a drink first?” Aslan offered, gesturing at the wide selection of bottles at his back, “My storytelling tends to get better after a few.” His brother had always been better at this part– well, at every part, if Aslan was being honest, but it was his turn now and if he had any shot of living up to his brother’s example, alcohol would help. “My family actually started this place way back in the day– after they came over from Turkey,” he started, darting a look around, “can’t really tell at first glance, but there’s a few hints of our heritage lurking around if you know where to look.”

[christian-ford]

“Yeah, I’ve never been to a place that’s from the past before,” Christian joked as he sat down in a chair at the bar. “Listen, even if you aren’t in charge of the decor, I still think this place is worth discussing for at least a few moments. I mean—the walls? The ceiling? I have to hand it to you—your workplace is one of the coolest buildings in the Pacific Northwest.”

Christian eyed the bottles the man indicated and gave him a nod. “Yeah, pour me one of your favorite reds,” he told him gratefully. “I was hoping that I’d get to drink something strong tonight, but sitting in a place like this makes me want to have something smooth.”

“Turkey?!” Christian took another sweeping look at the establishment. The place was incredible—and, Christian now knew, it was culturally significant. “Listen, that’s probably the coolest thing I’ve heard all week. I’ve been meaning to learn about different cultures in Windsor Bay, and a Turkish bar being open on a street I’ve never been on is the best thing I could’ve possibly encountered tonight. Tell me, what’s your favorite thing about the historical end of the building? I bet there’s a lot of cool stuff you’ve implemented over the years, but show me something that you’ve always believed was a piece of the best part of the story.”

He shot another glance at his friend group—sitting down at a table in the back—and added, “Make it a meaningful thing.” He smiled. “I’m a writer. Meaning is what I’m all about.”

[cat-carter]

Cat couldn't have known he'd stumbled upon a snack connoisseur as soon as Christian started explaining his reasoning. Some people would have just picked something and not thought twice, but this kid seemed to be different. "You're a fucking genius, kid," Cat said softly, almost like he had been holding his breath for. Christian's answer. "I mean, I didn't know there was that much to snack options until you said it, but it makes perfect sense. Are you like some kind of psychologist or something?" Cat had met with one in prison, so he knew they were usually incredibly intelligent and wise. It wouldn't surprise him if this guy was one.

[christian-ford]

“There’s a surprising amount to snacks and food that people don’t realize,” Christian told the man earnestly. “Like, if I were to order takeout from my phone, what time would I ask for it to be delivered? Soon, or after I’m finished with whatever I’m doing? I think most people just order food for it to be delivered soon, but I’m the type of person that sees that food is an activity in its own right. And you don’t just swap out one activity for another—you do them both justice. So you should always order food to be delivered at a stopping point for your current activity.”

Christian laughed. “Yeah, I look like a psychologist after all that,” he told the man with good humor. “I think like this about everything. Hobbies, work, my random moods. I have a desire to get to the bottom of things instantly. So I’m constantly in my head about whatever’s going on at the moment…whatever it might be.”

He took a step closer to the man. “Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself,” he told him. “Not that I would’ve needed to, to preface the longest explanation of chocolate-covered foods you’ve ever heard. My name’s Christian Ford.” He held out his hand for the man to shake. “I feel like I’ve seen you around town before. No, sorry, I’m thinking of the man that works at my bank in Portland. Jesus, how did I get that confused? No, I think this is genuinely the first time we’ve met. What do you do with your time?”

[weavercaro]

Caroline smiled at everything Christian said - he genuinely seemed sweet in a very enthusiastic way. She liked that. "You've got yourself a deal." She said. "And I'm more than just a person who is passionate about music. Don't get me wrong, it's a big part of who I am, but there are other things about me, too. I also love people, and I'd love to be your friend. We can definitely find common ground."

The question Christian asked as she was sorting through the music really piqued her interest. She loved looking at instruments, and she loved when instruments had a story. A cultural tie, even. Because music was so intertwined with culture. "I can definitely give it a look." She said. "If I can't figure it out, I'll send it to a luthier in Portland who I know." A moment after she said those words, she figured she should explain to him what was a luthier. "A luthier is someone who builds and repairs stringed instruments."

Caroline nodded understandingly at his explanation. "Mothers would give their right arm to their children." She said. As a mother herself, this was something of which she was very aware. Thankfully her son was worth everything she gave him.

"That sounds brilliant. I wish I saw that." She said, when Christian mused about him and his friends singing Time After Time. "I'm quite proud of the music selection we have here."

"We can exchange numbers." She said, before pulling out her phone, unlocking it, and pulling up her contacts. "Here, add yourself." She continued, as she handed her phone over to him.

[christian-ford]

“I’m glad to hear you love people,” Christian told Caroline with a smile. “Because I’m all about people. People are the one thing that stand between me and acting like I have everything inside my world put together. Because—people like honesty. They like the truth. That’s why I didn’t try to hide the fact that I’m an absolutely hopeless case regarding music and its comprehension. I figured you’d appreciate that I was real.”

Christian put his hands in his pockets and added, “I guess loving people means I’m more unique than the person who wouldn’t do that.”

Christian nodded at Caroline’s offer to identify the children’s guitar and told her, “Thank you so much. Knowing a little more about that guitar would mean the world to me. My mom doesn’t have a lot, but that guitar means everything to her.” He knew it did. He knew she loved it more than her grandmother’s locket.

And her grandmother’s locket was the most valuable thing she ever had as her own.

“If I know enough about the instrument,” Christian explained to Caroline, “then I can help her take care of it the way she likes. She’s…quiet, about herself. So I won’t be hearing any information about the guitar that way. But having you or the luthier identify the guitar’s origin, and how good of shape it’s in, would give me the chance to respect it better. I just want to take care of what’s hers.” That was practically the most important thing in Christian’s life right then.

If his mom did end up giving him the guitar, one day, then Christian wanted to honor the years of care she’d put into it herself. He wanted to meet her halfway.

When Caroline handed Christian her phone, Christian quickly typed in his phone number and handed it back to her. “I added myself under ‘Christian Ford’,” he let her know quietly. “You can text me whenever you want, and I’ll add you to my contacts then.” That was often the easiest way to get someone’s number into an iPhone, rather than navigating the contacts app. “And I’ll text you my progress videos with ‘Wonderwall’. I would never want to keep you out of the loop on how I’m learning as a total newbie.”

He smiled at her. “Because I know that means a lot to you. Watching people learn how to do music is your whole life. I want to include you in my journey.”

And he let his shoulders relax.

[leylademircii]

"Never settle for Tito's and lemonade," Benny said with a grimace, knowing all too well how likely it was that more than one night had been ruined by that sort of idea. His bartenders were hand-picked, really, a team of people who worked well under pressure and always made sure the customers had a good time when they could. It was an atmosphere the former owner had instilled in Benny when he was a mere bartender, and it was exactly the vibe he nurtured now. "Hey, if you can't convince someone you're a good match at Shooters, then there's not really much you can do to salvage the relationship. Even I fell for it once." He realized the statement had come out before he could stop it, so Benny cleared his throat and tried not to blush at the compliments from this kid.

He opened his mouth to push back against the what Christian said to the small crowd of people, instantly stopping when the older woman pushed back. Standing there, jaw dropped, Benny rested his hands on his hips. "Thank you, Lorraine," Benny said and gave her a wave. Lorraine instantly blushed and nodded back at Benny. He knew she'd always commented on his 'tight ass' after a few drinks, but he'd never held it against her. She was a regular that went way back, almost as far back as Sandy did.

He took one of the carts and started pushing it toward the store. "You're pretty good with words, you know that? If we ever need to do any real marketing, I might have to call you up. You make my bar sound like I'm saving lives or something."

[christian-ford]

Christian hummed. “Pretty good with words… I’d say I’m above average with words, but not super. I’m a professional writer, but I’m not the best speaker. I forget what I’m trying to communicate.” (Christian had already forgotten what he was trying to learn about Benny.)

“Listen,” Christian told Benny sincerely, “I get not believing that a bar is important. It’s a location, it doesn’t matter to people past the time they’re there, etcetera, etcetera. I don’t believe that’s true. I believe locations matter, I believe people always care about the places they’ve had a good time, and I believe you should recognize that in all likelihood, your bar has saved a life. Maybe five. Maybe ten. Nobody tells you what they think about your work, but your work always matters to people who were missing it from their lives. Saving a life isn’t about making someone better; it’s about making someone happy. Just for a moment. That’s enough. And when you’ve made someone happy, you’ve given them a reason to keep doing everything they do. That’s what your bar does, Benny.”

Christian chuckled. “And I’ll help with your marketing, but I swear to God, if you make me talk about your drink specials, I’ll insist that people order more than one. So they know they can drink without leaving the instant they’ve finished their first. The crowd that gets one drink special is the weakest kind of person there is.”

[camilapardo]

Camila had doubled over laughing the moment Christian ducked his head like the produce gods had him on surveillance. “Okay, okay!” she wheezed through laughter. “I won’t say ‘test’ again, I promise! I’m not tryna get smited over a $6 pineapple.” And when he brought up the plastic bags, she did remember—vividly. That night at Shooters, him cradling a gin and tonic while venting passionately about the impossible sorcery that was separating a single bag from the roll. “You and those produce bags have real beef,” she said, grinning. “I swear, if the gods are doing anything, they’re making the plastic thinner every week just to watch you suffer. That’s the real divine punishment.” Then came his line about being Shakespearean—dramatic, layered, teetering between earnest and jest—and Camila just arched a brow at him with a smirk. “You’re totally being serious and joking right now. Schrödinger’s dramatic bitch. That’s your whole vibe.”

She didn’t say anything at first when he told her about the flan cake, but her heart softened in a way that made her briefly go quiet, a fondness settling in. “Okay, hold on—she made you a flan with sentiment? That is the most wholesome curse I’ve ever heard in my life.” Her eyes flicked to his, warm and sincere. “That’s beautiful, Christian. You know that, right?” As they approached the cart corral, Camila launched into narration mode like it was second nature—because honestly, with him around, it kind of was. He pulled a sense of play out of her that she didn’t always know she still had. “If this were a video game,” she said between smiles, “we’d be leveling up right now. Cart-quest complete. Bonus points for charm and charisma.”

But then Christian said something that caught her entirely off guard.

“I don’t think I have another friend like you, Camila.”

Camila blinked. It wasn’t often someone said something so plainly kind to her. And for it to come from Christian—who could be biting, clever, funny, mysterious—it made it feel that much more real. She tilted her head at him, a softness blooming in her expression that didn’t show up for just anyone. “Hey,” she said gently, “thank you for saying that. And for trusting me with your shark-themed cupcake journey. That’s no small thing.” Her smile widened as she kept walking. “Honestly? I think the ‘bartender’ thing is just the universe’s excuse for putting people in each other’s lives who actually get each other. You’re way more than just another regular at the bar to me. I’d say I’m emotionally invested in your baking arc and your existential grocery saga.” As he sighed wistfully over tortilla chips, Camila snorted. “You gotta stop getting seduced by popcorn. That’s what they want. It’s the trap aisle.”

Then, Christian matched her tone instantly when she went for the dramatic, “Here’s the deal.” She cracked up at his “What’s the deal, Camila?” like they were longtime cohosts of some grocery-themed buddy comedy. She shook his hand firmly like a pact had been made—because it had. “Perfect. Legends only,” she said. And then: cart time. She stood back, biting her lip in anticipation like they were at an auction or a reality show reveal. When Christian jostled his cart out of the corral and it clearly betrayed him, Camila gasped dramatically, a hand to her chest. “No! Not the front right! That’s the worst one!” She peeked down at the busted wheel like it had personally offended her. “You’re doing too much. It’s dead to us. We leave it for the next unlucky soul.” Christian’s exasperation made her laugh again—she liked seeing him drop the cool and let the chaos win, even for a second. It made him feel more human, more hers. She grabbed the next cart and pulled it out with a slow, reverent motion like she was summoning a sword from a stone. It rolled. Smoothly. No noise. Her eyes went wide. “Christian,” she whispered. “She’s perfect.” She reached for a second one, dragging it out like a magician revealing the second act of a trick. That one… squeaked a little. Camila paused, looked at him solemnly. “Okay, so here’s the situation. One of these is an angel from above, and one is, like, passable, but not competition-level. I vote you take the good one. I’ll train with the underdog.” She grinned. “Unless you wanna rock-paper-scissors for the golden chariot. But fair warning: I play to win.”

[christian-ford]

“Divine punishment for real. I believe every time I try and fail to use a produce bag, my name is recorded again in the Hall of Punishment that exists solely to oversee local grocery stores. And when I succeed, they write it twice. So when I go to the grocery store next time, they know how miserable to try and make me. But I’m not buying it. Camila, I love the grocery store. Did I tell you that? It’s my happy place. Hall of Punishment, get fucked.”

Christian answered Camila, “If I were joking right now, would I do this?” He pulled out his car keys and dropped them on the ground. “Oh no! What will I do? I guess I’ll have to give a Shakespearean monologue about this divine injustice. Only a Shakespeare type would get that.” Shakespeare was exclusively about people creating problems for themselves and monologuing about it.

Christian laughed and winked. “Schrödinger’s dramatic bitch, and produce bag expert. You learn only by failing. That’s why the Hall of Punishment has it out for me for simultaneously being the man who can’t open those stupid bags and the man who is determined to open them, no matter what. They have a numerical algorithm to find Schrödingers. Learners. That’s the name thing I was talking about.” Christian chuckled. “But I wouldn’t expect anyone to want to hear about my theories. They’re based exclusively on thoughts I have in response to offhand remarks like the one you started this conversation with.”

He’d retrieved his car keys and was still holding them in his right hand. “That’s the nice thing about you, Camila—you absolutely have those kinds of thoughts, too. You one hundred percent do.” He grinned. “And if I drop my car keys again,” he told her, holding them up to show her, “you’ll one hundred percent have the material to monologue both intelligently and humorously about it. Which is why I’m showing them to you. Because you’ll want to include how stupid they look in your speech.” Buttons everywhere. “Which button is your initial favorite?”

“My charisma score is off the charts,” Christian told Camila a little later, as she was discussing their quest. “Because I worked to level it up as a high school Dairy Queen employee.” He’d let her choose to inquire about that or not.

After Camila had said her piece regarding Christian’s thoughts on their friendship, Christian found himself just nodding. Camila was absolutely right—they were very compatible with each other, regardless of life or background. He intended to show her that he would never take that for granted, even if the obstacles in their lives had other plans.

“We’ll hang out sometime for real,” Christian told her sincerely. “Go to Daring Daiquiri, drink until we’re intoxicated and discuss the live bands. That’s the best thing I can think to offer you.”

Camila’s retrieval of the squeaky second grocery cart disappointed Christian. He didn’t know why he’d gotten his hopes up. Two good grocery carts, during the same trip to the grocery store? He wondered why people even tried for good luck at all.

Then he realized that he was misreading it. Christian had, without knowing it, come upon an opportunity.

“Okay,” Christian said, and he found himself smiling without meaning to. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take the squeaky cart. And, if at the end of our mutual trip to the grocery store—because we’re sticking together once we get inside—it’s not squeaking…I’ll give you my first cupcake.” (Everyone knew what the first cupcake was. It was the one you poured into the pan first. It was always the perfect size.) “And if it is squeaking, I’ll give you half of ‘em.”

He smiled at her. “How much do you like bets?”

The bet was this: Christian would witness the grocery cart become good before the end of their trip…

…or “I’ll pay up in shark cupcakes if I’m wrong about this.” He smiled again. “But I’m not.”

(He knew he’d pay up in shark cupcakes anyway.)

(Christian had witnessed a squeaky grocery cart become “good” once before…and he hadn’t forgotten it.)

[rwriley]

“so why didn't you? say something bad about it, i mean.” in true kiernan style, the first thing out of his mouth is attempting to ensure that the opposite side is seen and or heard — always argumentative, the goldstein gene coming to the forefront. blah blah blah something about lawyers and footsteps he'd always learned to tune out in favor of throwing his football down the field or into a car window. the second one is only imaginary, but he wished so much. “yeah, but you don't wanna be too old school that you sound like a fuckin' weirdo, you know?" he wonders if that's what she was like – she was already buying into the nostalgia of it all, apparently. “you did say ex- girlfriend, didn't you? if not – man, the fuck?” he makes a face. "though if she likes the seventies so much, she could probably find one of those larp groups. that's all they do, pretend they're there. sounds like'a load'a bulslhit to me, and kind of boring and weird, but what do i know? better than those war reenactments.” they're not weird, really, but they're not for kiernan. he'd laugh at their wigs and pretend to live that meme about showing a kid from early life an iphone or something.

another face. kiernan has never been subtle, even as a child — there's no poker face to be found with this one, expression always worn and never given anyone benefit of the doubt when it comes to the art of not knowing what he was thinking. it was always written on his face. “well that doesn't make sense.” it does, but the notion of it, he feels, is stupid. “why would you not want to have an opinion on things? they should learn to go online, then, everyone says shit they think all the time and get into fights about it. pineapple of pizza, if the dress is red or black or whatever the hell. perceptions and all that.” he'd learned about it in class, and while interesting, kiernan had tuned it out. a mental note to go back and read the notes shared on brightspace, just for kicks. “if they're gonna be a boring fuck, i don't want a conversation with ‘em. you know? don’t want to bore myself to death, revive then die again because they said one interesting thing in all of thirty minutes.” dramatic, well yes, but also true. he'd never been one of those people to do small talk just to do it.

a pause, thinking. “so that's what you moved here for – start fresh?' as much as kiernan loves to assume ( it's like an old friend, giving him a hug or pat on the shoulder when he gets it right ) he knows it might not be the case. ”you picked the right place. boring as all get out once you've explored every corner." not to sound like an old hag, but he remembers what it was like when he was young – going out with friends and finding new places, new things to do. now it feels like every street light is mocking his return. “there's a lot of people who talk, though,” including himself, “so be careful. rumors and shit. you know the deal, people never leaving themselves alone and letting situations die. ruminating on them.” he learned that word recently. “they still talk about miss jenkins and cheating on her husband from when i was a kid, which was like, twenty fuckin' years ago. she doesn't even live here anymore.” the whole thing still cracks him up a bit, as if they're beating on a long since gone horse. 

brows furrow. “you make it sound like it was ten years ago – was it?” christian has a wistful way of talking. one he'd expect from an author, nonetheless, and it was charming enough to make kiernan endeared. so little people in this damn town have whimsy, romanticize it all. a dying breed that can't be revived in the age of tiktok comments and the harlem shake or whatever. the question has him pausing. there were moments in time, particularly when he was younger and tended to care more about what others things .. those ages of needing to be, like, perfect. the perfect son, which makes his skin crawl even now, the perfect heir or whatever the hell was laid before him before the choices were laid out in front of him. “i mean – sometimes? but not really. football was kind of for me, and what anyone else thought about it i didn't really pay too much attention to.” there were moments of self insecurity, during games and when his family was in town to watch .. but he was good. he had to be, to play on a college team, did he not? he stops, though mind still running ten thousand miles a minute. “so you don't want to be nice?” he's missing the point, kiernan feels — kiernan kind of gets it, but also doesn't. it's weird. he wants to open christians brain and study it, like in a lab. “there's nothin' wrong with mundane if that's what you want. the only thing is when you're livin' for someone who ain't yourself, because, like, why would you do that?” a tough pill of his own to swallow, years ago. 

“oh, yeah,” he pats around for a few moments, picking the device out of his hoodie pocket and messing with it for a few moments before handing it over. maybe kie should be a bit less lenient about handing over his device to a stranger, but, well. “i dunno about cool. i think it's more off brand annoying than anything, but, hey,” a grin. “if it gets me certified cool status? fuck yeah, man. i wanna hear more ‘bout this book business. maybe you could do a signing at one’a the bookstores. if that's what you want.”

[christian-ford]

Christian let his eyes roll of their own accord at his ex. “I don’t know. You’re correct—I possessed every opportunity to let this woman know that I disagreed with her in nearly every way about the seventies…but never did. Since I liked her too much, wanted her to like me too much, thought that the seventies could become a sticking point between us. The seventies are too divisive for their own good.” He didn’t dislike the seventies; he just didn’t think it was all sequins and flowers. “I’ve found that I end up saying the least to people I need to be saying everything to. That’s my whole issue.” (Exhibit A: Phoebe.) “And you’re right, old school in the extreme is horrible. I had a basic physics professor at college who was so old school, he acted like America had just emerged from the second world war…and relied exclusively on highly offensive World War II examples for the physics explanations. And I had a freshman-year classmate who was so in love with the 20’s, she constantly dressed like Charlie Chaplin. Could’ve made it work, but the obsession made it weird.” And Christian nodded at the man’s statement: “Yep, we did not work out. She wanted to study abroad in Germany; I wanted to have a significant other who wasn’t looking for every excuse to dump me and post Instagram stories with German university students. Which did end up happening. She’s married now to a study-abroad student she met during another semester abroad, that one in Portugal, so…I guess breaking up was the right thing for her in the end. But come on—he has to be sick of flower power and disco fever right now. Probably likes that she’s passionate about something, and that’s why they’re a good match.”

Christian laughed hard about the man’s comment about LARP. “I know exactly what you’re talking about,” he told the man, nodding his head. “There was a big group in Seattle that met up in one of the local parks every Thursday… I don’t know what they were trying to roleplay.” And the man was right—war reenactments had to suck on some level.

Christian’s eyebrows rose at the man’s response to his thoughts on opinions. “Oh, my God, I completely agree with you,” he said to him. “It’s hard, having conversations with people who don’t put thought into things. I end up doing it because I love people and I love learning about them, regardless of what their communication style is, but…it’s a drag.” Christian instantly recalled that calling something “a drag” was what had started he and the man’s conversation in the first place. “If you don’t mind me using the term twice.”

But, Christian was forced to admit, “there’s something about real interactions—regardless of what they’re like—that keeps me coming back. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know why I’m that way at all. But I meet boring people all the time, and people who aren’t trying, and people who don’t care, and I talk to them anyway. I have no idea what that means about me.”

Christian had had no idea that the people of Windsor Bay were gossiping. And he’d lived here for six fucking years.

“Oh, shit,” Christian said softly. “They’re talking about me behind the scenes. Oh, my God… I’ve misjudged Windsor Bay. I thought people were bringing me to mind so easily when I saw them again because they were people people like me. But they’re ruminating. Oh, shit… I haven’t done anything bizarre in my time here—except for make one music store owner think I was absolutely insane for my complete ineptitude with anything music—but I’ll need to remember this in the future. Thanks for looking out for me, man.”

Christian nodded at the man’s question. “Six years, almost exactly,” he told him with a faint smile. “It’s been a long time since I arrived.” At the man’s next comment, Christian nodded again and smiled: “Good for you. Ignoring what other people think of you is the key to happiness. You were looking at it right.”

At the next comment, however, Christian gave a long sigh. “I…yeah. I have the innate urge to not be nice. It’s very well-hidden, but it’s real as hell. I worked hard when I got here to rebrand completely—say the polite thing, offer to help people, listen when I just want to talk. I’m not naturally like that. I know—anyone who’s interacted with me in the past, like, month would say the opposite—they’d say I’m nice as hell. But I’m rude, when I don’t think about it. I always do these days.”

Christian glanced at the grocery store again and let the truth come out: “I’m actually very mean. In my mind.” In his private hours, when he had time to think…he was brutally, callously rude. That was something he couldn’t stop.

He glanced at the other man, and smiled. “But I genuinely like people. It’s a balance—thinking the worst of someone’s character, thinking the best of their actions. I hate how people view the world, and love how they navigate it. Complicated. Weird. But that’s me.”

And when the other man offered his cell phone, Christian took it and began to type “Christian ‘Old School’ Ford”. “I promise,” Christian told him as he typed in his number, “I’m never a dick. Just jaded. And you can trust that I’m a good person, because that’s what I’m all about. Morality is what I’m passionate about.”

Christian handed the phone back to the other man and said, “But I will tell you: I wanted to say something very nasty and very crude to the guy who took the grocery cart from us. That’s what I’m talking about.” He half smiled. “I’m a work in progress. Hey, here’s my phone.” Christian opened up his contacts on his phone and gave the device to the other man.

“I did not get annoying vibes at all, by the way. And I will tell you all about the book business, and the book signings I have done at both of the bookstores in town, and the awful internet memes I’ve seen comparing my books to other authors’ as if we’re horses in a race. If that’s what you want.” Christian put his hands in his pockets and waited.

[chesneyrags]

She was no stranger to older men dating younger women, either. It had always seemed like at least one of her father's closest confidantes was dating someone controversially younger than him. "I don't mind tangents," she said, a gentle smile on her lips as she thought about the last bit of his statement. "I'm glad you and I are in the same world," she added softly, hoping he understood the weight of what she was saying. Christian was nothing like the men her dad spent most of his time with—likely the same men his father hung around. Christian and Chesney really were different, and finding someone like him in spite of all the men they knew was exciting for her, because it gave her hope.

When Christian explained that he drove fast, Chesney chuckled softly and gave him a nod. "Duly noted," she replied, "and your logic is spot on, Christian. I can't argue with a single point. I don't mind a little recklessness, you know, as long as it's relatively safe, all things considered." She didn't know just how deeply that statement would come across, but it was true. As much as she'd been the ever-perfect daughter, Chesney did indulge in little rebellions now and then. Nothing too wild, nothing noteworthy, but just enough to keep herself feeling alive from time to time.

When he turned them down a different route, Chesney raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "Oh, that's impressive," she said. "I bet you know all the secret shortcuts around town, don't you? I have a feeling spending time with you will be very enlightening, Ford." Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Chesney leaned onto the center console a little more, letting herself appreciate the view of Christian driving.

"I didn't have to work today, thankfully." Placing an elbow on the console, Chesney rested her chin on her hand. "Honestly? Don't judge me for this, but I spent most of the day getting ready for the date. Not that I needed all that time, I was just so excited for it." She could feel her cheeks warming slightly, knowing a little blush was creeping back over her face. "By the way, you look incredible. I got so excited that I forgot to mention it." Chesney reached her free hand over and gave his forearm a squeeze, letting her palm move back and forth over it a little. "This is a great color on you."

[christian-ford]

In the same world. As Chesney finished the statement, Christian got chills. Not from the truth value of the statement (although it was apt—Chesney and Christian belonged to the same world, rightfully so), but from the pure feeling that the statement gave him. Not so long ago, Christian had been a college student fearing his father’s condemnation. His distaste. (While Christian couldn’t have cared less about people like Michael Ford’s opinions, he did care about their takeaways from Christian’s actions—Christian’s deeds were everything to him, and those not coming across well was potentially devastating.) And yes, Christian had left all that behind…but the sense Christian got that Chesney knew exactly what that felt like—what that still felt like, on Christian’s worst days—remained.

Chesney was in Christian’s world. Not the unfairly privileged. And she wanted to be there.

Christian gave Chesney a soft smile, rubbing her knuckles with his right thumb. “I can’t tell you what that means,” he said to her sincerely. “Because I’ve struggled with belonging in that other world. And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else—truly, nowhere—than on your front step, letting you know that you make me feel more myself and that you make me want to enjoy life. The way we’re doing tonight. I am so grateful for what we’re doing.”

Then, on the drive to Maple Grove, Chesney surprised Christian even further. She told him that she didn’t mind recklessness, as long as it was relatively safe. That was refreshing. That was…something new.

“I mentioned earlier that I had issues with belonging to other situations, other activities than the ones you and I prefer,” said Christian. “I was referencing my awful father. I have really no relationship with him at all… I cut him cleanly out of my life when I graduated college in 2019 and moved to Windsor Bay. But that man, he didn’t take it lying down. He’s part of a tradition…well, you probably already know about the Ford family. The connotations. The tales.

“I don’t buy into becoming like the people who preceded you. But he sincerely does. He’s constantly vying to outdo the people who preceded him, but pay them respect by behaving just like them. Respect is his favorite concept. And my dad, he intimated that by being a risk-taker—by being a little wild—I was disrespecting everything. The legacy, the family, the things that matter. Michael Ford was the perfect successor—Michael’s my dad’s name—and Christian Ford was the man who strayed a little too far.

“And I strayed primarily by being genuine. I was too soft in one light and too reckless in another; I loved to protect the little things in my world—something that Fords apparently can’t afford to do—and I also loved to get wild, have fun. Something my father and grandfather would frown upon. But the thing is, Chesney, is that—if you take away my sentimentality and my love of a good time…what the hell is left? Nothing. Nothing. That’s…just my personality. My father claimed to be looking out for all of us, but he was really looking out for the surface appearance of his personal legacy. His personal perception; just him. He didn’t care about me or my mother. And that’s a tragedy.

“So I try not to be like Michael Ford. But I also try not to be like myself, because I still remember those things he told me when I was young. When I was still listening. And Chesney, hearing you say that you don’t mind me driving 10 miles over the speed limit is wonderful. It’s exactly what I needed. Thank you, sincerely.” He reached across the console and squeezed her hand.

“And yes,” he added with a chuckle, “I do know a ton of great shortcuts. You and I will be getting to our present and future dates in the time it takes to plan them.” He grinned.

Hearing that Chesney had spent so much time preparing for their date tonight was hugely gratifying. Christian beamed and told her, “I’m so happy you wanted to think about tonight for longer than a few passing moments. My expectation is that people like going on dates, with me or otherwise, for the fact that it’s a date just as much as they like the getting-to-know-a-person part. Like, they treat the date as something that happens to them. The fact that you thought about tonight the way you did shows that you’re interested in me. As a real person. That’s huge.”

Then Christian said, “I’m so curious as to the similarities in our dating lives. Like, have you experienced the same lack of presentness in your past dates as I have, or was that just something that afflicted me in my mid-twenties?” He glanced at Chesney with a smile. “I bet you had a ton of people trying to schedule dates with you after, like, the worst first dates imaginable. I bet your potential suitors phoned it in on the early stuff because they were nervous, then realized their mistake once they realized you’re a catch and instantly became your biggest fans.” He laughed.

And Christian blushed at Chesney’s compliment. (She clearly had a hold on him.) “Wow, thank you, Chesney,” he told her, half-smiling. “I tried to do something chic. This color was one I didn’t think would look good on me, but I gave it a try and it actually is killing it. I’ll take suggestions from you on any future looks—I have no attachment to literally anything I’ve worn in the past.”

As Christian and Chesney neared downtown, Christian turned to look at Chesney (during a red light) and asked her, “So how have you been feeling about your job lately? I know that being a nurse can be uplifting, when things go well, but I know it can also be really tough when things don’t go the way you want. You’re so strong for doing it every day. What’s been the thing that’s empowered you, during your shifts lately? What’s been the thing that’s made you want to try really hard?” He hoped she was enjoying everything she was doing at work. That wasn’t always the reality of being a nurse, but he wanted her to feel good about what she was doing for everyone else. That was what she deserved.

[christian-ford]

closed starter for @coupdejin location: coral coast neighborhood

The street was lined with cars and flowers and neighborly intentions, and everything was very normal.

That was, except for The Man, getting out of his car right in front of Christian (as he walked down the sidewalk). In broad daylight.

What the actual hell?

“Hey,” Christian called out to The Man; he jogged a little closer just to be able to conduct this conversation more politely. “I’m sorry, this is coming out of the blue—but you are a legend among my friend group.”

They’d started seeing The Man a couple weeks ago, from Christian’s kitchen window; Wade had sworn that he had to be a vampire. Because—why would you be consistently be arriving home from some presumably-fashionable (The Man wore the coolest clothes) place in the middle of the night if you weren’t a vampire lord in hiding?

Christian had proposed that The Man was a chronic partier. Yes, even on weekdays. (Christian had confirmed for the group that, on weekdays, The Man did do the exact same thing.) Francis and Kole had argued that The Man was in a relationship and constantly trying to impress his partner (hence the cool clothes and late nights every night).

And Darian had argued that The Man was a K-pop veteran who was 1) hiding from their past life and 2) had not adjusted to Pacific Standard Time yet. Well, maybe.

“I just have to tell you…without even speaking to any of us, you’ve inspired hours of conversations about vampires, daily schedules, and even celebrity. My friends and I are convinced you have to be something special. Because…you’re always getting home at, like…oh dark thirty. And wearing the sickest clothes. We got obsessed with your, well, mystery.

“So.” Christian glanced off to the side (hopefully this wasn’t the weirdest thing this man had ever heard) and offered a smile. “Please enlighten me on why it is you’re out so late. Looking fresh as hell.”

[camilapardo]

Camila barked a laugh—sharp and genuine—as Christian spun the grocery store into a divine morality gauntlet. “Okay, wait. You’re telling me that not only is the grocery store a test, but the minute we acknowledge the test as a test, it evolves into, like… advanced mode?” She shook her head with faux seriousness, eyes narrowing as if scanning the sky for a surveillance drone. “You’re right. We have to keep it lowkey. The oat milk gods are listening. And they’re vengeful.”

There was something about Christian’s voice that had sounded familiar from the second he spoke, but it was only when he glanced at her like that—like they’d shared more stories than they actually had—that it clicked for her too. Shooters. Karaoke nights. Him singing badly on purpose until suddenly he wasn’t. She tilted her head and gave him a knowing smile, a little slower, a little softer. “Honestly, I should’ve guessed it was you when I heard someone talking like a Shakespearean rebel philosopher while trying to chase down a grocery cart. That’s very on brand.”

His story about soccer and Scotty earned a wince and a smirk. “Classic Windsor Bay,” she echoed, shaking her head. “There’s no in-between here. Either you get maimed by someone’s cart because they’re fighting their own demons in aisle five, or you get offered free tamales by someone’s abuela while you’re looking at canned beans.” Her expression turned wry. “Scotty sounds like he walked so Cart-Ram Lady could run.”

She marched with him toward the cart corral, slipping into the shared theatricality of it with ease. “Okay, grocery warriors,” she intoned, like she was about to narrate a trailer for an epic movie. “This is where our story begins. Somewhere out there—beneath the fluorescent sky of this very parking lot—two humble carts await their chosen ones. May they squeak no more.” She glanced at him over her shoulder with mock gravity. “If they do, we return them. We do not settle.”

Christian’s delivery about cupcakes pulled a grin so wide it practically crinkled the corners of her eyes. “You never told me this. And by the way, you’ve now entered sacred territory—cupcakes are an art form and a lifestyle. This is the kind of mission that builds character, and possibly carpal tunnel from all the piping bags.” When he showed her the cupcake photo, Camila stopped walking for a second just to properly take it in. “Are you kidding me? They have tiny life preservers. Christian, this is peak ambition. Shark Week meets Great British Bake-Off. I fully support this journey. I want updates. I want progress shots. I want to be emotionally invested.”

She smiled, tucking her phone into her bag. “As for me? My mission is far less noble. I’m here for the usual: coffee, tortilla chips, and enough limes to make it look like I’m preparing for a citrus-based emergency.” A beat. “Also maybe marshmallows, but only because I saw a hot chocolate recipe that promised to ‘change my life,’ and I’m weak for internet food lies.”

Camila leaned in conspiratorially as they neared the carts. “Okay, Christian, here's the deal. If we each find a cart that doesn’t sound like it’s screaming for help, we name them, we take a selfie, and we consider this whole trip a success—no matter how overpriced the oat milk or how spiritual the ruin.”

She extended her hand like they were sealing a pact. “Deal?”

[christian-ford]

“Don’t acknowledge the ‘test as a test’ as a test as a test anymore, Camila, they’re watching us right now!” Christian mimed ducking his head and ended up laughing hard. As Camila said they had to keep it lowkey, he just nodded: “Get these vengeful gods out of my life now. I can’t stand what they’re doing to the plastic bags.”

(Camila might or might not remember this, but Christian had told her the first time she’d ever served him about his difficulty opening the plastic produce bags at the grocery store.)

Christian raised his brows and said, “I am Shakespearean. Shakespeare is very high-stakes, very high-drama. That’s me to a T.” He grinned. “Am I being serious or am I joking right now?” (This was his favorite game to play when getting to know someone better.)

When Camila mentioned abuelas handing out free homemade goods in the grocery store, Christian instantly told her, “I got a flan cake once from someone who recognized me from a book signing.” Señora Morales. “She told me that she’d made it with ‘sentiment’, whatever that meant or means, and that it contained solid love.” Christian closed his eyes. “I would not trade living in this town for the world.”

He really did like the other people here…as trying as the task of being somewhere distant from the world was.

Camila’s narration was perfect. Christian was this close to suggesting that she go into narration, or voiceovers for commercials. “Grocery warriors,” Christian repeated with a happy smile. (As opposed to a sarcastic one, which was common on Christian.) Camila had a way of centering Christian; when she did things, or when she talked about the world, Christian felt as if he could do anything and no one would wonder about it. He was empowered with her. He wondered what that meant for their developing friendship.

Maybe she’ll express something similar if I describe that, he thought hopefully.

“Listen,” Christian began, but then he spotted something that made him trail off. There was a strange gentleman wearing a trench coat that was walking across the grass, away from the parking lot. He decided not to tell Camila. She would think that guy authored the test as a test.

“Never mind,” Christian ended up saying, as he had completely forgotten what he was even thinking about.

When Camila responded so positively to his cupcake goal, Christian grinned. And when he showed her the shark cupcake photo and she professed complete support—down to the progress shots—he told her, “I don’t think I have another friend like you, Camila.”

That was what he’d wanted to say!

“I have all these friends who, like, want to eat the cupcakes but don’t want to see me put too much liquid in the frosting and thin it out beyond salvaging. To be fair, no one wants to see that. But my friends are, like, obsessed with the good times, and not at all about the…what did you just say? ‘Emotional investment’? This is The Little Red Hen, isn’t it?” Christian cackled. “What I was going to say was, they don’t care. Not like a friend would. And you’re my bartender, and you and I haven’t really hung out in a fun setting ever, and you give me way more support than the boys ever have.”

Christian put a hand behind his head and sighed. “I just…want to thank you for being so real. And being such a real friend. I recognize it. I know other people may not recognize it. But I for sure do. Thanks, Camila.”

As Camila described her grocery list, Christian sighed blissfully. “Oh, to have tortilla chips whenever you want them,” Christian said wistfully. “I always forget to pick them up. I think I see the popcorn and always go for that instead.”

When Camila prefaced her next statement with “here’s the deal”, Christian automatically said, “What’s the deal, Camila?” He listened to her proposal carefully. “Deal,” he said immediately, giving her hand a solid shake. “I’m taking a selfie, and I’m posting it to my Instagram. That’s the one where everyone knows I’m famous.” (“Famous” was in the eyes of millions of book nerds.)

They neared the carts. Christian jostled his out of the corral first. It was bad.

“Fuck,” said Christian. Then he immediately looked around for potential abuelas or abuelos who had overheard. “Sorry, I just—this cart has something wrong with it. It’s not rolling right.”

He found the culprit—a busted right front wheel. “It’s the one on the right,” he told Camila as if she was monitoring his examination. “Right front. It’s—the wheel—it’s pointed to the side. I’m having to do all the work.”

He lowered his head in defeat, backing away from the carts with his disappointing haul in tow. “Your turn, Camila,” he told her, sending up a loud prayer that the cart would be absolutely perfect.

Maybe they’d have a decent grocery trip after all, if that came to pass—

“Oh, fuck it,” Christian said roughly. “Camila, sorry, but pull out two. This one is not cutting it for me.”

He rejected his grocery chariot in favor of something more noble. Camila had been right after all—if they got a squeaky one, or one that Christian literally couldn’t push, they did not settle. He smiled at the notion.

[cat-carter]

↦ closed starter  / christian ford @christian-ford ↦ location: dollar pantry

Cat had always had something of a sweet tooth and a salty tooth, and most of the little commissary he had in prison had gone toward snacks he definitely didn't need. It only made sense that he'd end up at dollar pantry on payday, if only because he needed to spend his money somehow... Well, at least what wasn't going toward bills. "Alright," he said to the stranger standing nearby, "help a guy out, will ya? I can't decide if I want these chocolate covered pretzels, or if I want the chocolate covered potato chips over there. Realistically, they're both going to satisfy the salty-but-sweet craving, but what kind of crunch sounds better to you?"

[christian-ford]

The Dollar Pantry was the best place to go for sour gummy bears. No one else carried the kind of sour gummy bears that the Dollar Pantry did; and, they were cheap as hell.

Christian was browsing through the displays as if he had something else in mind (which he very much didn’t—every dollar bill he had was going to more gummy bears) when the man next to him inquired about chocolate covered snacks. This was an interesting question. Christian knew very well that the chocolate-covered pretzels would be a good late-night snack (based on personal experience in college), whereas the chocolate-covered potato chips would satisfy any instant cravings. Still, he thought carefully about his answer.

“You’re gonna wanna go with the potato chips,” Christian told the other man confidently. He paused. “Why? Well, it stands to reason that you came to the Dollar Pantry wanting something you could eat right away. If you were looking for snacks for later, even a day or two later, you’d save it for the grocery store. The candy aisles there are massive. But Dollar Pantry is for people who want to tear into what they buy the first second they can, and potato chips are the perfect tear-into-and-enjoy food.”

He smiled. “Hopefully that sounds good to you. If it doesn’t, go with the pretzels. I’m not always right.”

[leylademircii]

I've heard about you before.

If Benny had a nickle for every time he'd been told that, he'd sell Shooters and move to Mexico and never work another day in his life. Okay, well, maybe not... But he'd be a hell of a lot richer. "I'm glad you like it over at Shooters," he replied with a chuckle, both grateful for the kind words form the kid about his bar and the straightforwardness of his bartenders. He knew better than anyone just how big of an asshole he was, and he didn't blame a single person for saying that he was one. "Well, can't say they're lying," Benny said, reaching up to rub his hand over his chin. He looked the kid over, wondering briefly how much of a chance he stood with him, before opting not to try it. The last thing he needed was to get a reputation for picking up every twenty-something in Windsor Bay, and this was a fucking grocery store parking lot for Christ's sake.

He had to admit, there were plenty of people who didn't think he was the best, necessarily. He'd thrown plenty of people out of his bar, threatened to throw out twice as many. There were kids who tried to sneak in with fakes, the guys who got drunk off their ass and poured into a cab and ended up with a wildly high tip added to their tab courtesy of Benny's policies... He was no saint, that was for sure. "I don't know that I'm the best, but I like to think my staff is," he said finally. "We're a great team. That probably makes me look a lot better than I am... But I'm also an asshole, don't lie to yourself or to me."

[christian-ford]

Christian just laughed. “Like it over at Shooters,” he said as more a statement than a rhetorical question. “If I could recall the number of times my night has been saved by Shooters—when literally everyone else is insisting we should just buy Tito’s and lemonade and make our own goddamn cocktails—I would be sounding a lot more grateful right now.” He shook his head. “Like it…I used to—I once—I made a date drive me to Shooters once because she insisted that we were a bad match. Saved the date, saved the night, saved my weekend.” Christian paused. Smile faded a bit. “We didn’t last, but she got an education in what to do and not to do with the people you want to impress.”

Christian was highly impressed, speaking of being impressed and learning about what to do regarding that, that Benny deferred to his team on the quality of Shooters…and of Benny’s management. “Don’t sell yourself short,” he told Benny; he was already making a mental note of how to acknowledge the people who’d helped him out with his achievements, the exact way that Benny had just pulled it off. Maybe in the Promising the Stars dedication page? “You’re a master of environment. Of vibe, if you know that term. Everyone and their mother likes it at Shooters because it’s a reliably good, comfortable, happy night out. The other bars in town—they’re good. I like Pitcher Perfect because it’s cheap. Frankly, Shooters is, too. But the quintessential feeling of a good night out—that belongs to Shooters. Because you make sure that people are taken care of, from the moment they sit down to the last thing they do at the bar. Not everyone cares about you once you’re drunk. All your staff does. That’s gotta be a you thing.”

The cart corral was flanked by a small crowd of individuals, all talking animatedly. “Oh, what’s this,” Christian said flatly.

Someone—part of a large family—could not get their cart stuffed properly into the overflowing corral. They were being a perfectionist.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Christian muttered under his breath. He strode forward, said loudly, “I can just take that cart. If you’re not committed to…putting it there.”

He glanced back at Benny. “And maybe push another grocery cart over here for…” What the hell. “…the owner of the best bar in Windsor Bay…”

Instantly, the grandmother said, “No, he’s certainly not. Shooters is the best bar. Your friend is lying to himself.”

Christian let his brows rise high as he slowly looked at Benny. The carts rattled over to them, and Christian said, “Thank you for setting the record straight.”

[weavercaro]

Caroline smiled when Christian said that he also liked Fleetwood Mac. "You saw them in concert?" She said, very impressed with that information. "I'm genuinely so jealous. The best I can hope for at the moment is Oasis' reunion lasting long enough to tour here."

"Well, when you study music you learn to appreciate all genres." Caroline explained. "Dismissing a genre is just bad music critique, but it natural to have your favorites. So yes, I do primarily play soft rock. It's just not what I exclusively play."

Once Caroline had all the information she needed, she moved over to the music section and picked out a few songs. All 80s pop. All easy to intermediate. Some needed capo, some didn't. Was sure to include Every Breath You Take and Time After Time into the mix, among other things.

"Any of these catch your eye?" She asked, as she laid them all out on the counter.

When Christian asked if there was something easy for him to try, Caroline couldn't help but grin. "Well, the first song I learned how to play on the guitar is Wonderwall. It's cliche, I know, but it's only four chords. Super easy to play." She explained. "It's actually my go-to when I teach my students their first song, too."

"However, I do think it's important to play music you're excited about. So maybe Sweet Child O' Mine or Here I Go Again. If you're okay with a bit of rock." Those were both beginner eighties songs.

[christian-ford]

Caroline was cool. Christian loved her energy, her enthusiasm for the music that she liked. So when she mentioned that she was hoping for Oasis to come to the Pacific Northwest, Christian told her, “Tell you what—if Oasis ends up coming somewhere reasonably close to Windsor Bay, I will call you to let you know (because I’ll set an alert on my phone), and then we can go to the concert together. I will even drive there in my car and navigate the insane post-concert traffic…that is, if Oasis does indeed come to this neck of the woods.” He smiled at her. “We need to be friends, is what I’m saying. Somehow. You, a music store owner with a passion for helping customers…me, a man who barely knows a guitar from a banjo. The novel for our friendly escapades in things that you probably will always be more qualified in writes itself!”

And Christian nodded as Caroline expressed her music preferences. She liked soft rock, but studied everything. That was impressive. Christian half expected to see her on stage at the next concert he did end up going to, navigating guitar in front of a live audience with chill ease. That was how professional she seemed. And how capable.

Christian wondered how she ended up in Windsor Bay. He knew that she’d had her son after working on Broadway and had decided to settle down here. But what was the real reason?

Everyone had a reason for being in Windsor Bay.

(It wasn’t easy to discover; it wasn’t the most flashy of towns. It was, in every sense of the word, idyllic. Where did Caroline see herself fitting into the quiet? Into the peace? Into…well, a life spent teaching and helping? Christian would figure out how to ask.)

As Caroline moved capably through the music section, picking out various things, Christian’s gaze settled on the same guitar it had found before, when he’d asked about Kole potentially taking lessons here. He liked the look of it, he realized. It made him feel like he knew something about music.

That was when he realized it wasn’t an ordinary guitar. It was smaller than the others; it was apparently meant for children. He’d seen a guitar just like that in his mother’s things when he’d moved her out last summer.

She had always been passionate about heirlooms.

“Caroline?” Christian asked as she continued to work. “If I were to send you a picture of a very, very old guitar—I think made for children to play—would you be able to help me figure out where it came from? Like, geographically? My mom has this guitar, and I have no idea if it’s from the States or from her hometown in the Basque Country. Would you be able to help discern if it’s in good condition, too?” He hoped she said yes to this; and he hoped she would say it was in great condition.

Christian was realizing why that guitar in the store, the small one, made him feel like he knew anything about music. It was because his mother had tried to teach him some when he was young, and he’d completely forgotten the entire thing.

She’d used that antique guitar.

“I don’t want to let my mom know that I’m talking about it,” Christian told Caroline, quieter. “Don’t want to just ask her where it’s from, because I think she’ll give it to me and it’s worth way more to her.”

Christian eyed the selection of music that Caroline had laid out on the counter. One of the songs stood out—“Time After Time”.

“Oh, my God,” Christian said, his hands taking the song without pause. “We used to sing this in duets. It was…a dare, at first. Then we kept doing it. You’ve never lived until you’ve seen, like, eight guys in their late twenties singing ‘Time After Time’. I can’t believe you have this.”

His face broke into a grin. “This,” he said, “is perfect.”

Christian picked out two other songs that he thought Kole might like—eighties songs that he knew Kole would recognize. This was perfect. This was more than perfect. This was kind, the way that Christian had always intended to be kind when he’d settled in Windsor Bay.

He would be, for the first time in a long time, the kind friend.

And when Caroline suggested “Wonderwall” as a first song to learn, Christian grinned even wider. “Oh, ‘Wonderwall’ sounds excellent,” Christian told her genuinely. “I’m gonna learn it and send you a video. Do you mind exchanging phone numbers?”

He had a goal now. And he had someone to share it with. What was more ideal—more wonderful—than that? Literally nothing. Literally nothing.

[hxnrycomeon]

Henry was notorious for having no cooking skills. Take out was almost always the only way he could get in a full meal, besides heating up some frozen food.

Henry had spent most of his day in bed with his cat curled up next to him. His stomach growled suddenly, nearly waking up his cat. What time was it anyway? He glanced at the clock on his phone. It was nearly eight. Quickly he placed an order for takeout.

With a sigh he forced himself out of bed. The cat looked up at him, startled from sleep due to the movement. He threw on acceptable clothes, which were just a hoodie, a pair of sweatpants, and white sneakers. Before walking out the door he checked his hair in the mirror and made a face at the bed head. Luckily he kept a baseball cap by the door for such occasions.

Noodle Garden was on his list of favorite takeout spots. He usually cycled between a few different restaurants, and tonight was Noodle Garden's turn.

Henry was surprised when someone other than an employee approached him. "Sloan? What? No. I have no idea who the hell that is either. I'm Henry." What an odd name.

Henry listened to the other man's question. It was very specific. He took a moment to consider it. "I mean I'm always late for work, but if I really wanted to impress someone then yeah, I'd probably show up on time."

[christian-ford]

Christian let the half-frustrated, half-relieved sigh leave his mouth (at least he hadn’t been mouthing off to the writer in question directly). “Thanks,” he told Henry gratefully, casting another look at the hostess’s counter and debating whether or not to just sit down at this point.

He decided against it. Something intrigued him about Henry.

“Say,” he told the man thoughtfully. “I feel like I know you from someplace near Mountainside. The dive bar—Shooters, maybe. And if I do know you from Shooters, the story I also know having to do with you will come to mind instantly, and I’ll be able to tell you something deeply fascinating and also somewhat juvenile—you’ll know what I mean—talking about, God, what was it—your eyes, maybe? The way they are? I promise, if you are that guy from Shooters, I’ll remember in a flash.”

Christian offered a half-smile and clasped his hands together. He knew this would only appeal to certain people, but maybe Henry was that person. Christian certainly would’ve wanted to know. (And whoever it was who’d been responsible wouldn’t have minded it being passed along, either—Christian would’ve bet money on that.)

[camilapardo]

Camila let out a soft laugh, not at Christian’s misfortune, but at the scene itself—it had the kind of mildly cursed chaos that Windsor Bay seemed to thrive on. “You ever notice how this grocery store is like… a test?” she said, arms folding loosely across her chest as she shot a glance at the lone cart that had just been claimed. “Like yeah, the produce section is basically a farmer’s market fever dream and sure, their sourdough could cure depression—but every time I come here, something goes wrong. It’s like the universe says, ‘Let’s make her work for that overpriced oat milk.’” She shifted her tote bag higher on her shoulder, then looked at Christian with a warm smile. “Anyway, don’t apologize. It’s not a drag if we’re both suffering. That’s what solidarity’s for, right?” Her tone was light, teasing, but there was a kindness in her eyes. “Plus, if it makes you feel better, last time I was here someone rammed their cart into my ankle and then just said ‘oops’ like they hadn’t committed a lowkey assault.”

With a little sigh that bordered on dramatic, Camila turned toward the parking lot and gestured like a tour guide. “Come on, partner in cartless crime. Let’s retrieve our chariots from the corral like the noble grocery warriors we are.” She grinned, taking a few steps forward before glancing back at him with a wink. “And who knows—maybe we’ll find one that doesn’t squeak, shimmy, or announce its presence like it’s auditioning for Windsor Bay’s Got Talent. If we do, I’m naming it. That’s a bond for life.” As she walked, she added under her breath, “God, I really need this trip to end in snacks and not spiritual ruin.” Then louder, “What are you even here for today? Because if it’s not frozen dumplings, you’re doing groceries wrong.”

[christian-ford]

Christian hummed. “Grocery store as a cosmic test? I can see it.” He smiled and glanced at Camila—he could recognize her voice anywhere (as a customer of hers at Shooters); he hadn’t quite registered that it was her before she’d spoken—and he added, “But you’d have to be careful that the creator of the test doesn’t get mad at you for calling it out. Seen The Matrix? You walk a dangerous line by correctly identifying this as a test of character. They’ll give you worse stuff if you make an enemy of yourself.”

Christian chuckled as he kept going: “Me? The universe knows I would gladly call it out, and don’t.” Camila probably knew that Christian had an attitude on him, having witnessed him drunk before. “And they’re having me face this challenge with you because, well, they’re showing me a nobler path. Better to be an enemy and a rebel than a loyalist and a coward.” He smiled wryly. “I choose to be the coward. Make peace, forsake honesty. I hate that the oat milk is overpriced, too, but…you didn’t hear that from me. Top secret.”

Christian had been working on his common courtesy.

“One time,” Christian told Camila confidentially, after her story about the grocery store ankle assault. “One time, when I was playing soccer in some school gym class, this kid kicked my ankle as hard as he possibly could because he was mad. Teachers said that he was trying to kick the ball. Not true. He wanted to get my ankle. He had a bone to pick with me. Thank you, Scotty, for preparing me for the person at the grocery store last week who also rammed a cart into my ankle.” Christian gave Camila a small smile. “Gotta love absolutely everything about Windsor Bay, am I right?”

(Bizarre and unexplainable aggression from random strangers was an occasional staple of small-town life.)

(Balanced out, of course, by the friendliness and genuine warmth from people like Camila Reyes.)

Christian followed Camila toward the cart corral, prepared to respond to her comment about the “chariots” they, the “grocery warriors”, would be “retrieving” (stealing from future patrons like both the person who’d just done that and the worst-tempered warriors in The Iliad) when Camila glanced back at him and winked. “Shimmying and squeaking as a means to audition? For Windsor Bay’s Got Talent—as if anyone has ever said that phrase before in a serious context? Camila, your mind is incredible. I will also name the first grocery cart I find that doesn’t do that because I don’t think I’ve ever had a cart that wasn’t auditioning. We’ll be legends for this one. Grocery heroes. Grocery winners. You and I will claim a spot in Windsor Bay’s Got Talent history for locating two up-and-comers that are humble.”

Christian stopped to evaluate what it was he was actually here for. He’d known the instant Camila had asked; but he’d needed to evaluate—was it worth the ridicule?

“So I never told you this,” Christian said as if they’d spent far more time together than they actually had, “but I love cupcakes. Like, love them. But the only people who make cupcakes worth looking at, as opposed to cupcakes worth eating (which is every cupcake), are these moms online with baking blogs, and they are immaculate. Absolute masterpieces. Take a look at this one.”

Christian held up his phone, with a picture of cupcakes with life preservers and highly-realistic candy sharks on top. “These bad boys have featured in my wildest dreams for the past month. So I’m making a serious attempt at being the mom with the baking blog, so to speak. I’m going to make the most beautiful cupcakes the world has ever seen, and it starts with Windsor Bay Grocers.” He paused. “And a trip to iCandy right after.”

Christian asked Camila, “What are you buying that is a million times more sensible than the means to make designer cupcakes?”

[hecrtbrecker-deactivated2026040]

the aquatic cove had become a kind of home away from home for zara, and they remembered when they would save up from summer jobs when they were younger, only to spend every penny pinched in the gift shop or for admission here. there was something so relaxing about watching the fish swim behind the glass, or watching the penguins and the otters go about their own business. zara had a lot of respect for the animals, and had learned a vast amount of facts about them over the years. it seemed only right that she come back when she got into town, and it was like nothing had changed in the 13 years she'd been gone. at least, the awe was still there, even if the exhibits and the animals themselves had changed.

they came here alone, usually, to clear their mind and relax. they longed, one day, to bring someone truly important as this place was a big part of their childhood. it was where they'd snuck off to when they doubted themselves, and where they went to blow off steam when their brother pissed them off or their little sister.. it had become a ritual of their own. it would be nice to share it with someone, one day, someone equally as integral and important to zara as this place was.

but alas, no one like that was currently in sight, so she basked in the alone time whilst she had it. she was never one to worry over the what if's of her love life, or dwell on the fact that she was single, but maybe it would be nice to start dating again now that she was in town... thought broken by the voice nearer to her ear, zara focused on the dilated pupils in front of them. a crossing thought passed that this man was high as a kite, before he confirmed. a fond smile threatened to break across her face at the perplexity and how he might have appeared to be worried about his consumption, before she jumped in to reassure him. "no ones ever died from consumption of thc edibles directly; i think you'll be fine. i'll keep an eye on you." she eyed his friends with a face that reflected her own worry that maybe they wouldn't look out for him; they were all very absorbed in a phone. "anyways, i think you'd be much more likely to die from said sea turtle, than the brownies that you consumed."

[christian-ford]

Christian highly appreciated this person’s knowledge about edibles. He let himself relax; taking a step toward the aquarium glass, he let the colors and sights run together in his mind—rocks and water and turtles, all rolled into one somehow. (If he’d been on some kind of psychedelic, that would’ve been an experience. That would’ve been the most exciting thing that happened to him all month. Forget meeting a cool girl at the hiking trail—being on shrooms at Aquatic Cove would’ve been the moment to beat. Novelty-wise, of course.)

Christian wasn’t often on anything. This was something new. He said as much to the kind stranger: “I’m not the type to do this, you know. Show up somewhere families are at, high out of my mind. I’m actually pretty decent, most of the time.” High Christian was a combination of hard on himself and hard on, it seemed, public nuisances (like his friends might become, if nobody stepped in to stop them from eventually making the worst jokes ever about every exhibit here). “I don’t… I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself.” He held out his hand for the person to shake. “My name’s Christian. Please don’t let the fact that I’m stoned in public color your opinion of my recreational tendencies. I probably would’ve suggested the relatively-quieter beach outside my back door for a place to be high at. I’ll try not to be weird here at the aquarium.”

Christian glanced back at his friends, then again at the person who’d offered to keep an eye on him. “Thanks for your advice, by the way. Good to know I can’t die from being a colossal idiot…this particular way, I guess.” He eyed a turtle swimming past the glass. “These turtles are the coolest, by the way. I was hard on them before. They’re just looking out for themselves.”

Christian paused. “Wait. You said these sea turtles—the loggerheads, the ones we’re looking at right now—are dangerous? Please tell me more! I’m deathly curious.”