Summer in Wayhaven: "Festival" + bonus prompt "Summer Fling" (which is definitely all this was ever going to be, idk why you'd ever think otherwise)
"I'm just thinking..."
"About?"
"Whether I can even entertain the idea of a second date with a person who's anti-marginalia." She tilted her head, eyes drifting upward in mock contemplation, voice laced with mirth.
Nate raised his eyebrows, lips quirking up in amusement. "So it was a date, then?"
thank you so much to the incredible @valcubust for bringing this scene from 'attachment theory' to life, and to @summerinwayhaven for hosting such a fun event!!
The real love story in 'attachment theory' is Holland and Sleater, actually 🫶🏼
thank you, thank you, thank you (!!!) @artsyaprilmr for this gorgeous commission of my favorite duo! Everything about this piece is so, so perfect, and I will be staring at them for the rest of forever💖
Below the cut, a short side story of when Holland met (and subsequently adopted) Sleater
It's Nice To Have A Friend
August, Last Year
After barely one month back in Wayhaven — a month during which she'd more or less resigned herself to the idea that she might actually be having either a belated quarter-life crisis or a very early mid-life one — Holland adopted a dog.
She hadn't planned on doing that, either. It had just sort of happened.
She'd been out running, following her usual route along the main street of town, and had just turned down toward the marina when she'd come across the flyer, advertising an adoption event the following weekend.
PETS IN NEED, the flyer said, in bold type. And underneath, in a smaller font: Is your household ready to provide love and care for one of our fur babies?
She hadn't thought about it too closely, honestly; it was more or less spontaneous, on a windy Saturday afternoon in late August, when it felt like summer was finally slipping into fall, and she'd been restless — a pent-up, claustrophobic kind of restlessness — for days. The same restlessness that had driven her out running nearly every day since returning to Wayhaven, though it did precious little to alleviate it; afterwards, the cage closed back in around her, even if running her body into exhaustion had momentarily shaken it loose.
Which was precisely what led her to find herself standing across the street from the park that Saturday, staring at that flyer while she waited for the traffic lights to change.
The flyer had a photo of a beagle on it, looking hopeful and adorable. At the bottom was a map of the park, a big red X marking the location for the adoption event, and a note indicating the date and time: next Saturday, noon to four.
Restless, restless. The light changed, and Holland crossed the road.
She hadn't grown up with pets. Her father had died before she'd gotten old enough to want a dog or a cat, or any other variety of pet, really — at least not consciously, and by the time she'd reached the age where she might've wanted something to cuddle and love and talk to and confide her secrets to, her mother hadn't been in any place to take on the responsibility of another living creature, either.
She wasn't sure what had made her think of it now. But once the thought was in her head, she couldn't get rid of it — just as she hadn't been able to shake off the restlessness. And so the following Saturday, she went back to the park, heading unerringly in the direction of the red X on the flyer's map, the same restlessness dogging her steps.
When she got there, the event had already been going for an hour or so, and there was a smattering of people wandering around in the cordoned-off area, looking at the cats and dogs, chatting to the volunteers. The park itself was busy, too: kids playing in the playground, people walking, running, jogging, hanging out, enjoying the last weekend before Wayhaven's school year began. A few groups had stopped to watch the puppies, though it was clear from the way most of them kept their distance that the adoption event wasn't the draw; rather, the puppies were simply part of the general park scenery, a curiosity to observe from afar.
The first volunteer Holland saw was a teenage girl who looked like she was probably either on summer break, or else fresh out of high school for good. She had a puppy in her lap, one that looked like it was probably some kind of Labrador mix, with an excitable nose and big brown eyes, and was enthusiastically chatting to a young couple who were cooing over it, giggling as it snuffled their hands and clothes and hair.
Holland bypassed the group, wandering through the collection of pens and enclosures without paying much heed to any of the other volunteers or potential adopters. She wasn't really sure what she was looking for — or rather, what kind of pet she was looking for, if she was indeed looking for a pet at all — which she wasn't sure about, either. Maybe she just needed a new hobby. Or a new therapist.
Which didn't explain the dog pens, admittedly.
They were all excitable. Young puppies, older puppies, recent rescues, and everything in between: Lab mixes and pit bulls, border collies and German shepherds. There was one pen with four Newfoundland puppies in it, which Holland averted her gaze from very determinedly; they were black and fluffy and absolutely adorable, like they'd sprung from the pages of a children's book, but she suspected that even the smallest of the lot would outweigh her by the time it stopped growing.
What was she doing here?
She rounded a bend that led toward the trees lining the rear of the park, where the event was set up; it would only be another few weeks, probably, until the trees began looking more like autumn than summer, their leaves fading from green to gold.
For the moment, the oaks and maples and elms had formed a sort of backdrop for the pens nearest the back of the area, one that helped shade both the volunteers and the dogs. Holland paused on her circuit of the pens, surveying the animals as they sniffed their way around their enclosures or watched the people go by, their heads cocked curiously.
She lingered in a couple of places, crouching down to stretch her hand toward one pen, then the next: fingers curled, palm upturned. One of the German shepherds licked her fingertips, while a few of the Lab puppies were more interested in trying to leap out of their pens entirely, eagerly tumbling over one another in a bid for her attention.
Another dog had flopped down and rested its head on its front paws, watching her out of disinterested eyes; still another, a leggy mutt with thick brown fur and white around its chin and chest, had pushed its head against Holland's palm after a brief hesitation, staring up at her while she scratched its ears gently.
It seemed like the sort of dog that would run with her — which might be nice, she thought, with another one of those odd, restless twinges. But when she straightened again, it turned and began to investigate its enclosure instead, the nudge of its nose against Holland's palm already forgotten in favor of something new.
The August sunlight was warm where it fell across her shoulders, and she was starting to grow a little tired of weaving her way through the crowd that milled around the pens, especially given that she still wasn't even really sure why she was here in the first place.
Probably just bored, she told herself. Which meant it was time to go home, and do something else instead — something that wouldn't have the potential to result in the acquisition of an additional mouth to feed.
She was about to turn and head back the way she'd come, when she heard a soft huffing sound coming from behind the maple tree at the corner of the clearing.
When she stepped around the trunk, she found herself facing another pen — this one empty of people but not of a dog.
A two-year-old Australian shepherd — all bright, clever eyes and soft ears and speckled fur — whose owner had, according to the volunteer who helpfully walked her through the Infinite Jest of adoption paperwork not half an hour later, surrendered her because they hadn't realized exactly how much work she was going to be. How much time and attention she would need.
Holland thought about that part a lot — about why the previous owner had given her up. What exactly they'd expected her to be instead of what she was: clever, affectionate, and full of the kind of restless energy that became destructive when left to simmer for too long unchecked.
(If there was one thing Holland understood, it was that. Being restless and destructive when she couldn't find another outlet. When things built up and spilled out, too much to contain, too much to hold in. When there was an itch underneath her skin, just waiting to be scratched.)
After a brief but expensive trip to the nearest pet store to make sure she had the bare necessities for a dog — collar, leash, bed, crate, food, toys — they'd headed back to Holland's house. The dog had sat upright and alert in the backseat the whole drive, staring unblinkingly out the window with her nose pressed against the glass, her gaze only briefly flickering over to where Holland sat in the front seat every time she had to brake or slow down a little.
After they'd pulled into the driveway, and Holland had parked, and then shut off the engine, the shepherd had looked at her, again — ears perked, head slightly to the side. Waiting to see what Holland would do next.
She didn't know what to do next, though. She'd really only intended to go to the shelter at all on a whim; actually bringing something home had not been a part of the plan.
Restless, restless.
Holland blinked, and then sighed, letting her hand run along the curve of the steering wheel until it bumped against the turn signal lever, and then fell away. She unbuckled her seatbelt, pushed the car door open and got out, before she could think too hard about it, and opened the back door to let the dog out, too.
The shepherd hopped down, a little uncertainly, but was soon peering around the place with her ears up and eyes watchful, before finally her gaze settled on Holland, and stayed there.
There was a soft, uncertain expression in her eyes, like she still wasn't sure what to do next, either.
She had what looked like a million different colors in her fur, when Holland looked closely; those patches that looked brown were shot through with silver and ginger and gold, and there was a patch of white across her muzzle and chin like she'd plunged face first into a bowl full of flour.
Holland felt something tug at the corners of her mouth; she reached out her hand to stroke the dog's neck, ruffle the soft fur behind her ears.
The shepherd leaned into her palm, her eyes briefly falling shut as she did.
Holland's lips curved a little further at the gentle pressure, before she gently pulled her hand away.
So now Holland had a dog. A beautiful, whip-smart, slightly neurotic dog, who was more than happy to spend every possible second glued to Holland's side, following her around like a rambunctious shadow.
She named her Sleater-Kinney, after the band.
Sleater was every bit as restless and curious as the previous owner had claimed. And she'd looked so bored at the shelter, staring up at Holland with those bright, inquisitive eyes of hers, ears perked with curiosity — Holland couldn't leave her there. She just couldn't.
WIP of a commission. The client was open about a lot of things, so I took their information and made a series of sketches. We are going with everything in the bottom right.
Commissions are open -- contact me with your questions and ideas! We start with your description and ideas and I send sketches and WIP images along the way.
