Chapter 11

Not to be dramatic, but pickaxes your crops.

– Marcella

Let the records show, I am against this.

Completely and utterly against this.

“I swear to—” I curse. “—if you try to give me that bouquet one more time, Marshipan…” Furiously, I decline Marshipan’s gift on Stardew Valley . The gall of him to desecrate this sacred space by acting like this . I can’t believe I took my stupid friends’ stupid advice last Sunday to let him play with us—purely for research purposes. In a matter of hours, he’s wriggled his way into my friend group like an evil worm. If I saw him on the sidewalk on a sunny day, I’d step on him . “And you— ” I hiss at my giggling mansion-mate, who is seated on the couch across from me in the massive central living room. “—if you tell him anything else, I’m rage quitting this farm. If he wants to play Stardew Valley with us, it’s his duty to read the Wiki like a proper noob.”

“Eventually, your finger will slip and you’ll click yes .” F-man’s low voice hums through my headphones, taunting and wicked.

“Technically,” Brigid begins in a tone that puts me on edge, “accepting the bouquet means you’re girlfriend and boyfriend. Aren’t you under contract to be girlfriend and boyfriend, Marci?”

Wow.

Wowww .

I’m going to kill one of my best friends. I am going to slash my friend count in half.

She’s so lucky she’s not the friend living with me.

If she were, this mansion would stage a murder mystery in hours .

Monotone, I say, “You’re dead to me.”

On screen, F-man’s little character comes hopping toward mine while I’m organizing my inventory at our community chest collection. When the bouquet appears in his hands again, I close out of the inventory window and bolt. “ Get away from me! ”

“Bridge has a point!” he defends.

“ No, she doesn’t . Stardew is not real life! You haven’t even experienced my two heart event! To give me that thing, you need to reach my eight heart event!”

He chases me around the main farm house, which belongs to Brigid since this is her save.

On the porch, she drinks a coffee.

Penny loses it, giggling herself into a puddle on the floor in front of the couch in real life. Twisting around, she places her laptop on the cushions and wiggles merrily. “You have it tough, Marshipan. Every farm we’ve ever played together, Marciboo rooms with Krobus. She skips marriage altogether in favor of the sewer blob roommate.”

“Slander,” I hiss as I realize something truly horrible.

I…am smiling.

“Sewer blob?” F-man asks.

“We aren’t there yet,” Brigid informs. “He’s a friendly monster who sells things in the sewers. You can invite him to be your roommate when you build enough of a relationship with him.”

“Fascinating,” F-man murmurs.

I am never telling these back-stabbing ingrates that I’ve downloaded mods that turn Krobus into a dark elf and add heart events to his story. So what if the strange, outcast monster in the sewers is my favorite character? I feel a close personal connection to him.

Sue me.

“I’ve looked him up,” F-man notes, despondently. “Pumpkin, these beauty standards are unattainable.”

“Screw you, Marshi.”

“Well…if you’re offering…”

Penny squeaks, covering her ears and falling against the carpet. “My innocence!”

Her face is actually turning red over there on the other side of the room.

Bless.

“Ma’am?” Teresa scares the living daylights out of me from behind.

Yanking my headphones down around my neck, I face her. “Teresa. Hi! What’s up?” She has a plate of food. Two, actually. That’s peculiar.

Smiling, she offers me one. “Mr. Marsh messaged thirty minutes ago and told me to prepare dinner for you.”

“Oh.” Taken aback, I reach for the plate of steaming green beans and fish fillets. “This looks amazing, thank you.”

Nodding, she makes her way to the other side of the room where Penny is.

What a role reversal if F-man’s making sure I eat. That’s quite literally in my job description. Also, what time is it if this is dinner ?

Once I find my phone and the clock, I learn that the four of us have been playing Stardew Valley for seven hours straight, burning away our Saturday since right after a late lunch.

When I put my headphones back on, Brigid is saying, “I better make sure my hubby has something to eat when he gets home. Can we quit after this night?”

My mouth opens to offer some helpful advice on how her husband should learn to fend for himself—even though I know full well he works twelve-on, twelve-off shifts—but F-man beats me to the punch. “Sure. Pumpkin, do you mind staying on the call after your friends pull out? There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Dread. Immediate, nausea-inducing dread. “I do mind, but I will oblige.”

“I appreciate it.”

Once we all tuck into our game beds, our farm saves, so I wave goodnight to Penny, grab my laptop and dinner, then head to my room with just F-man left on the line. When silence pervades, I take a shot at breaking it. “Marshi? Are you still there?”

“Sorry, yes. Is it just us? I’m new to Discord, so I wasn’t sure if your friends were still listening in.”

The fact he wants this to be super private gives me copious amounts of anxiety.

I double check the call. “It’s just us. What’s up? Is this work-related or…the other stuff?”

“Both.”

Ugh. Great.

He plows on without giving me a moment to regret my life choices. “It’s been two weeks since our last date, yet you’re still not on my accounts. It’s unusual for you to drop the ball on something important like this. I wanted to check in and make sure everything is okay. How’s the family? Is there anything going on that’s distracting you from your work?”

I nearly choke on a bite of fillet. “I know you aren’t talking to me like that.”

Humor in his tone, he says, “I’m very concerned. If there’s anything I can help you with, please let me know.”

Plopping onto the massive fluffy bed, which I have refused to sleep in out of spite, I set my laptop beside me and prop my dinner on my lap. “Do you think you’re being funny?”

“Absolutely.”

“Am I laughing?”

“I cannot be blamed for your lousy sense of humor.”

Unamused, I nibble a green bean. “That may be the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He laughs softly. “Sorry. I—”

“Do it again.”

The longer it takes for him to respond, the more joy I find myself feeling.

Coughing, he manages a muffled, “Pumpkin, remember how you asked me something about having a twisted desire for abuse?”

“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. The real question is: are you pressing your fist to your mouth and turning tomato red?”

“Perhaps,” he murmurs.

“Lame.”

“My heart was unprepared for you to flirt with me.”

I nibble another green bean. “Playing Stardew always puts me in an uncharacteristically good mood. Also, you achieved a nickname against my best intentions. Don’t get caught off guard. I am livid. For many reasons. Primarily, I don’t want to hear anything more about joining your accounts. And I don’t want to hear you insult my work ethic, unless you commit to the bit and do it properly.”

He hums. “Mind describing what ‘doing it properly’ looks like?”

My mind whirls into places it shouldn’t while my fork hovers an inch from my lips. “No. I don’t think I will.”

His sigh pours into my skull, surround sound. Moments pass, then a vaguely disappointed noise follows. “I just looked up how do I bully my girlfriend , and I have been given a help line.”

“Yeah, the algorithm sucks. Always trying to get people to go to therapy for some reason. It’s a real scam.” For the second time in the same exact hour, I discover that I am smiling. “I’d tell you what to actually look up in order to get the results you need, but I don’t think you can handle the language.”

He exhales a laugh. “You are sincerely baffling, Marcella. May I take you out tomorrow, on a date?”

My smile slips away. “I mean, I was planning to stare at the ceiling for prolonged lengths of time and refuse to get up until my bladder filed a formal complaint, but…”

“I guess you’re still sleeping on the couch, huh?”

I bristle. “What gives you that idea?”

“The bed in the room you chose has a canopy. No ceiling to stare at without getting up. And you, my dear, take things too literally to have ignored that detail.”

My gaze slips skyward, toward the thick fabric of the canopy. Choosing to ignore his entirely correct assessment, I mutter, “What do you want to do?”

“It’s September,” he says.

I wait.

Nothing more illuminates this obvious fact. It has been September for over a week, which means I should be debt-free right now. Unfortunately, the stupid loan company had me make an appointment for the end of September to see one of their representatives, so I am not. I murmur, “Yes…and?”

“Let’s go to a pumpkin patch.”

“What?”

“We can pick out pumpkins, then carve them, while drinking apt beverages.”

My eyes narrow on the stupid canopy. I echo, “ Apt beverages? ”

“Pumpkin spice. Hot chocolate. Apple cider.”

“Alcoholic?”

“Pardon?”

“Alcoholic cider? A little bourbon in that pumpkin stuff, perhaps? You know, there’s a recipe for spiked hot chocolate I’ve wanted to try.” I finish my fish. This disturbs me greatly. I wonder if there’s more in the kitchen…

“Marcella…” F-man hesitates. “Do you have a problem we need to talk about?”

My brow rises. How does he know I just ran out of fish? Are there cameras in here? “What do you mean?”

“Things went somewhat oddly for you the last time I know you imbibed alcohol. It seems unusual that you’d want to prompt any similar situations. Especially in my direct presence. Unless you have a problem .”

I know this man isn’t suggesting I’m an alcoholic. “I’ve not drunk since my birthday, and before that, New Years. My only problem is that it sounds like you want me to go to a pumpkin patch, haul a giant orange thing home, then carve out its guts. I don’t know how you expect me to do any of that without some sort of substance assist.” I huff as my green beans also disappear. “Would it kill you to be a little less wholesome now and again? The proper response to my query is suggesting a drinking game where we take shots every time we see a pumpkin.”

“We are going to see hundreds of pumpkins. We would die.”

“Now who has the lousy sense of humor?” I mutter.

“Is there something else you’d like to do that won’t have you resorting to alcohol?” he asks.

Shock therapy comes to mind. I don’t say that though. “Pick me up at noon. Take me to get breakfast—”

“Breakfast? At noon?”

“I don’t remember commissioning your opinion on the matter.”

I hear a smile in his voice, but then again, when don’t I? “Of course,” he says. “My apologies. Continue.”

“Take me to the pumpkin patch. We’ll pick out pie pumpkins and carving pumpkins. While the pies are baking, I will watch you dig out pumpkin brains, then I will draw the face shapes I want in sharpie before I supervise you removing the designated locations.”

“That…” He clears his throat, seeming almost breathless. “…that sounds amazing. Where would you like to get breakfast?”

“Taco Bell. They stop serving breakfast at ten forty-five, but I’m almost positive you can convince them to be more inclusive for those of us who stay up late playing solo Stardew. I’ve had this nagging desire to eat a Breakfast Crunchwrap past the appropriate time. Blame the rebel in me.”

Tone much too warm for my liking, he says, “Perfect. I will see you at noon.”

“I will be half awake and mildly interested in the planned activities.”

“That’s all I can ask for. Enjoy your time with Krobus, pumpkin.”

Inexplicably, I blush.

And he leaves the call.