Page 1 of Axes and Ohs

CHAPTER ONE

ERICK

I’m slumped on a stool at the bar at a little restaurant called Watchfire, which is right next door to my hotel. The restaurant’s all wood floors, exposed beams, and a big-ass fireplace. It’s decorated with fake autumn leaves and smells like cozy things—bread and apples, woodsmoke and cinnamon. It’s one Live, Laugh, Love sign away from being over-the-top cheesy, but it toes the line.

When I got to my hotel a few hours ago, the place was hopping. But according to Ames, the guy who’s tending bar, the crowd moved on to some big party across town where Winsome will crown their new Big Dill, which is like a homecoming queen but with pickles, to celebrate the end of their big pickle-themed town festival.

Yes, pickle festival.

No, I know. I hear you. And… honestly, I felt the same. I’m sitting here expecting at any moment a Hallmark movie director will yell, “Cut! Sandy, please tone down the cutesy wholesome vibe. Let’s make it slightly believable.” And yet the people here are so genuinely, unapologetically happy, I can’t even roll my eyes at them.

In fact, I’m a little envious.

What I’m realizing of late—by late, I mean, since I slumped here two gin and tonics ago—is that despite being a twenty-four-year-old college graduate with a packed social calendar and a great career (until two days ago), I don’t actually know what I’m into. I’ve been too focused on avoiding what I’m not supposed to be into.

Pathetic, right?

As I sit here nursing my third drink, it occurs to me that it’s Sunday night, which means right about now, I should be at Pandora D’Auffre’s “Love, Unmasked” Halloween party at Gotham Hall in the city. I had a costume planned—a sleeveless cream suit accessorized with a golden laurel wreath, a golden bow, and a quiver of golden arrows. It looked fantastic on me, and that’s not bragging, just facts. Call it the return on investment of my father marrying a supermodel to secure the Nelson genetic legacy. No doubt tomorrow or even later tonight, I’d have had a dozen text messages saying how stunning I’d looked.

But—and this is crucial—none of the people I’d planned to see or be seen by has called to ask where I am or when I’ll be arriving. None of them know I’m here in Winsome, Vermont, hiding amongst the pickle worshippers. And they won’t be too upset that at this point, I wouldn’t be able to get back to New York in time for the party, even if I wanted to.

But honestly… I don’t want to. Not right now, for damn sure.

I’m not sure exactly what I thought would happen when I confessed to my dad (who was also my boss) that I was the one who sabotaged the Nelson Group’s big-deal marketing campaign for Rise Athletics last spring and that Griffin Mercer, the man my dad fired over the incident, was innocent.

Then again, doing things without considering the outcome is kind of my brand.

What did happen was that Dad yelled at me (deservedly), voluntold me to resign my position (ditto), and treated me to five full hours of the coldest and most disapproving silent treatment while his driver brought us to this Vermont backwater so I could apologize in person.

And don’t get me wrong, Griffin deserved a face-to-face apology. Hell, he deserved not to spend the last few months being reviled on TikTok for something I had done.

But my confession time hadn’t ended there. Once I’d started talking, apparently, I couldn’t stop.

I’d also burned my relationship with my father to the ground by admitting that I’d fucked with the campaign because I loathed Rise Athletics’ “family values” bullshit, and I wanted them to fire the Nelson Group so we wouldn’t be associated with them. Then I’d salted the fields by saying I was going to find a career in early childhood education, which had been my major in college.

It was a lot for one day, let me just tell you.

After delivering my apology, I’d sat in my hotel room for hours, mulling things over, and I couldn’t decide if the nausea cramping my belly was regret over what I’ve done… or excitement that now I finally have the excuse to build a different kind of future for myself. One where the things I do have nothing to do with my father’s expectations or wondering what people in my social circle will think of me.

Regret would be the smart choice, right? I should be thinking about how to get back in my father’s good graces because without him, I have no job, no apartment, no life.

But I’m pretty sure it’s not.

Ames asks me if I want another drink, and I say, “Yes. Please.”

“You want food with that?” Ames asks, eyes narrowing just a little. “We’ve got wings. And I make a mean grilled cheese.”

The implication—that I’m drinking a lot on an empty stomach—is clear, but getting drunk is kind of the point. “Right now, I’d like to forget my own name for a little while,” I say. “It’s been kind of a rough day.”

Ames snorts. “Fair enough. I’ve had one of those, myself.” He cocks his head. “Girl trouble? Guy trouble?”

“Ah, no,” I say honestly. “No guy, therefore no trouble.”

“You’re smarter than me, then.” He hands over my refill.

This is hard to believe after the week I’ve had. “What happened to you?”

He shakes his head. “Not worth discussing. Just… never make the mistake of falling for a friend. Especially not a straight one.”