Page 17 of Good Directions

5

SAWYER

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Anton stops, looking up at me like I just slapped his hand away from taking the cherry off the top of a sundae.

“Do what?”

“The way you’re leaning in your chair. It’s not only bad for your posture, but you’re going to fall over.”

He snorts out a huff, like a disgruntled dragon, turning back to whatever he’s reading on his phone. At least I think he’s reading. The rate his thumb is gliding over the screen leads one to believe that it’s more than just doomscrolling.

I turn back to the reports in front of me, digging through the numbers and graphs that Cary gave me. There’s a lot here—he’s been meticulous in his recordkeeping—and it’s going to take some effort to digest it all before I can really start to test out my theories. Knowing exactly what the history is of their soil samples after each peach season is incredibly helpful to the process. It also makes for very dense reading.

Out of the corner of my eye, I sense movement again, and I fight the urge to look over. As much as I want to fully witness Anton’s clownish ass end up on the floor, staring would be rude. Even if he does deserve it.

He might have introduced himself as “doctor,” but based on the behavior I’ve seen of his today, I’m not sure I actually believe that someone with his maturity level—or lack thereof—really obtained a PhD. After spending most of the morning fiddling with his contraption around the lab, making more than enough noise to distract anyone but certainly enough that Cary had to shout to be heard, he disappeared for hours. Only to return and sit here, playing on his phone.

Very productive for the vice president of the department.

Nepotism at its best, I suppose.

I shake my head, trying to clear that thought from my mind. For all I know he does have some qualifications. Maybe today is just an off day.

“Holy shit,” Anton half mutters, half exclaims. “Landon busted his hand.”

“What?” Cary asks.

He stole the question right out of my brain. Only he wasn’t asking because the statement didn’t make any sense. Oh, no. His tone was full of wonder and excitement, as if that four word sentence had been “you won the lottery.” He understood exactly what Anton said.

“That’s all Hux said.” Anton’s up and out of his seat so fast he sends it flying behind him, holding out the phone so Cary can see. “Landon busted his hand. And frankly, I don’t care about the details, because you know what that means?”

He punches his fist through the air, his ha ha nearly lifting him off the ground. The little dance he starts to do, twisting his hips from side to side, his feet planted in place, makes him look ridiculous. Even more so when he adds in the air guitar.

“There’s still the other three,” Cary says, his voice cautionary.

“But they aren’t going to find a replacement of that caliber in time.” Cary starts to respond, but Anton cuts him off. “Nash is a Hayes now, remember?”

“Then this almost feels like cheating.”

The two high-five like schoolboys on the playground, smug smiles pinned firmly in place. I wait for either one to offer up an explanation, but neither does.

Fine, I’ll do it then.

“And we’re happy that this person hurt themselves because…” I prompt.

“Tug.”

Anton shrugs like it’s the easiest, most obvious answer in the world. Tug. That’s it. Just the one word. Tug.

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“Tug?”

“Tug-o-war. It’s the kickoff of the Fourth of July picnic.”

Right, the Fourth of July. That is in a couple of days. Forgot about that.