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You had no idea what to expect when you moved to Pelican Town after your grandfather died. He left you a farm, yes, but it requires so much work. You're out there working sunrise to sunset, putting in blood, sweat and tears.
It just…it doesn't feel like home yet. Many of the villagers have been nice, though some range from chilly to downright hostile.
Robin. Robin, though, she was so nice, her presence intoxicating. The carpenter showed up on your doorstep one morning to tell you about her shop, to invite you up to her shop. Of course, you took her up on it, flustered and excited, until you were greeted by…her husband.
Demetrius is nice enough, seems like a good guy who cares about his daughter and stepson. Still. You are covetous of Robin, finding any excuse you can to trek up toward the mountains to her shop, to see her, to hear her voice greeting you.
And you keep inviting her over, for coffee, for a chat, just to hang out. Nothing nefarious, you promise yourself. Plus, you've been sort of seeing Abigail. Abigail is sweet, the grocer's daughter, a little weird and spooky, but sweet. You haven't really defined the relationship with Abigail; you're just hanging out.
But you can't take your eyes off Robin. Whenever you see her around town, you're watching her. And you've started spending your nights in the Stardrop Saloon, slowly getting drunker and drunker as you watch Robin laugh and dance with Demetrius until you stumble in the dark back to your empty farm house.
One night, you decide to take the long way home—the scenic route, you drunkenly tell yourself—south of town and past Marnie's place, but it's a mistake. Shane catches up with you, and the usually stoic man seems to want to talk.
"Hey," he calls out from behind you, and you keep walking to try to avoid him. "Hey!" He calls again and jogs up to you, his shoes scuffing against the dirt beneath you.
"Hey, Shane," you say, because now he's here and you're not impolite, even if your head is dizzy and the ground is spinning a little bit.
"You're in love with Robin, aren't you?" he says, not beating around the bush.
"What?" You snap.
But he's got you dead to rights.
He shrugs, holding his liquor better than you. "I know what it's like to be in love with someone who doesn't love you back," he confesses.
The look in his eyes, the timber of his voice lead you to make an unfortunate decision. You invite him over to your farm that night. But it's a one-time thing. It doesn't happen again. You keep going to Robin's mountain home, and Shane doesn't spill your secret. You both have a secret now.
Robin appears on your doorstep one morning, surprising the hell out of you.
"I'm here to take you up on that coffee you're always offering," she says shyly, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear.
She's beautiful in the golden morning light, standing on your porch, looking like it's where she belongs, the rays catching on the crows feet beside her eyes. You invite her in and you don't look at the bed where you had sex with Shane. Instead, you seat her at your dining table and pour her a cup of lukewarm coffee from where you made a pot this morning.
She thanks you like you've done something noble, instead of just giving her the dregs of something you were just going to throw out anyway. She's nervous, fiddling with the handle of the cup as you sit down at the table with her. There are only two seats at the table, yours and the one she's now occupying as if she's the partner you've been ostensibly been looking for since you arrived in the valley. With Robin here, it feels like homecoming, feels like it's supposed to feel.
"So," Robin starts, and you relish the honey of her timber.
"So," you say back, unsure where this is going but hoping you're not misinterpreting the crackling fizzling between the two of you.
"Oh god," she groans, suddenly, "this is so stupid. I'm married." She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes.
And there's that confirmation, the affirmation that she's here for the thing you were hoping she was here for.
You just blink at her, tacitly telling her that being married really doesn't change how you feel about her. And how she apparently feels about you.
"I know," you say softly, handing reaching out to pull hers away from her face.
She's red all over, not crying but looking like she could, her eyes trained on the coffee cup sitting untouched on the table top.
"I just," she stops herself, voice cracking. "I can't stop thinking about you. You keep coming up to the shop, to my house, and I can't stop thinking about you."
"If it helps," you offer, "I can't stop thinking about you either."
Robin's eyes snap up to you then, a little watery, but holding it together.
"We can't do this, right? It would be insane," she says, trying to convince herself more than you.
You've already made up your mind. A long time ago. You stand, putting a hand out for her to take. And this is a moment of truth. She can take it, choose you, go to bed with you or she can reject it and go back home to her husband.
Relief floods you when her calloused carpenter's hand slips into yours, and you take her to bed. You know you should feel bad, but you don't. You don't at all.