In the Weeds

INTHEWEEDSB.K.BORISONCopyright?2022byB.K.Borison.
Allrightsreserved.
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Nopartofthisbookmaybereproducedinanyformorbyanyelectronicormechanicalmeans,includinginformationstorageandretrievalsystems,withoutwrittenpermissionfromtheauthor,exceptfortheuseofbriefquotationsinabookreview.
Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentsareeitherproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,eventsorlocalesisentirelycoincidental.
CreatedwithVellumForeveryonelookingfortheirhappy.
Ihopeyouknowhowbraveyouare.CONTENTS
Prologue
ChapterOne
ChapterTwo
ChapterThree
ChapterFour
ChapterFive
ChapterSix
ChapterSeven
ChapterEight
ChapterNine
ChapterTen
ChapterEleven
ChapterTwelve
ChapterThirteen
ChapterFourteen
ChapterFifteen
ChapterSixteen
ChapterSeventeen
ChapterEighteen
ChapterNineteen
ChapterTwenty
ChapterTwenty-One
ChapterTwenty-Two
ChapterTwenty-Three
Epilogue
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AbouttheAuthorPROLOGUEAUGUSTBECKETT
She’ssittingatthebarwhenIwalkin,summerheatthickandoppressiveatmyback.Myshirtclingstomyskin,andhereyesclingeverywhereelse—asmiletiltingatthecornersofhermouth.
Longlegsincutoffshorts.Straightblackhairtoherwaist.Afullbottomlippaintedred.SheturnsinherstoolasthedoorsnapsshutandlooksrightatmelikeI’vekeptherwaiting.Atilttoherbrowlikeshe’spissedaboutit,too.
“Sorry,”ItellherasIslipontothestoolnexttoher,notquiteknowingwhyI’mapologizingorhowIgotovertothisseattobeginwith.I’mcaughthalfwaybetweendoingandwanting,thehumidityfromoutsidelingering.
Hereyelashesflutterlikeshe’samusedandathickpressofsyrupyheatcurlsinthespacebetweenus.“Forwhat?”
I…havenoidea.Irubtheheelofmyhandagainstmyjawandbusymyselfwiththedrinkmenu,aninexplicablerushofembarrassmentburningatmycheeks.I’veneverclaimedtopossessanounceofcharm,butI’musuallybetterthanthis.
Inodtowardsherhalf-emptyglass.
“What’reyoudrinking?”Iask.Sherollsherlipstohidehersmileandtipsherglassbackandforth.
“Tequila.”
Imustwincebecauseshelaughs,herchintiltingupbutherdarkeyesstayingrightonme.“What?Notafan?”
Ishakemyheadandshedropstheglassonthebartopbetweenus,turningitaroundandaroundinherprettyhands.Oneeyebrowarcheshighonherforehead.“Maybeyoujusthaven’thadtherightkind.”
“Maybe,”Iagree.Istopthemovementofherhandwithmyfingersoverhersandbringtheglasstomylips.Imakesuretosetmymouthagainstthecherryredlipstickmarksheleftbehind.
Smoke.Lime.Abiteofsalt.
Idroptheglassbacktothebarandlickatmybottomlip.
“Notbad,”Igritout.
Shegrinsatme,herdarkeyeslikeathumbnailscratchingatthelineofmyjaw.“Notbadatall.”
Shehasascaratthetopofherthigh.
Idon’tknowifsherealizesit,butshewiggleseverytimeIpassmythumboverit,herlegdiggingintomyhipwhereshe’sdrapedoverme.Herskinsmellslikelemonsandrosemary,andItuckmynoseintothespacebelowherearwhereit’sstrongest,dragmyfacedownuntilIcanpressakisstothesmoothlineofherthroat.
Shehums.
Ican’tstoptracingmypalmsagainstherskin,feelinghersoftnessagainstme.HerfingerstangleandtugatmyhairandIpressmyfaceharderintoherneckwithagroan.Shehuffsalaughagainstmycollarbone.
TwodamnnightstogetherandIofficiallydon’tevenrecognizemyself.Evieislikeatiderollinginandclippingmeatmyankles.Alow,forcefultug.Ablissfulinevitability.
Idragmythumboverthescaragain,slowerthistime,andhernosedigsintomyshoulder.
“Idon’tusuallydothissortofthing.”
Iglanceatthetabletippedoverinthecorner,thecoffeemachinethatsomehowmanagedtostayuprightduringourveryenthusiasticentrancetotheroom.Theceramicdishholdingthecreamersisn’tanywhereIcansee,butthelittledisposableplasticcontainersarescatteredacrossthecarpetlikefallenstars.Dotsofwhiteagainstnavyblue
Ismoothmypalmdownherbackandstretchmyfingerswide,tryingtoseehowmuchofherskinIcancoveratonce.She’swarmundermytouch,herskinadeep,flawlessbrown.Likeabottleofwhiskeyonthehighestshelf,afternoonlightdancingthrough.
Ishiftbeneathherandgruntwhenherthighgrazessomethinginteresting.“Nearlydestroyahotelroom?”
Sherocksherforeheadbackandforthagainstmyneckwithalaughanditslipsdownovermyshoulderstositheavyinthecenterofmychest.Sheleansupononearmandrestsherchininthepalmofherhand.
“No.”Shereachesbehindmyearandplucksafeatherfrommyhair,glancingatthehalf-tornpillowshovedhaphazardlyundermyhead.I’msurprisedIdidn’tripthesheetscleanoffthebedthatsecondtime—whenshescratchedhernailsdownmyback,wrappedherlonglegshigharoundmyhips,andsetherteethagainstmycollarbone.Shesighslowandslow,eyessearchingmine,abemusedgrintiltingherlipswhenIwrapalockofherhairaroundmyfingerandtug.Ihadmywholefistinitabouttwentyminutesago,andshelooksamusedthatI’vesettledforastrandnow.
“Idon’tusuallygetdistractedonworktrips,”sheexplains.
NeitherdoI.Idon’tusuallygetdistractedatall.Whileaone-nightstandismyrelationshipofchoice,Iwasn’tplanningononethistrip.TheNortheasternOrganicFarmer’sConferenceisn’tahotbedofseduction.Orithasn’tbeen,typically.
Oursharedglassoftequilaturnedintoashotonthebartopinfrontofme.ThatshotturnedintoEvieorderingtherestofthebottle.Andthatbottleturnedintomelickingalineofsaltfromtheinsideofherwrist,herkneepressedtominebeneaththebar.Westumbledbacktothetinyhotelonthehillandfellintobedlikeweweremadeforit.
ItturnsoutIdon’tmindtequilasomuchwhenItasteitonher.
Nowwe’rehere,tangledupandnakedforthesecondnightinarow.ItoldmyselfIwouldn’tgobacktothebar,wouldn’tgolookingforher.ButIcouldn’tstopthinkingabouther.Herskinpressedtomine.Thelow,huskymoanwhenIslippedmyhandbetweenherlegs.Herdarkhairspreadacrossstarkwhitepillows.
Assoonasthelastspeakerfinishedatmyconference,Iwanderedrightbacktothatdivelikeshewassingingadamnsiren’ssong.Andthereshewas,sittingonthesamestoolatthesamebar,thatsamegrinlightingupeveryinchofherface.
Itracemyknucklesdownherarm,mesmerizedbythepathofgoosebumpsthatriseinthewakeofmytouch.
“Doyouregretit?”Isitup,gentlyurginghertofollow.Shedoes,longlegsrearrangingaroundmyhips.“Thedistraction?”Iclarify.
Thesweathashardlydriedonmyskin,butIwantheragain.I’vegotanitchinmypalmseverytimeIlookather.Iwanttotastethesoftskinjustunderherear,feelherbodytrembleandrollabovemine.Iwanttopressmyhandtothosetwodivotsatthebaseofherspineandfeelherskinburnlikeaninfernoasshemovesagainstme.
Shesmilesandbitesatherbottomliplikesheknowswheremymindhasdriftedoffto,tracingthelineofinkthatcurlsovermyshoulder.ShetapsthereonceandIgetaglanceofusinthemirrorabovethedresser,twistedwhitesheetsandskinthatshineslikespungold,myarmbandedlowaroundherwaist.NeverinmylifehaveIwantedtotakeapictureofmyself,buttheurgestrikeshotandfiercenow,herbareskinagainstmine.Herfaceinmyneckandtheswellofherassjustbarelyvisible.
Inosebeneathherchinandpressasingle,lingeringkisstotheflutteringskinaboveherpulse—awordlessencouragementtoanswerthequestion.
“No.Turnsoutyou’reafinedistraction,Beck.Thebestkind,really.”Heranswerisawhisper,asecretinthedark.Shepauses,andthen:“Doyouregretit?”
No,Idon’tregretit.MuchasIprobablyshould.Ismileanddragmyteethupthelineofherthroat,nipatherearlobeandtugonce.Iwatchinthemirrorasherwholebodyshivers,herhipsrollingdownintomine.
“Ilikeyourkindofdistraction,”ItellherasIcatchherwaistwithmyhands.Iguideherintoasmoothrhythmabovemeuntilwe’rebothpanting,hernailsscratchingthroughmyhair.
“Didyou—”Shehumsandliftsuponherknees,maneuveringuswithherhandonmychestuntilmybackisagainsttheheadboard.She’sbossywhenshewantstobe,andIlikethatshetellsmeexactlywhatshewants,howshewantsit.Theraspofhervoiceinmyearlastnighthadmeshudderingagainsther,handsclenchingatherhipsasIworkedtofolloweverysingleinstructionshelaidout.
“Makeitslower.”
“Harder.”
“Likethat,yes.Rightthere.”
Myheadhitsthewoodwithadullthumpandshesettlesbackinmylap,rearrangingthesheetsuntilit’sskinonskin,alowmoanofwantheavyonmytongue.Shemumblessomethingunderherbreathandthenhiccupsasigh,anothersoundIchasewithmylipsagainsthers.Shepullsbackandlooksdownatmethroughheavyeyes.“Didyouwantmore?”
Thequestionhasmehuffingalaugh.IlookatherandallIseemtodoiswant.IleanupuntilIcancatchhermouthinakissandlickdeep,myhandslippingfromthebackofherheadtocurlaroundherjaw.Iholdherthereuntilherhandsturnintofistsinmyhair,bodyshiftingimpatientlyabovemine.
Icanbebossy,too.
“Iwantmore,”Itellher—anotherconfession—myhandslippingdownbetweenustobrushthesoftskinjustbelowherbellybutton.“Iwanteverything.”
Iwaketoalowrollofthunder,raindrummingagainstthickglass.AcoolbreezesweepsinthroughthecrackedwindowandItwistbeneaththesheetswithagroan,myhandsearchingforsleep-warmedskin.LastIremember,Eviemutteredsomethingaboutroomservice,snuggledfurtherintotheblankets,andfellasleepwithbothhandswrappedaroundmyarm.Itwas…nice.Different,butnice.
Ileanuponmyelbowsandglanceattheemptyspotnexttome.I’msurprisedIdidn’thearhermovingaroundtheroom—didn’tfeelherslipfromthebed.Idon’tusuallysleepsosoundly.
Mygazetripstothebathroom,thedoorhalf-cracked,ausedtowelslungoverthebackofit.It’spossibleshesteppedouttograbcoffee,butIdon’tseehersuitcaseandthenightstandisglaringlybare.Iscantherestoftheroom.Theonlysignthatshewashereatallisahalf-emptyglassofwateronthedresser—acrumpledreceiptonthedesk.
Icollapseface-firstintomypillow
This,atleast,isafamiliarfeeling.Wakingupalone.
“Stupid,”Itellmyself.Isighanddigtheheelofmypalmintomyforehead.
Iknowbetter.
IhavethingsI’msupposedtobedoinghere,andnoneofthemareagorgeouswomanwithlegsformiles.
Iflipontomybackandwatchstormcloudsgatheroutsidethewindow.Ijustneedtorememberwhatthosethingsare.
***NOVEMBEREVELYN
Well.
Iwasnotexpectingthat.
IpacebackandforthinmyroomatInglewild’sonlybedandbreakfast,watchingmyshadowfollowalongthefloralwallpaper.Jenny,theowner,musthavevisitedmyroomwhileIwasatthefarmbecauseIcamebacktocandlelightandcookies,everythingsoftandromantic.
Ifrownatanivorycandleanddebatemyoptions.
IwasinasimilarbedandbreakfastthatweekendinMaine.Therewereflowersonthewindowsillandamanwithartonhisskinpinningmetothebed,hislipsagainstmyneckandhisthroatylaughinmyear.ThesamemanIjustranintoatthefarmheapparentlyworksandIwassenttoevaluate.
Wasnot.Expecting.That.
Cookiestemptmefromtheshinypewtertrayinthecorner.Isnagoneandswipeatmyphone.
Josieanswersonthethirdring.“Didyougetthereokay?”
“Wehaveaproblem,”Isayaroundamouthfulofdarkchocolateandpeanutbutter.
“Uhoh,”hervoiceturnsseriousoverthesoundofpaperworkbeingshuffledontheotherend,theclinkofamugbeingsetonasaucer.Icheckthetime.It’sstilllateafternooninPortland.She’sprobablyonhereighthcupofcoffee.“DidSwaybookyouoneofthoseescaperoomthingsagain?”
Twomonthsago,myrepresentationteamthoughtitwouldmakequalitycontentifIwerelockedinaroomforforty-fiveminutesbymyself.Nopreparationorwarning.ThankgodI’mnotclaustrophobic.
“No.Thanksforthereminderthough.”JosielaughsandIcollapseontheedgeofthebed,eyeingtheplateofcookies.“Igottothefarmtoday.”
“And?Youwereexcitedaboutthisone.”
Iwasexcitedaboutthisone.Iamexcitedaboutthisone.AChristmastreefarmjustofftheeasternshoreofMaryland,ownedandoperatedbyawomannamedStella.Herstoryislovelyandromantic,andthesmallglimpseIgotofthefarmtodaywasnothingshortofmagical.Ijustwasn’texpectingherheadfarmertobethesamemanIhadmyfirst—andonly—one-nightstandwiththreemonthsago.
Hehadwanderedintothatdivebarwithmessyhair,awhitet-shirtwiththesleevesslightlyrolled,andeyeslikeseaglass.HetookonelookatmeandIfeltmystomachdropallthewaytomytoes.
“Beckettishere.”
“Who?”
“Youknow,”Idropmyvoice.“Beckett.”
Ihearthefumbleofaglassandastringofcreativecursewords.“MaineBeckett?Hot,tattooedBeckett?”Shesucksinabreaththroughherteethandwhenshespeaksagain,hervoiceisthreeoctaveshigher.“Outoftheordinary,Evieisfinallycuttingloose,one-nightstandBeckett?”
Igiveinandgrabanothercookie.“That’shim.”
ItoldJosieaboutBeckettafteronetoomanyglassesofSauvignonblanc,wrappeduponhercouchlikeaburrito.Icouldn’tfigureoutwhyIwasstillthinkingabouthimmonthslater.Itwassupposedtobefunandfleeting.Aharmlessnight.Nostrings.
Notsomethingtoreliveinamarqueeperformanceeveryothernightinmyfeverdreams.
Josielaughs,asharpcacklethathasmepullingthephoneawayfrommyear.Irollmyeyes.
“Thankyouverymuchforyoursupport.”
“Sorry,sorry,”shesayswithasnicker.Shetriestosoberherself,butanotherchuckleslipsthrough.“Whataretheodds?Ishevisiting?”
“No,heworkshere.Hemanagesthefarmoperations.”Herunstheplacewiththeowner,Stella,andthewomanwhoheadsthebakery,Layla.
Thatsetsheroffintoanotherfitofgiggles.Idebatehurlingthephonerightoutthewindow.“Guessthatexplainswhyhewassogoodwithhishands,huh?”
“I’mgoingtofireyou.”
IneversaidanythingtoJosieabouthishands,butIremembertheminexplicitdetailnow.Howhispalmcoveredtheentireexpanseofmythigh.How,whenheflexedhisfingersandlifted,hisbicepsdidsomethingdelicious.Hewasdemandingwiththem,guidingmeintotheperfectposition.Thepressofhisthumbbehindmyear.Thedelicatelinesofaconstellationtrailingfromhiswristtohiselbow.
“You’llneverfireme,”Josiesays.“Howwouldyouhaveanyfunatall?”
Josie’sbeenmyself-appointedpersonalassistantsinceweturnedeighteenandIdecidedtostartmyownYouTubechannel.Herroleandtitlehavebeenformalizedsincemysocialmediaexplosion,butherjobasmybestfriendremainshertoppriority.Icanalwayscountonhertotellmehowitis.
It’sboththebestandworstthingabouther.
“Okay,let’srecap.YousleptwithasmokinghotstrangerinAugust.Youleftwithoutawordandnow,inNovember,you’verunintohimagainwhilejudginghisfarmforasocialmediacontest.”ShemakesanamusedsoundthatIdonotreciprocate.“Really,though.Whataretheodds?”
“Ihavenoidea.”
“Whatareyougoingtodo?”
“Again.Ihavenoidea.”
Ipickataloosethreadattheedgeofthequilt.Ican’tleave.WhatwouldItellmycorporatesponsors?Sorry,Ican’tdothistripbecauseIsleptwithoneoftheemployeesthreemonthsago.They’vebeenagreeableinmeetings,butIdon’tseethatgoingoverwell.
Andmorethanthat,I’mnotinthehabitofrunningfrommyproblems.BeckettwasachoiceImade.AchoiceIhavezeroregretsabout,despitethememoriesofthatnightstickingtomelikeglue.IwastellinghimthetruthwhenItoldhimhemadeafinedistraction.Foronce,Iwasblissfullyoutofmyhead.Ilaughed.Ihadfun.
Ifeltlikemyself.
ButI’mheretodomyjob.Stelladeservesthat.LovelightFarmsiseverythingshedescribedandmoreinherapplication.Shedeservestobeafinalistforthiscompetitionandshedeservestherecognition.AllIneedisasecondtopullmyselftogether.Getovertheshockofseeinghimagainandmoveforward.
“Theplanis…”Ihavenoplan.Ilookaroundtheroomforinspiration.Iguesstheplanistofinishtherestofthesecookies.Findabottleofwinefrom…somewhere.
There’saknockatmydoorandIblowoutabreath.Istareatthepeepholewithasliverofapprehension.Idon’tneedtoguessastowhoisontheotherside.
“Ohmygod,didIjusthearaknock?”Josieisbesideherself.“Isithim?”
Iliftmyselffromtheedgeofthebedandsmoothmypalmovermyhair.Ofcourseit’shim.“I’vegottago,Josie.”
“SwitchmetoFaceTime,”shedemands.“Nevermind,I’lldoit.Evie,Isweartogod,ifyouhang—“
Iendthecallbeforeshehasachancetofinishherthreat,tossingmyphoneonthetable.ItimmediatelyringswithanincomingvideocallandIignoreit,addingapillowovertopforgoodmeasure.
Itakemytimeonmywalktothedoorandhesitatewithmyhandabovethehandle.Whenhewalkedintothebakeryearliertoday,Ifeltthatsameswoop,lowinmybelly.Justlikethefirsttime.Itwaslikecrackingopenamemorytotakeanotherlook.Flannelinsteadofawhitet-shirt.Backwardsbaseballcapwithatiny,embroideredtree.
Wide,surprisedeyes.
IswingopenthedoorlikeI’mrippingoffabandageandfindBeckettwithhisarmsbracedagainsttheframe,handscurledaroundtheedgeslikehe’sphysicallyholdinghimselfback.HisfingersflexandIgetanimmediateflashbackofthosehandswrappedtightaroundmythighsinstead,Beckettonhiskneesinfrontofme,asinglelockofdarkblondehairplasteredtohisforehead.
Iswallow.
“Hey,”Iwhisper.IcanbarelylookathimandIsoundlikeIswallowedsixsheetsofsandpaper.Waytokeepittogether,Evie.
Iclearmythroat.
Heblinksatme,hisgazelingeringandlazy,trippingfromthetopofmyheadtothedrapeofmysweateracrossmyshoulder.Histonguelicksathisbottomlip,andIfeellikemaybeIshouldgrabtheedgeoftheframe,too.Clingtothebrassdoorknockerfordearlife.
Idon’tknowwhatmademebringBeckettbacktomyhotelwithmethathazysummernight,allthosemonthsago.I’veneverbeenremotelyinterestedinacasualhookupbefore.Ijust—
Isawhimwalkin,andIwantedhim.
Goodtoknowhiseffectonmehasn’tdimmedatall.
“Hey,”hewhispersback.Heexhalesthroughhisnoseandpushesoffthedoorframe,glancingonceoverhisshoulderattheemptyhallwaybehindhim.Igetagoodlookatthestronglineofhisjawandhavetoclearmythroatagain.“CanIcomeinforasecond?”
Inodandtakeastepback,lettinghimpassthroughthenarrowdoor.Allmyhazymemorieshaveapparentlydonethesheersizeofhimaninjustice.Helookstoobigstandinginthemiddleoftheroomwithhishandsinhispockets,pretendingtostudythepaintingofthepondhangingabovethedesk.Iclickthedoorshutandtrynottothinkofthelasttimewewereinaspacejustlikethis.
Gauzywhitecurtains.Tangledsheets.Awarmhandsplayedbetweenmyshoulderblades.Hisvoiceinmyear,tellingmehowgoodIfelt.Totakeit
Ishakemyheadandleanagainstthedresser,legscrossedattheankles.Iamdoingmyselfnofavors.“Youwantedtotalk?”
Henods,stilldistractedbythatpainting.Heglancesatmefromthecornerofhiseye.“Socialmediainfluencer,huh?”
Idon’tlikethetoneofhisvoice,thefaintaccusationIhearthere.Ididn’toffermyjob,butneitherdidhe.Thebothofuswerefocusedon…otherthingsduringourtimetogether.Hedidn’trecognizemewhenIwalkedintothebarandthathadbeenanicechange.Refreshing.
Cheesyasitsounds,mentypicallydon’twanttobewithmeforme.UsuallywhenI’mapproachedbymen,there’ssomethinginitforthem—apictureononeofmychannels,aproductplug.Once,aguyaskedifIwasupforasextape.
SowhenBeckettwalkedintothattinybarwithhisinkedarmsandhisgazepassingovermewithappreciationinsteadofcalculation,Itookachance.Itooksomethingformyself
Alotofgoodthatdidme.
“Farmer,huh?”Imimichiscoolindifferenceandwatchthewayhislipsturndownatthecorners,handsclenchingintofistsathisside.
“I’mjustsurprised,isall,”hesays,stillwiththatslightlysarcastictone.Asifhecan’tbelieveheevenneedstohavethisconversationwithme.Asifmebeingsomeonewhoworksinsocialmediaisthemostvile,repulsivethinghecouldpossiblythinkof.Hesniffsandrubshisknucklesagainsthisjaw.“Ididn’texpecttoseeyouagain.”
ClearlyIalsodidn’texpecttoseehim,giventhatIranfromthebakehouseatthefarmthisafternoonliketheplacewasonfire.Doesn’tmeanI’mgoingtobeajerkaboutit,though.
Hewatchesmecarefully,eyesnarrowed.Iwishthecookietraywascloser.“Didyouknow?”
“DidIknowwhat?”
“DidyouknowIworkhere?”
Ifrownandtiltmychinup.DoeshethinkIdidthisonpurpose?Cametohisplaceofworkto…what?Harasshim?Embarrasshim?“Absolutelynot,”Isayfirmly.“Ididn’tthinkI’deverseeyouagaineither.”
Hesmilesandit’snotniceatall.“Well,youmadethatabundantlyclear,Evie.”
Iblinkathim.
“Sorry,”hetellsme,hisvoicegruff.Heisnotsorryatall.“YouprobablypreferEvelyn.”
Somethinginmychestpullstightatthesharpedgeofhiswords.Hesoundsfrustrated,uncomfortable.He’sholdinghimselftoostillinthecornerbythedesk,hiseyesangryandupset.Idon’tknowwhyithurtsforhimtocallmeEvelyn,onlythatitdoes.
Butnoneofthatmatters.Itdoesn’tmatterthathe’slookingatmelikeI’msomethingstucktothebottomofhisshoe.
Itdoesn’tchangeasinglethingbetweenus.Notwhathappenedbeforeandnotwhat’shappeningnow.
It’sjust…IhadbeenEviewithhim.
Thathadbeennice.
Thesilenceswellsbetweenusuntilitfeelslikethere’saweightpressingonmyshoulders.Beckettdoesn’tlooklikehe’sinanyhurrytofillit.Hetugshishatfromhisheadwithagrumbledcurse,anddragshispalmbackandforthoverthebackofhisneck.Intohishairuntilhalfofitisstickingup.
“Listen,Ididn’t—“hetiltshisheadandlooksattheceiling,twistinghisnecktothesideinatensestretch.Hesighsandstraightens,levelingmewithalookthatsomehowchannelsbothirritationandexasperationatthesametime.Ihavenoideawhattodowithit.Ihavenoideawhattodowithanyofit.Thisversionofhimissoverydifferentfromthemanwiththesoftwordsandcarefultouches—hislaughaquiet,huskythinginthedark.
“I’msorry.Thisisn’twhyIcamehere.”Heclencheshisjawsotightit’sawonderhe’sabletosayanythingatall.“Icameherebecause—becauseIwanttoaskyoutostay.”
Ican’tquitestopthesoundthattripsoutofmymouth.Ifthat’shimtryingtoconvincemetostay,I’dhatetoseewhatitlookslikewhenhewantsmetogo.“Yourpitchcouldusesomework.”
“Evelyn.”
“I’mserious.”
Hisfrowndeepens.“ThiscontestmeansalottoStella.Itmeansalottome,too.OurfarmneedsyourhelpandI’dlikeforyoutogiveusafairshotatit.”
Anotherpainfulpluckatmychest.
“YouthinkIwouldn’t?”
“Youdidrunfrommeearlier,”hepointsout,thebaresthintofasmirkcurlingatthecornerofhismouth.Ihatethatitsendsalickofheatstraightdownmyspine.“Imean,youliterallyranfromthebakerywhenyousawme.”
Ilookdownatmyfeet.Notmyfinestmoment.ButIdidn’tknowwhatelsetodo.“Iknow.”
Adifferentkindofsilencesettlesinthespacebetweenus.
“I’dlikesomereassurance,”hesays,voicequiet.Iwatchhisfeetasheshiftshisweight.“Thatyou’llstay.”
“Andwhatwouldthatbe?”Iaskinhisgeneraldirection.Whenhedoesn’tsayanythinginreturn,Ireleaseabreathandlookupathim.He’sstillfrowning,thatlittlelinebetweenhiseyebrowsdeepeningwithit.“Foryoutobereassured?”
Icouldwritehimahaiku.Bakehimacakeandsignitinbuttercreamfrosting.Iknowhe’shesitantbecauseofthewayIleftthings,butitwasaone-night—okay,atwo-night—stand.Asingleweekendtogether.
Idon’towehimanything.
Hiseyesflashashadedarker.Forthefirsttimesincehe’senteredtheroom,hefixeshisgazeintentlyonmine.Somethingtwistsandpullsbetweenus.Ifeelitassureasatouchagainstmyarm.Thesmallofmyback.
“Apromise,”hesays.
“Wouldyoulikemetomakeabloodoath?”
Hemakesanunamusedsound.Irollmyeyes.“I’mheretodoajob,Beckett.Iwouldn’tletanythinggetinthewayofthat.Stelladeservesmybest.Ihavenointentionsofphoningitin.”
I’veneverdoneanythingbutmybest.Hemightthinkmyjobisridiculous,butIknowwhatmyinfluencecandoforpeople.Icanbringbusinesstothisfarm—customers,attention,acannonballofsocialactivity.
“Soyoupromise?”
Inod,suddenlytireddowntomyverybones.Iwanttherestofthatcookietrayandthebed,inthatorder.
Iwantmyghostofone-nightstandspasttofindthenearestexit.
“Ipromise.I’llbetheretomorrow.Wecanstartover.”
“Youwon’tleave?”heasksandI’mremindedofahazygraymorning,astormrollinginoffthecoast.Hisarmstretchedoutbeneaththepillows,thebareskinofhisbackandthedipofhisspine.Thegentlesnickofthedoorasitclosedbehindme,mysuitcaseatmyfeet.
Itakeadeepbreathinthroughmynoseandpushitoutjustasslow.It’snothisfaultthathedoesn’tbelieveme.Apparently,Beckettisthetypetoholdontoagrudge.
Igrabanothercookiefromthetray.“I’llstay.”CHAPTERONEBECKETTMARCH
“Doyouplanoncomingbacktobed?”
Hervoiceisraspywithsleepandshehasahickeyatthebaseofherthroat,adeeppurplebruisethatIcan’tstopstaringat.Shestretchesherarmsaboveherheadandthesheetslipshalfaninch,theswellofherbreastsrisingfrombeneath.Iwanttocatchthatsheetinmyteethanddragitdownuntilshe’sbarebeneathme.Iwantahundredotherthings,too.
IshakemyheadfromwhereI’mperchedonthedeskinthecorneroftheroom,takinganothersipofcoffeeinstead.
Restraint,Itellmyself.Havesomegoddamnedrestraint.
Shesmirksatme.
“Oh,Igetit.”Shedropsherhandsbackdown,onetwistingthroughherhair,theotherslippingbeneaththesheets.Oneeyebrowarcheshighininvitation.“Youliketowatch.”
I’mprettysureI’dlikejustaboutanythingwithEvie.Iwantallthatblack,silkyhairwrappedaroundmyfist,thatsmilingmouthatmyneck.Lastnightshespenttwenty-twominutestracingthetattooacrossmybicepwithhermouthandIwantthat,too.Iwanttoreturnthefavorwiththefrecklesontheinsideofherwristandthemarksatherhips.
Ipushoffthedeskandsetmycuptotheside.Isteptowardsthebedandwatchthemovementofherhand.Sheswipesitlowacrossherstomach,awickedsmileonherprettyface.Iplantmykneeonthebedandfindherankle,herbarefootdanglingofftheedge.
“Ilovetowatch,”ItellherasIgripherthighandmakeroomformybodybetweenherlonglegs.Idropakisstotheinsideofherkneeandherwholebodyshivers.Idropanotherkissjustaboveit.“ButIliketotouchmore.”
AfingerdigsintomyribcageasI’mviolentlyyankedfrommyfavoritedaydream.
“Areyoupayingattention?”
Mykneejoltsandmybootcatchesonthechairinfrontofme,sendingBeckyGardenerrockingprecariouslytotheside.Shecurlsherhandsaroundtheedgeswithawhite-knuckledgripandshootsmealookoverhershoulder.Ifixmyattentiononmybootsandmumbleanapology.
“I’mpayingattention,”ItellStella,andswatherhandaway.
Kindof.Notreally.Therearetoomanypeopleinthisroom.Allofthebusinessownersintownaresandwichedtogetherintheconferencespaceattherechall,anoldroomthatI’mprettysureisusedtostoreEasterdecorationsiftheslightlyterrifyingsix-footbunnyinthebackcornerisanyindication.Itsmellslikestalecoffeeandhairsprayandtheladiesfromthesalonhaven’tstoppedcacklingsincetheysteppedthroughthedoor.It’slikesittingcross-leggedinthemiddleofaparadewhilethedrumlinemarchesaroundme.Allofthesoundpullsmyshoulderstight,anitchofdiscomfortprickingatmyneck.
AndIkeepmakingeyecontactwiththatbunny.
Idon’tusuallycometothesetypesofthings,butStellahadinsisted.Youwantedtobeapartner,shesaid.Thisiswhatpartnersdo.
IthoughtbeingapartnermeantIcouldbuythefancyfertilizerwithoutcheckinginwithanyone,notattendmeetingsthatserveabsolutelynopurpose.There’sareasonIchoseajobwhereIspendseventy-fivepercentofmydayoutside.
Alone.Inthequiet.
Istrugglewithtalkingtopeople.Strugglewithcomingupwiththerightwordsintherightsequenceattherighttime.EverysingletimeIcomeintotown,Ifeellikeeveryoneislookingrightatme.Someofthatisinmyhead,Iknow,butsomeofitis—
SomeofitisCindyCroswellpretendingtofallintheaisleatthepharmacyjustsoIhavetohelpherupagain.OrBeckyGardenerfromtheschoolaskingmeifIcanhostafieldtripwhileeyeingmeuplikeI’mararesteakwithasideofpotatoes.I’vegotnoideawhatgoesonhalfthetimeIcomeintotown,butIfeellikepeoplelosetheirdamnminds.
“You’renotpayingattention,”Laylachimesinfrommyright,legscrossedandhandrummagingaroundinthegiantbowlofpopcornshebroughtwithher.LaylarunsthebakeryatthefarmwhileStellaholdsdownthetourismandmarketingsideofthings.SinceInglewildisthesizeofapostagestampandStellahasabone-deepurgetomakeLovelightFarmsacornerstoneofthecommunity,weseemtobeexpectedtobeinvolvedinalotoftownbusiness.
Idon’tevenknowwhatthismeetingisabout.
“Wheredidthepopcorncomefrom?”
Iglanceatthegargantuanbagstuffedunderherchair.Iknowforafactthere’ssomebrowniesandhalfaboxofcrackersinthere.ShesaystheInglewildbi-monthlysmallbusinessowner’smeetingisadragwithoutasnackandI’minclinedtoagree.Notthatshe’sofferedtoshare.
Laylacirclesonefingerrightinfrontofmyfaceandignoresmyquestion.“Youhavethatmoonylookonyourface.You’rethinkingaboutEvelyn.”
“Wasnot.”Isighandrollmyshoulders,desperatetorelievethetensionthatsitsbetweenthem.“Iwasthinkingaboutthepeppercrop,”Ilie.
I’mdistracted.I’vebeenthatwaysincetwohazynightsinAugust.Sweat-slickedskin.Hairlikemidnight.EvieSt.Jameshadsmelledlikeseasaltandtastedlikecitrus.
Ihaven’thadmyheadonstraightsince.
Laylarollshereyesandcramsanotherhandfulofpopcornintohermouth.“Okay,sure.Whateveryousay.”
StellareachesacrossmeandsnatchesthebowloutofLayla’shands.“They’regettingreadytostart.Ifwecouldpretendtobeprofessional,thatwouldbegreat.”
Iraisebotheyebrows.“Forthetownmeeting?”
“Yes,forthetownmeeting.Theoneinwhichwearecurrentlyinattendance.”
“Ah,yes.Alwaysveryprofessional.”
Atthelasttownmeeting,PeteCrawfordtriedtofilibusterGeorgieSimmonsduringavoteonnewparkingrestrictionsinfrontoftheco-op.Hehadre-enactedSpeed,completewithpropsandvoices.
Stellalevelsmewithalookandturnsbacktothefrontoftheroomwiththebowlinthecrookofherarm.Laylashimmiescloserandrestsherchinatmyelbow.Isighandlookupattheheavywoodenbeamsthatcutacrosstheceilingandprayforpatience.There’sadeflatedballoonstuckupthere,probablyleftoverfromtheValentine’sDayeventtheyhadlastmonth.Aspeeddatingthing,Ithink.MysistershadtriedtomakemegoandIlockedmyselfinmyhouseandturnedoffmyphone.Istareattheballoonandfrown.Afadedredheart,deflatedandstuck,stringwrappedaroundandaround.
“Haveyoutalkedtohersincesheleft?”
Acoupleoftimes.Ablandtextsentinthemiddleofthenightafteronetoomanybeers.Agenericresponse.Apicturefromherofanopenfield,somewhereoutthereintheworld,alineoftextthatsaidnotasniceasyourfarmbutstillprettynice.Ihadfumbledmyphoneintothedirtwhenthatmessagecamethrough,mythumbtracingbackandforthoverherwordslikeIhadmyhandsonherskininstead.
Asocialmediainfluencer.Animportantone,apparently.I’mstilltryingtowrapmyheadaroundthat.Millionsandmillionsoffollowers.Ilookedheruponenightwhenthesilenceofmyhousefeltsuffocating,mythumbtappingatthescreenofmyphone.Icheckedheraccountandcouldn’tstopstaringatthatlittlenumberatthetop.
Inevercheckedheraccountagain.
I’vehadone-nightstandsbefore.Plentyofthem.ButIcan’tgetEvieoutofmyhead.Thinkingaboutherislikeahungerinthehollowofmystomach,abuzzingjustundermyskin.WespenttwonightstogetherinBarHarbor.Ishouldn’t—Idon’tknowwhyIstillseeherwhenIclosemyeyes.
Twistedupinbedsheets.Hairinmyface.Thathalf-smilethatdrovemecrazy.
“Iwasthinkingaboutpeppers,”Isayagain,determinedtoholdontothislie.It’sbestnottogiveLaylaaninch.She’lltakeamileandtheshirtoffyourbackforthetroubleofit.Igrewupwiththreesisters.Icansensetheinquisitionlikeawindchange.
“Yourfacedoesnotsayyou’rethinkingaboutbellpeppers.Itsaysyou’rethinkingaboutEvelyn.”
“Stoplookingatmyface.”
“Stopmakingthefaceyou’remakingandI’llstoplookingatit.”
Isigh.
“Ijustthinkit’sashame,isall,”Laylareachesacrossmeandgrabsanotherhandfulofpopcornandakernellandsinmylap.IflickitoffandhitBeckyGardenerrightinthebackofthehead.Christ.Iwinceandsinkfurtherinmychair.“Youtwoseemedtohititoff.”
Whatweseemedtodoiscircleeachotherliketwoskittishkittens.AfterIwenttovisitheratthebedandbreakfast,IpromisedI’dgiveherawideberthtodoherjob.IthadbeenharderthanIexpected,keepingthatpromise.Seeingherstandingamongtherowsandrowsoftreesonthefarm,asmileonherface,herhandspassingoverthebranches—well.Itwasliketakingabaseballbattotheface.Repeatedly.ButthecontestmeanteverythingtoStella,andIwasn’tabouttoruinourchanceswitha…witha…
Acrush?Aflirtation?
Idon’tevenknowwhat.
AllIknowisthatitwasachallengeformetobearoundher.Icouldn’tstopthinkingaboutmybodycurledaroundhers.Thewaytheskinjustbelowhereartasted.Howitfelttohaveallthathairbrushagainstmyjaw,myshoulders,thetopsofmythighs.Ifoundmyselfwantingtomakeherlaugh,wantingtotalktoher.
IcancountononehandthenumberofpeopleIwanttotalkto.
Butwefigureditout,settledintoaroutinewhileshewashere.Cordialconversationandpolitenods.Asinglesliceofsharedzucchinibreadonaquietafternoon—plentyofspacebetweenus.ThatsameelectriccurrentthattuggedustogetheratadivebarinMaineknitslowlybacktogetherinathinthreadofconnection.
Andthensheleft.Again.
Andunfortunatelyforme,Istillhaven’tfiguredouthowtostopthinkingabouther.
“Whatkindofpeppers?”
Ishakemyheadonce,tryingtoprylooseanimageofEvelynstandinginbetweentwotoweringoaktreesontheedgeoftheproperty,herfaceinprofileandtiltedtowardsthesky.Thesunhadpaintedherinshimmeringgolds,leavesflutteringlightlyaroundher.Iclearmythroatandadjustmypositioninthefoldingchair,mykneeknockingsidewaysintoLayla’s.I’mwaytoobigforthesechairsandtherearetoomanydamnpeopleinthisroom.“What?”
“Whattypeofpeppersareyouplanting?Ihaven’tseenanymarkersforpeppersoutinthefield.”
Thebackofmyneckgoeshot.“Younevergooutinthefields.”
“I’minthefieldseveryday.”
Shewalksthroughthefields,sure,onthewaytothebakehousesituatedsmackdabinthemiddleofthem.Butsheneverfindsherselfintheproducecrop.Notunlesssheneedssomething.Iscratchatmyjaw,frustrated.I’dbetmysavingsshefindssomethingsheneedsouttheretomorrowmorning.
“Bell,”Imanagebetweenclenchedteeth.
Shit,nowIneedtogooutandplantbellpeppers.
Laylahums,eyesalightwithmischief.“Whatcolor?”
“What?”
“Whatcolorbellpepper—”sheputsanannoyingemphasisonthewords.“—haveyouplanted?”
“Heplantedredbellpeppersinthesoutheastfieldsintworowsnexttothezucchini.Whichyouwillgetabsolutelynoneofifyoudonotpayattention,”Stellasnaps.LaylaandIbothglanceatherinshock.It’snotlikeStellatogetaggravated.Nottomentionthatis…notatruestatement.Andwebothknowit.
Someofthesteelmeltsoutofhershouldersandsheslumps,handingLaylabackherpopcornbowl.
“Sorry.I’mstressed.”
“Clearly,”Laylasaysinalaugh,handbacktorummagingaroundinhersnacks.Hereyesfindmineandhold,narrowinguntilallIcanseeisaglimpseofhazel.Shestillhassomejellyinherhairfrombakingearliertoday.Strawberry,bythelooksofit.Shepointsherfingerrightbetweenmyeyebrowsandtapsmethereonce.“Don’tthinkI’mgoingtoforgetaboutthis.”
Iswatherhandaway.ShecouldpersistonthistopicforthenextsixmonthsforallIcare.It’lljustsoundlikebackgroundnoise.
IturnmyattentiontoStellaandwedgemybootagainsthers.Shestopsthenervoustappingofherfootandgrimaces.“Sorry.”
“Nothingtoapologizeover,”Ishrugandscantheedgesoftheroom.“Lukanotcoming?”
IfLukawerehere,he’dsmoothhishandbetweenhershoulderbladesandshe’dmeltlikebutter.Theywerelikethatbeforetheygottogether,andittookthemastupidlylongtimetoseewhatwasrightinfrontofthem.Ididn’twinthetown-widebettingpool,butitwasclose.Gusoveratthefirestationhasn’tshutupaboutit,goingasfarasmakingaplaquetohangabovetheambulancebayatthefirehouse.ItsaysInglewild’sTopMatchmaker,likehehadanythingtodowithLukaandStellaorbitingeachotherforclosetoadecade.IslipdownfurtherinmyseatandtrytorearrangemylegssoIactuallyfitinthisdamnchair.
“He’sonhisway,”shesays,eyesdartingtothedoorandholdinglikeshecanmakehimappearbysheerforceofwill.Ahandpushestangledblackcurlsoffherface.“Buthe’srunninglate.”
“He’llbehere,”Iassureher.PrettysureLukawouldn’tmissthisforanything.EvenifhistinyItalianmotherandallherferocioussisterswereblockingthedoor.Ifhesaidhe’dcome,he’llbehere.
“Hey,”Ilowermyvoiceandleancloser,consciousofLaylastillsnackingawayonmyright.She’sstartedtossingpiecesupintheairandcatchingtheminhermouth.Accurateeverytime.“Ididn’tplantanybellpeppers.”
ThatseemstorelaxStellaabit,acoysmileturningthecornersofherlips.“Iknowthat.”
“Why’dyouliethen?”
“Becauseyoulookedlikeyouneededanout.AndIknowathingortwoabouthavingtosortthroughfeelingsbeforeyoucansharethemwitheveryoneelse.”ThedoortotherechallcreaksopenandLukastepsinside,eyessearching.Hishairisstickingineverydirection,theedgeofhisshirthalf-tuckedintohisjeans.HelookslikeheranstraightherefromtheDelawareborder.Stellabreathesoutasighandagrinpullshermouthwide.AnansweringsmilebloomsonLuka’sfacethesecondhefindsherinthecrowd.Watchingthemtogetherislikeshovingacupcakedirectlyintomyface.
“Plus,”Stella’seyesdon’tblinkawayfromLukaashetriestoclimbhiswaythroughrowsofpeopletogettotheemptyseatnexttoher.HeknocksoverafoldingchairandalmostsendsCindyCroswelltothegroundwithit.“I’vebeenwantingbellpeppersonthefarmforages.”
“Ah,okay.Thereitis.”
“Lukamakesreallygoodstuffedpeppers,”shechucklesasLukaslipsintothespacenexttoher.Hishandimmediatelysneaksunderherhairandhershouldersdoalittleshimmyassheleansfurtherintohim.IavertmyeyestothefrontoftheroomwhereSheriffJonesisgettingreadyatthewoodenpodium,butIdon’tmissthelowmurmuringbetweenthem,thewayStellafoldsherbodyintohis.HowLuka’sfoothooksinthebottomofherchairtopullheralittlebitcloser.
Notforthefirsttime,I’mjealous.I’veneverhadthatwithanotherperson.Neverbeenabletoslideintosomeone’sspaceandpressmyfingertipstotheirskin,watchthemleanfurtherintome.
Ithinkofmythumbagainstafullbottomlip,redasacherry,andshiftinmyseat.Themetalsqueaksominouslybeneathme.
I’dreallylovetostopthinkingaboutEvelyn.
Laylaleansaroundme,herbowldiggingintomyribcage.“Themaintenanceclosetisavailableifyoutwowanttogetaroom.”
Isnortalaugh.Stellagroans.Lukabendsforwardandscoopshishandinthepopcornbowl.
“Doesithavealock?”
Laylacacklesloudenoughtoattractattentionfromthefrontoftheroom.SomeofthesalonladiesstoptheirconversationtogiveusalookandAlexfromthebookstoreraiseshiscoffeeingreeting.InoticeDeputyCalebAlvarezstandingjustbehindtheSheriff,asmiletwitchingonhislips,hisgazefixedonLayla.
IcatchStella’seyeandshegrins.
“Alright,let’sgetthisshowontheroad.”SheriffDaneJonesclearshisthroatandthenclearsitagain,thechatterintheroomquietingaseveryonesettlesinforthemeeting.“Firstorderofbusiness.Ms.Beatrice,thepolicedepartmentwouldappreciateitifyoustoppedtryingtotowthecarsinfrontofthecafeonyourown.Youdon’thavetheequipmentforit,andusingyourvehicleasabatteringramhasresultedinafewcomplaints.”
“Shetriedtokillme,”SamMontezshoutsfromthebackoftheroom,hishatfallingoffsidewaysashejumpsfromhischair.“Iwasoutofmycarforaminute—twotops—andshetriedtokillme!”
Ihidemysmilebehindmyfist.Samhasabadhabitofdoubleparking.Notusuallyaproblemonoursmalltownroads,butannoyingallthesame.IcanjustbarelymakeoutthetopofMs.Beatrice’sheadsittingattheendofthefrontrow,hergrayhairpulledintoamessybun.ShemutterssomethingthatIdon’tquitecatch.Danefrowns,andCalebpracticallyswallowshistongue.
“Well,there’snoneedforthatkindoflanguage.Ifsomeoneisblockingtheloadingdock,youcangivemeorCalebaring.”
ShemumblessomethingelseandShirleyfromthesalongasps.Danepinchesthebridgeofhisnosebetweenthumbandforefinger.“Bea,whathaveItoldyouaboutmakingthreatsofphysicalviolenceinfrontofapoliceofficer.Sam,sitdown.”
Samdropsdowninhisseatandscoopsuphishat.LukareachesacrossmeforanotherhandfulofpopcornfromLayla’sbowl.
“Youundersoldthismeeting,LaLa.”
“They’renotusuallythiscolorful,”Stellatellshim,acceptingapieceofofferedpopcorn.
“Yes,theyare,”LaylaandIreplyinunison.
“Nextup,”Daneglancesdownatthestackofpapersonthepodiumandletsoutamuffledgroan.HeglancesatCalebwithapleadingexpression.CalebshrugsandDaneturnsbacktotheroom.“Ms.Beatrice,ifyoucouldkindlyremovetheWANTEDpostersfromthewindowoftheshop,thatwouldbegreat.”
ThistimeI’mnottheonlyonewhohastostiflealaugh.TheroombreaksoutintoalowmurmurandCalebhastocompletelyturnaroundtohidehisgrin,hisbackfacingtheaudienceandhisshouldersshaking.Ms.BeatricehasbeenputtingupWANTEDsignsinherwindowsformonthsnow,eversinceshecaughttwotouristsinthebackbathroomusingthesinkinnewandcreativeways.
DanetiltshisheadtolistentowhateverMs.Beatricehastosayonthematter.“Iagreepublicindecencyisacrime,butagain,justgivemeorCalebacall.”Heholdsuphishandtocutoffherresponseandglancesdownatthepodium,eagertomovetheconversationalong.Butwhateverheseeshashimfoldingupthewholestackofpaperworkwithagrunt.“Alright,Beatrice,clearlyyouandIneedtohaveasideconversation.We’lltablethe—“heflipsoverthepaperandglancesatitagain.“—otherseventhingsforanothertime.”
“Doyouthinksomeonecomplainedabouthowsherefusestobuyalmondmilk?”Laylawhispersoutofthecornerofhermouth.Shedidbuyit,actually.Shejustputitinacanisterthatsayshipsterjuiceontheside.
“ProbablysomethingaboutKarenandthelatteincident,”Ireply.Irarelycomeintotownduringtheafternoons,butIhappenedtobewalkingbythedayMs.BeatricerefusedtoserveKarenWilkesonaccountofherbeingrudetothewaitstaff.AlattesomehowfounditswayalloverKaren’sfauxfurbomberjacket.Can’tsayIblameherforthatone.
“Alright,”Dane’svoiceboomsovertheroomandeveryonesettlesagain.“Nextup.Thepizzashopis,uh—”hehesitates,rubbinghisfingertipsoverhismustacheanddownhischin.Hetapsthereonceandglancesaroundtheroom.“Mattywouldlikeyoualltoknowthere’saspecialthismonth.HalftheprofitsonWednesdaysgototheelementaryschooltofundtheirsciencetrips.”
Stella’shandshootsintotheair.Danelookslikehewantstowalkoutthedoorandkeepwalking.“Yes,Stella?”
“IsthisanappropriatetimetosharethatIthinkyoutwoarethecutestcoupleI’veeverseeninmylifeandexpressmycongratulationsthatyou’vefinallymovedintogether?”
“Ilikethewreathyouputonyourdoor,”MabelBrewsteraddsfromsomewhereinthemiddleoftheroom.“Andthebirdbathinthefrontyard.Didn’tknowyouhadsuchaneyeforgardening,Sheriff.”
TherestoftheroomburstsintoaseriesofcommentsandquestionsontheSheriff’slovelife.
“Didyouseethematthefarmer’smarket?IswearI’veneverseenDaneJonessmilesomuch.”
“Doyoumeanhesmiledonce?BecauseIthinkthat’sthestandingrecord.”
“Theywereholdinghands.HeboughtMattyflowers.”
“WhereisMatty?Youcan’tkeephimlockedupjustbecauseyoutwoareanitemnow.”
Isinkfurtherinmychair,thehumofsoundrisingupandoverme.It’slikeabuzzinthebackofmyhead,aringinginmyears.Ipressmythumbdeepintomypalmandtrytofocusthereinstead.
Danelooksaboutreadytoburstatthefrontoftheroom,hischeeksaflamingredabovehisbeard,handsfussingwiththehattuckedunderhisarm.
InudgeStellawithmyelbow.“You’renotworriedthisisgoingtoturnonyou?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
IgesturebetweenherandLuka.“Whenareyoutwomovingintogether?”
“Oh,”shewavesherhand,unconcerned.“Assoonaswecanfigureouthowtoaddmorespace.Idon’tthinkLukaisreadyformeinmyfullmessygloryquiteyet.”
Stellalivesinacottageontheoppositesideofthefarmfrommycabin,atinyhousefilledtothebrimwitholdmagazinesandhalf-emptycoffeemugs.Itlookslikeaneighty-year-oldwomanwithahoardingproblemlivesthere,Luka’sinterferencebedamned.Ionceheardthemarguingaboutkitchentowelswithgnomesonthem.Stelladidn’twanttothrowthemawaybecause,apparently,they’reaconversationpiece.
“We’llmoveintogetherwhenwecanaddabedroomortwosohehassomeplacetocrywhenIdon’tfoldhist-shirtsexactlyright.”Sheshrugs,jostlingLuka’sarmaroundhershoulders.Hepinchesherlightlywithoutevenlookingandhersmilespreadsintoagrin.“I’mhappytosharethatwithanyonewhoasks.Allofthis—Daneneedstoknowwelovehim.Welovethem.Hetoldmeoncehedidn’tthinkhewasenoughforMatty.Hewasafraidtotakethechance.”SheleansintoLuka,hertempleagainsthischin.“Hedeservestoknowhe’sgotthetownrootingforhim.Thatwe’regladhe’shappy.”
That’sallwellandgood,butDanelookslikehe’sabouttomeltintothefloor.
“Evenifitderailstherestofthismeeting?”
Shegrins.Lukashoutssomethingaboutmatchingchinapatterns.There’sanansweringcheerthroughoutthesmallroomandDanepresseshisfisttohisforehead.“Especiallythen.”
Ileanbackinmyseatwithachuckleandcrossmyarmsovermychest,pullmybaseballcaplowovermyeyes,andstretchmylegsoutasmuchasI’mable.Bestjusttowaitthesethingsout,inmyexperience.
Iclosemyeyes,breatheindeep,andthinkaboutpeppers.CHAPTERTWOEVELYN
“Uh,hey.”Athroatclearssomewhereaboveme,aroughrumble.“Youwaitingonsomeone?”
Iglanceupfrommyphonetothetallfigureleaningwithhishipattheedgeofthetable,afrowntugginghislipsdown.Idon’tthinkI’veseenhimsmileoncesinceIgothere—onthelimitedoccasionsIhaveseenhim,ofcourse.Ithinkhe’sbeenhidinginoneofthebarnseverytimeI’mtouringthegrounds.
Itmakesmesad.
Alittleannoyed,too.
“I’mnot.”Ipushtheemptyseatacrossfrommebackwithmyboot.Asilentinvitation.
Hewaitsabeatandthenfoldshisbodyintothesmallseatacrossfromme.Iwatchhimovertheedgeofmycoffeemug.Elbowsonthetable,hunchedshoulders.Hisbodycurlsforwardashestaresathisplatelikeitholdsthesecretstotheuniverse.Minutespass,andhedoesn’tsayaword.
“So,”Idropmychininmyhandandtakeanoisysipofmycoffee.Ikeepmyvoicelightandbright,markedlydifferentfromtheawkwardtensionthat’scurlinginmygut.MymomsaysI’mimpervioustothemoodsofothers.ThatIcouldbrighteneventhedarkeststormcloud.
WithBeckett,Ifeellikewe’reboththestormcloud.Together,we’reamonsoon.
“Howisyourdaygoing?”
Heglancesupatme,abiteofzucchinibreadperfectlypoisedontheendofhisfork.“Hm?”
“Yourday,”Irepeat.Ifhewantedtositinsilence,hecouldhavegonetoanyoftheemptytableslinedagainstthewall.Insteadhesatdownhere,withme.“Howisitgoing?”
“Oh,”heshiftsinhisseatandtracestheedgeofhisporcelainplatewithhisthumb.“It’sfine,”hemumbles.Blue-greeneyespeekupatmeandthendartbackdown.Anotherawkwardpause,thesilencestretchingamomenttoolong.Ican’tbelievethismanwalkedrightuptomeinabarandputhisbodynexttomine.LeanedintomyspaceuntilIcouldsmellthesummerrainonhisskinandaskedmewhatIwasdrinking.“Yours?”
“Fine.”Iwanttoflinghisplateacrossthebakehouse,ifonlytogetareactionoutofhim.Iwaitforhimtosaysomethingelseandwhenhedoesn’t,Isigh.“Stellaistakingmeonatourthroughthefieldslater.”
Hemakesavaguelyinterestedsound.
“Itreallyisbeautifulhere.”
Anothersoundunderhisbreath.
Alright,fine.
Icollapsebackinmyseatandcrossmyarmsovermychest,busyingmyselfwithlookingoutthefloor-to-ceilingwindowtomyleft.Fromthisangle,Icanseeacoupleofkidsweavinginandoutofthetrees—atinysquirrelhidinginthebrush,diggingaholeinthedirt.Thebakehouseishiddeninoneofthefields,asurpriseforvisitorstostumbleuponwhenthey’reouthuntingfortheperfecttree.Inside,condensationgathersatthebottomofthewindows,aperfectframeofgray-white.Treebranchesbrushatthewindows.ItfeelslikeI’minoneofthosevintageChristmascards,andIbetit’sdamnnearmagicalwhenitsnows.
“Youknow,Iwaswalkingpastthestrawberryfieldsearlier.”
IdartmygazebacktoBeckett,stillstaringatthatstupidplate.“Yeah?Ididn’tknowyouhadstrawberryfieldshere.”
Heignoresme,abobinhisthroatasheswallowstightly.Stoic.Insulated.Amillionmilesaway.
“Iheardsomeofthemcrying,Ithink.”
“What?”
“Thestrawberries,”heexplains.“Iheardsomeofthemcrying.”
Iblinkathim.“Ihavenoideawhatyou’retalkingabout.”
“It’sbecause—”asmallsmilecurlsattheedgeofhismouth,rightatthecorner.IttugsathisbottomlipasheshiftsinhisseatandIremember,viscerally,whatthatsmilefeelsliketuckedintheplacebetweenmyshoulderandneck.Helooksupatmethroughhislashesandit’sthemomentafterastormwhenthesundecidestopeekoutfrombehindtheheavyclouds—rainstilldrippingfromtheedgesoftheroof,thetrees,themailboxonthecorner.“It’sbecausetheirparentswereinajam,Ithink.”
Ittakesmeasecondtounderstand.
Ajoke.
Beckettjustmadeajoke.
Areallystupidone,too.
Asurprisedlaughburstsoutofme,brightandloud.Severalpeopleturntolook.
ButI’mtoobusystaringatBeckett,thegrinonhisfacewideandunrestrained.Alittlebitwild.Alotbitbeautiful.
Ipressmyfisttomylips,delightedbyhisshiningeyes.Heduckshisheaddownandtakesanotherbiteofhiszucchinibread.
“Thatwasadumbjoke,”Itellhim
“Yeah.”Hissmilesettlesintosomethingsoft.SomethingI’vefeltbeforewiththepalmofmyhandinthedeadofnight.Hiseyesshinebrightintheafternoonsun.“Yeah,itwas.”
I’mpulledoutofmydaydreamwithasharpkicktomyshin.
Ijumpinmyseat,mykneehittingtheundersideoftheshinywoodentablethatstretchesthelengthoftheroom.Josiegivesmealookfromherplaceacrossfromme,botheyebrowsraisedhigh.Ihaven’tbeenabletokeepmythoughtsfromdriftingsinceIsatdownatthismeeting,andgiventhebruiseformingonmyleg,she’snoticed.
“Howdoyoufeelaboutdance?”
Myagent-of-the-day,Kirstyn,tapsherpenagainstapalepinknotepad.Peonypink.Theskyrightbeforethesunhitsthewaterpink.Swaydoesn’tbelieveinassigningonespecificagenttoaclient.Instead,Ihavearotatingfleetofyoung,attractive,andtrendyconsultantsatmybeckandcall.KirstynandherseverecloudofperfumehasmeyearningforDerrickandhisfluorescentnailpolish.Shellyandheroversizedblanketscarves.
Kirstynpinchesherlipstogetherinannoyance.“DidyouhearwhatIsaid?”
Josie’steethclampdownonherbottomlipandshewidensbothhereyes.Well,thatlookssays.Didyou?
Ididnot.IwastoobusyrememberingaquietNovemberafternooninasun-filledbakery.IwonderwhatBeckettwouldthinkofaplacelikethis.Iimaginehimhere,overwhelmedandconfused,squintingatthechalkboardplacardsontheoutsideofeachworkspace.Glaringatthemasonjarsintheopenkitchen.Scowlingatthefreshcucumberwaterandcomplimentarywarmhandtowels.
Ishakemyhead.
“I’msorry,”Iclearmythroatandcurlmyhandsaroundmymug.“Couldyourepeatwhatyousaid?”
Kirstynflickshershiningblondehairbackbehindhershoulder.She’swearingoversizedglasseswithathin,goldwireframe.Acollectionofbanglesdancedownherwrist.Sheliftsthemintgreenteakettleoffthetrayinthecenterofthetableandoffersittome.Ishakemyhead.
“Dance,”shesays,placingthekettlebackdownwithasmallpout.“Youknow,likethosechallengesyouseeeverywhere?”
Shegesturestoherphonefaceupnexttothetray—acohesivestreamofdancinginfluencers.Itrytopicturemyselfthere,wedgedinbetweenallthatcontent.Ican’tevenbegintoimagineitandIfeelatwistofanxiety.I’mprettysurethelasttimeIdidanysortofchoreographedmovement,Iwasthirteeninmyparent’sbasement,singingtoBackstreetBoysatthetopofmylungswithJosieusinganumbrellaasamicrophonestand.
“Iknowthechallenges,”Ioffer,withnosmallamountofhesitation.Icanseewherethisisgoing.
Thisisn’twhereyou’resupposedtobe,avoiceinthebackofmymindwhispers.It’sbeengettinglouderandlouder,thatvoice,asteadytrickleofdoubt.ButifI’mnotsupposedtobehere,whereamIsupposedtobe?WhatamIsupposedtobedoing?I’vespentmyentirelifecuratingthisplatform,buildingthisaudience.
Iblinkawayfromthephoneandlookoutthewindowatthebustlingsidewalkbelow,distractingmyselfwiththepeopleonthestreet.Iwatchaseveryonemovespastoneanotherwithoutlookingup—amindless,endlessdriveforward.Agustofwindtunnelsdownthesidewalkandliftstheedgeofabrightredscarf.Forasecond,thewomanclingingtoitlookslikeshe’sflying,herhandgraspingattheends.Shemanagestocatchitjustasshestumblespastatinyempanadashop—abrightpinkbuildingwithstringlightsacrossthetop,sandwichedbetweenanationalboxstoreandaglossybank.Asmallwomanwitholiveskinlaughsinthewindowandsnapshertowelatsomeoneontheothersideofthecounter.Asmilekicksupthecornerofmymouth.Icanhearherjoyfromhere.
“Evie,”IfeelJosie’sbootunderthetable,nudgingagainstmine.“Youokay?”
“I’msorry,”Irepeat.IshakemyheadandforcemyattentionbacktoKirstyn.I’mallovertheplacetoday.Ineedastrongcoffeeandasixdaynap.“I’mhere.I’mlistening.Explaintomewhatyou’relookingfor.”
“Wethinkyoushouldaddsomechoreographytoyourvideos,”Kirstynrepeatsslowly,enunciatingeachword.IwouldhazardaguessthatIwon’tbeseeingKirstynagainaftertoday.“Swaybelievesmovementanddancewouldmakeyourcontentmoreapproachable.”
JosieslowlyturnsherheadtolookatKirstyn.Iflookscouldkill,I’mprettysureKirstynwouldbeapileofash.Movementanddance.Itapafingernailagainstthelipofmycup.
“Whatdoyousuggest?”
Thelightpinchingofherlipsturnsintoatighteningbetweenhereyebrows.“Dance,”sherepeats,thefirsthintoffrustrationspillingoutofherlightly-linedlips.“Movement—“
Iwavemyhand.“Yes,movementwillmakemycontentmoreapproachable.ButasIamsureyouareaware,mycontentislargelyaspirational.Travelfocused.”Ifrown.“DoyouthinkIshoulddo“YahTrickYah”intheaisleofasmall-townbookstore?”
Josiesnorts.MysarcasmgoessailingrightoverKirstyn’shead.
“That’samazing,”shetellsme,greedyhandsreachingforherlaptop.Shebeginstofranticallytype,herhotpinknailsdancingacrossthekeyboard.“Whatanincredibleidea.Ican’tbelievewedidn’tthinkofthat.”
Adullheadachepoundsatthebaseofmyskull.“Thatwasn’t—“Isighandlookbackoutthewindow,downtowardstheempanadashop.Thewomanlaughinginthewindowisgonenow.“Iwasjoking.”
“Oh,well,”Kirstyndoesn’tlookupfromhercomputer.“It’sagoodidea.Maybeyoucanworkshopitonyournexttrip.”
Josiewidenshereyesatme.Workshopit,shemouths.Shemimesadancemovefromtheearly’90sI’mprettysureweworkshoppedduringourBackstreetBoysroutine.
Idon’tdignifythesuggestionwitharesponseandattempttochangethesubject.Iamwearydowntomyverybones.“Whereismynexttrip?”
HalfofmehopesKirstyntellsmemynexttripishome,tothetinyandmostlybareapartmentIrenthereintheBayArea.Idon’tknowwhyIsignedaleasetobeginwith.IthinkI’vespentatotalofsixnightsthereoverthepastthreemonths.ButIhadbeenyearningforsomerootsandanapartmentseemedthelogicalanswer.
“Oh,right.Herewego.”
IbeganmypartnershipwithSwaybecauseIwantedtohelpmorepeople,tellmorestories,accessmorecommunitieswithsmallbusinessestryingtogettheirnameout.LikePeterinSpokane,aretiredveteranwithagrilledcheesefoodtruckand—nolie,thebesttomatosoupI’veeverhad.ElizaandherdressshopinSacramento,recyclingfastfashionintosustainablepieces.StellaatLovelightFarms,workingsohardtocreateawhimsicalwinterwonderland.ThepeopleIvisithaveeverythingtheyneedtomakeanimpact,Ijust…helpthemalong.Givethemaboost.
AccountmanagementwasstartingtobealittletoomuchforJosieandItohandle.Wewerespendingmoretimeontheadministrativesideofthingsinsteadofthecreativebitofit.MypartnershipwithSwaywassupposedtomakeallofthiseasier.Buthonestly,it’sbeenoneheadacheafteranother.
“Thisisyournexttrip,”KirstynannounceswithalltheflairI’vecometoexpectfromSway.
Ablankscreenhumsitsarrivalasitdropsfromtheceiling.Itwinksawakewithaburstofcolor,aloudandheavybassdrumfillingthespace.Josiejumpsinherseat,scramblingtokeephermugfromflippingover.
Bejeweledbodiesswaywiththeirarmsintheair.Awomanwithfurbootstoherthighsandabrightpurplesequinedbodysuitswingsfromavineacross—Isquintatthescreen—abrightredpoolofjello.
“Holycrap,”Josiewhispers.
Myheadachedeepens.
“WhyareyoushowingmeBurningMan?”
“It’snotBurningMan.It’stheOkeechobeeMusic&ArtsFestival,”Kirstyntellsme,almostbubblingoverinexcitement.ThebraceletsonherwristmakeatinklingnoisethatIfeelinmyteeth.“It’sanewerfestival,andSwaythinksthiswillbeagoodfitforyourbrandevolution.”
Swaythinks.Ipinchthebridgeofmynose.
“Mybrandevolution.”
“Yes.”
“Isitrunbyasmallbusiness?”I’mdistractedbythehalf-nakedbodiesthrustingandrollingonthescreenandthestrobelightsaregivingmeaheadache.Iglancethroughtheindustrialglasswindowtotherestoftheofficewhereemployeesaresetupinaco-workingspace.Aguysittingatthecornerinaberetbobshisheadtothemusic.Awomanwithhotpinktipslookslikeshe’shummingunderherbreath.Everyoneiscompletelyunperturbedbythethree-womanravehappeninginconferenceroomtwo.“Doesithaveaninterestingstory?”
MaybeI’mmissingsomething.
“You’llbesponsoredbyCovergirl,”shetellsme.ThescreenchangestoavideoIdidaboutamonthago,aclipfromoneofmyaccountsofmeholdingupabrightorangetubeofmascara,agustofwindblowingmyhairovermyface.Ithinkyouseetheactualproductinuseforlessthanasecond.Thetinynumberinthelowerrightcornerishighlighted.Over4millionviews.Iwince
Ihadagonizedoverthispiece,iffyaboutsuchheavy-handedproductplacement.Mostofmyincomecomesfromsponsorship,sure,butitlivesonmybloginadspaces.Inaplacewherepeopleexpectittobe.ButSwayhadbeeninsistentthatitcouldbeastrongexperimentformorebrandedcontentandIwastired,distracted.Icavedandpostedastupidvideoofmyselfpromotingmascara
Andlookatmenow.ACovergirlsponsorship.
Ishouldbeoverjoyed.
WhyamInotoverjoyed?
Becausethisisn’twhereyou’resupposedtobe.
Ishouldn’tbepanickingaboutpartnershipsandpromotionsandmusicfestivals.I’vespentallofthistimecreatingcontentandbreakingoffpiecesofmyselfforpublicconsumptionandwhatdoIhavetoshowforit?Anemptyapartmentandmillionsofstrangersfollowingmyeverymove.
I’msotired.
“IthinkIneedtotakeabreak.”Thewordsslipfrommymouthwithasigh,quietbutgainingstrengthastheysettleinthespacebetweenthethreeofus.Irollmyshouldersbackandtakeadeepbreath.Iliftmychin.“I’mgoingtotakeabreak.”
Josiedoesatinyfistpumponhersideofthetable.
“I’llbookyouaspapackageatyourhotelinOkeechobee,”Kirstynsays.SomethingtellsmeOkeechobeeisnotknownfortheirspas.“Oh!IfyouwantedtoextendyourtripandstartinMiami,Ibetwecouldsnagyouacoupleofclubsponsorships.”
Ishakemyheadandnudgemyteacupbacktotheornateporcelainsaucer.IabsolutelydonotwanttogoclubbinginMiami.“No,ImeanI’mgoingtotakeabreak.Fromallof…this.”
Kirstynblinksupatmefrombehindherscreen.IcanseethedancingbodiesfromOkeechobeereflectedinheroversizedlenses.It’sdisorienting,likesomethingfromAliceinWonderland.Shegapesatme,handsheldperfectlystilljustovertopthekeyboard.“Likeahiatus?”
“Sure.”That’safinewordforit.Ihaveplentyinmysavingsaccounttosupportamini-vacation,bolsteredbyyearsofmeticulousfinancialplanning.Aninfluencer’sincomeishardlystableandI’vealwaysbeenafraidoftheattentionslippingawayasquicklyasitarrived.Socialmediaisaficklething.
MaybesometimeawayisexactlywhatIneed.Spacetorefocus,realign.
Iturnandlookovermyshoulderthroughthebigwindowstotheempanadashopbelow.Istartgatheringmythings.
Somespacetoeatempanadas.
“Butyou’llkeepposting,right?”There’sathinthreadofuneaseinKirstyn’svoiceassheslidesfromherchair,trailingmetotheopendoor.Josiewaitsformeattheentrancetotheroom,quietprideinherbigbrowneyes.She’sbeenreadytoleavesincewegothere.I’mnotevensureshepackedherlaptop.Shebouncesonherfeet,curlyhairbouncingwithher.
Kirstynfollowsus,hangingontotheedgeoftheindustrialglasswindowlikeshe’sabouttoleapfromaplane.“Youwon’t,like,gocompletelydark?”
Ishrug.“Ihaven’treallythoughtaboutityet.”Butnowthatshe’smentionedit,completelyignoringmysocialmediachannelsforacoupleofweekssoundsamazing.Ishrugonmyjacketandcurlmyhandsinthesleeves.“DoIhaveanysponsorshipthingsI’moncontractfor?”
Shepracticallysprintsbacktothetable,flippingthroughherpinknotebook.“No,”herfacefallsindismay.“No,nothingyou’reobligatedtopost.Butwe’vegotsomeinterestfromRay-Banifyouwant—“
“That’salright,thankyou.”Itrytosmooththeedgesofmyquickrefusal.“Listen,Kirstyn.I’mthankfulfortheworkyoudidonthispitch,butIthinkit’sbestifItakeastepbackrightnow.Gointoplanningmodeforacoupleofweeks.”
Herfaceblanches.“Weeks?”
IneedtofigureoutwhatI’mdoing,whyeverythingsuddenlyfeelslikeshruggingonasweaterthat’swaytoosmall.Ikeepwaitingforthisfeelingtogoaway,butit’snot.It’sonlygettingworse.
“I’llkeepyouupdated,okay?Checkin.Feelfreetokeepsendingmeoptions,but—”Iglanceatthescreen,thestrobelightsandthefacepaint.“—thisdoesn’tfeelright.I’mlookingforsomethingdifferentthanthis.”
Kirstynnods.“Wecandothat.Wecansupportsomethingdifferent.I’llhaveoptionsinyourinboxtonight.”
Istartbackingmywaytotheelevator.Josieisalreadyaggressivelyjammingthebuttonwithherthumb.“Iwon’tlookatthemtonight,sotakeyourtime.I’mseriousaboutthebreak.”
Shefollowsmelikeababylamb.Someofthepeopleatthecollectionoftablesinthecenteroftheroomarehalf-standingfromtheirseats,watchingourprogress.There’sawomanatthefrontwithbluntbangs,herteethsawingherbottomlip.Amanbehindherinashort-sleevedbutton-downstands,hispalmagainsthisforehead.IfeellikeI’vejustflippedatableanddrop-kickedoneoftheirmothers.Alloftheirfacesarestricken,concerned.IgivethemawaveandwhatIhopeisareassuringsmile.Theystareblanklyback.
“Alwaysapleasure,guys!”Josiewavesoverhershoulder,notbotheringtoturnfromtheelevator.ThedoorsslideopenandKirstynfollowsus,righttotheedgeoftheslidingdoors.
“Yourfollowerswouldmissyou,”shetellsmeasIslipintothetinyvestibule,greenfernwallpaperwrappedfloortoceiling.There’sagoldframedmirrorontheceilingandwhiteshagcarpetonthefloor.ItisthemostridiculouselevatorIhaveeverbeenin.“Everyoneisgoingtowonderwhereyouwent.”
It’snottheincentiveshethinkssheis.Ifanything,itmakesmewanttodropmyphonerightdownthiselevatorshaft.They’llwonder,andthenthey’llfindsomeonenewtofollow.Anotheraccount.Anothercollectionofreelsandpostsand…dances.Theelevatordoorsbegintoclose.Igiveherareassuringsmile.
“We’lltalksoon.”
Theempanadas,asitturnsout,areincredible.
“Ithoughtherfacewasgoingtomeltrightoff,”Josiesaysaroundamouthfulofspinachandcheese.Shedoessomethinggrotesquewithherpalmspressedtighttohercheeks—anattempt,Ithink,toillustrateherfacemelting.It’sdifficulttotellexactlywhatshe’sgoingfor.Isnortintoanotherbiteofflakybutterygoodness.“Shewasgenuinelyshockedyoudon’twanttostartwearingbodypaint.”
“Itwasweird,right?Idon’tthinktheyunderstand—”me,Ialmostsay.AnunfaircommentconsideringIdon’tunderstandmyselfthesedays.“Idon’tthinktheygetthetypeofcontentI’mlookingfor.”
“Obviously.I’mproudofyouforsayingsomething.I’veonlybeenwaitingthepastsixmonthsforittohappen.”Shepokesaroundintheemptybasketbetweenus.“Weneedmoreempanadas.”
TheladybehindthecounterlaughswhenIslipoutofthesmallboothandwanderupforathirdround.
“You’restillhungry?”Herlaughisloudandboisterous,justasmagicalasIthought.
“Giveheracroqueta,”anolderwomansittingattheedgeofthecountersays,half-hiddenbehindagiantplant,herlonggrayhairwrappedinabrightpurplesilkscarf.She’sbeeneatingtreslechessincewesatdown,atinycupofCubancoffeeonthecounterinfrontofher.“Jamon.”
“I’llhavetwo,”Ismileatthewomanandglanceatthehandwrittenmenuboard.“Andapastelito.”IglancebackatJosieandsheholdsuptwofingers.“Actuallylet’sdotwoofthose.”
Iconsideracoffee,butI’mprettysureI’llbebouncingoffthewallsifit’sasstrongasitsmells.Islipbackintothecozyboothinthecornerandpickatwhat’sleftofmyempanada,pullingmyphonefrommypocketandplacingitflatonthetabletop.Iglancedownatmylockscreen,apictureofmyparentswiththeirarmsaroundeachotherinfrontofthetinyboutiquestoretheyownontheoutskirtsofPortland.Beamingsmiles.St.JamesSundryStorehand-paintedonthewindow.
Idon’tknowhowIgotfromtheretohere.
“Ilovethatpicture,”Josiesayswithasmile.“Theylooksohappy.”
“Theydo,”Ismile,lookingatmymother’sface.“Theyare.”Wehavethesamesmile,thesamescrunchinournoseswhenwelaugh.Iwonderwhatshe’sdoingrightnow.Ifshe’srestockingthecandyshekeepsinasmallbasketatthebackofthestoreforthekidswhomanagetofindit,orifshe’swashingthewindowswiththesameratty,brightpinktowelshe’salwayshad.Apangofhomesicknesshitsmerightinthechest.
“Evie.”
“Hm?”Iblinkupfrommyphoneandlookatmyfriend,thefaceofthepersonwhoknowsmebetterthananyone.Shetiltsherheadandgivesmeasoftsmile.
“What’sgoingon?Youfeellike—youfeellikeyou’rehalfhere.Stuckinyourheadsomewhere.”IdropmychinandpresstwofingersabovemyeyebrowasJosierushestoexplain.“Notinabadway,necessarily.Youseemdistracted,Iguess.”
Thisbreakfeelslesslikeanideaandmorelikeanecessity.Iwakeupeverymorningwithahollowfeelinginmychest,ananxiouspoundingthatgetsworsethelongerIlayinanunfamiliarbedstaringatanunfamiliarroom.IspendmoretimeinhotelsthanatthesmallapartmentIrent.IcheckmysocialaccountsandIfeelballooningpressureinmychest.Ifeellikealiar.Afake
“I’vegotnoideawhatI’mdoing,”Isigh.
Josiefrowns.“Thathasneveroncebeentrue.”
“It’sbeentruemorethanyouthink,”Imutter.I’vegottenexcellentatpretendingeverythingisokay.
Ipokearoundouremptybasket,fingeringattheedgeofthegreasypaperthat’scrinkledatthebottom.Ipickupacrumbwithmyfingerandlickitoff.“I’mjustgoingthroughthemotions.”
Smilingforthecamera.Addingpithycaptions.Makingmylifeseemlikeit’sonebig,wonderful,adventurewhenreallyI’mstuckinmyhead.I’vebecomeobsessedwithnumbers,howpostsareperforming.I’mmoreinterestedintheaestheticofastorythantheactualstorypartofit.Onmylasttrip,IforgotthenameofthetownIwasin.Twice.
“Howlonghaveyoufeltlikethis?”
It’ssettledinslowly,likeafogrollinginoffthewater.Everythinglatelyhasfelt…off…andIdon’tknowwhy.Thebloggingstartedasahobby,somethingfunformetodo.Ineverintendedtobuildacareeroutofit.Nowthough,IhaveeverythingI’veeverwantedfromajob.I’msuccessful,soughtafter.
Andterriblylonely.
Ifeeldisconnected,Iguess.Muted.Farawayfromanythingthatfeelsreal.TheguiltkicksinandIavertmygazetothetabletop.
Poorsocialmediainfluencer,sadshehastoomanyfollowersandnotenoughfriends.Ifeellikeanimpostor.Liketheworstkindoffraud.
“I’mlyingtoeveryone.IpostthiscontentandI’mjust—Josie,I’mjustpretending.”
“Pretendingwhat?”
Everything,Ithink.Everything,allofthetime.
Theowneroftheempanadashopmakesherwayovertoourtable,aplatefulloffrieddeliciousnessinherhands.ShesetsitontheedgeandshoutsoverhershoulderinSpanish,anotherloud,cacklinglaughechoingthroughthespace.Myheartlifts.Alittlebitofreal-lifemagic.
“Idon’twanttopostcontent,”IsaytoJosie,stilldistracted.
Shepopsapastelitoinhermouth.“Thendon’t.”
“I’mtiredoftraveling.”
“Takeabreak.”
“Idon’twanttoloseeverythingI’veworkedfor.”
“Youwon’t.”
“IfeellikeI’veforgottenhowtobehappy,”Iwhisper,mymostsecretthought.TheonethatslipsthroughmyheadlikeawispofsmokewhenI’mflatonmybackandstaringupattheceilingofwhicheverhotelI’mstayinginforthenight,unabletosleep.Mindracing.Thoughtsbuzzing.
“Didthisevermakeyoufeelgood?”Josieasks.“Beforeyouexplodedintointernetstardom,Imean.Wereyouhappymakingvideos?”
Iwas.SomeoftheverybestmemoriesIhavearefromwanderingaroundwithmydad’soldcamera.I’dspendmySaturdayssittingonabenchatthefarmer’smarketandjustlistentopeopletalk.Ilostsomeofthat,Ithink.Somewherealongtheway.
Josiereachesforacroquetaandstudiesme.“Ithinkthisisagoodthingforyou.Mostpeoplegothroughthis.Youwanttotakeastepbackandevaluateifthisisstilltherightfit.Ichampionalittleself-reflection.”Sheraiseshercroquetainalittletoast,knocksitagainstmyforeheadonce.“Doyou,babygirl.”
“Youdon’tthinkI’mbeingridiculous?”
“Ithinkyouarebeingforty-fivepercentridiculous.Andthatisprimarilyattributedtothewayyou’retalkingaboutyourself.Nothingyouhavehashappenedbyaccident.Youworkhardandmoveatthespeedoflight.Ithinkthat’sthecruxofyourproblem.You’vebeenbee-boppingallaroundandhaven’tfoundrootstodigin.Yourcutelittlebodyisexhausted.Yourbrain,too.”
Ireachforacroquetaandtakeabite,saltyflavorburstingonmytongue.“I’mhappywhenI’meatingthese,”Imumblearoundamouthful.Josiegrins.
“Well,wecouldsendyouonafoodtour.”Sheleansbackintheboothwithasatisfiedsigh.Shepatsherbellyonceandtwistsherlipsinthought.“Seriouslythough,whenwasthelasttimeyoufeltlikeyouweren’tdoingajob?Whereisthelastplaceyoufelthappy?”
Itcomestomeinstantly.Leavesbeneathmyboots.Acloudlessskyasblueasamountainlake.Dirtroadsandabigredbarnbytheroad.Rowsandrowsoftrees,pineneedlesinmyhair.
Astupidjokeaboutstrawberriesonasunnyafternoon.Aplateofzucchinibreadonthetable.
Ifeelmyselfsettle,myshouldersrollingbackwiththefirstdeepbreathI’vetakeninwhatfeelslikemonths.“IthinkIknow.”
Shenods,asatisfiedglintinhereye.“Thenlet’sstartthere.”CHAPTERTHREEBECKETT
“CanIjustsay,”JeremyRoughmanleansupagainstthebackofthetractor,sunlightbeginningtowinkoverthehorizon.Ihearhisvoiceandit’sachallengeformenottoturnaroundandgorightbacktomycabinontheedgeoftheproperty.“I’mrealexcitedyoudecidedtobringmeonasanapprentice.”
Ididnotdecidetobringhimonasanapprentice.SheriffJonescorneredmeinthepaperproductsaisleofthepharmacyandlightlythreatenedmewithcrosswalkdutyfortheelementaryschooluntilIagreedtotakehimon.Apparently,Jeremycan’tkeephimselfoutoftroubleformorethanthirty-sevensecondsandifMs.Beatricecatcheshimmakingoutwithanothergirlinheralleyway,she’slikelytodosomethingthatrequiresjailtime.
“Iknowhisparentswouldbeappreciative,”Danehadsaid,andIalmostflungmybodyintothepapertowelshelf.“Hejustneedsalittledirection.”
Sohereweare,givingdirection.Dawncrawlsacrosstheskyinbrightpinkandburnishedgold,abrilliantbrushstrokeofcloudthroughthecenterofit.IcanstillfeelthebiteofwinterthisearlyinthemorningandI’mgratefulformythermalshirtandthecatcurledupagainstmyneck,dozingwithherchinonmyshoulder.
IglanceupatBarney,perchedinthedriver’sseatofthetractor—hisold,wide-brimhatpulledlowoverhiseyes.Hesmirksatmearoundamouthfulofdonut.
“Realexcited,boss,”hesays.Heshovesfrieddoughandpowderedsugarintohismouth.“Couldhardlysleeplastnightonaccountofit.”
Irollmyeyesandreachfortheshovelproppedupagainstthetire.Forallhisneedling,Barneymakesmyjobeasier.He’sawalkingencyclopediaofcropsandsoil,plant-eatingdiseasesand…the1990BaltimoreOriolesroster.I’vegotnouseforthelastbit,buttherestofitcomesinhandy.I’vebeenworkingwithhimeversinceItookovermydad’sshiftattheproducefarmalmosttwodecadesago.WhenStellarecruitedmeandIgavemynotice,hegavehis,too.Pattedmeonthebackandtoldmehecouldn’tletmescrewupawholenewfarmbymyself.
IhandtheshoveltoJeremyandhegripsitbetweenthumbandforefinger,holdingitawayfromhislettermanjacket.Ididn’tevenrealizetheystillhandthosethingsout,butInglewildhasalwaysfeltalittlefrozenintime.PrancerechoesaplaintivemeowrightintomyearandIrubmyknucklesoverhersofthead.
“We’regonnachiseltoday,”ItellJeremy.
“Dude,Ican’tchiselsomethingwithashovel,”Jeremytriestohanditbacktome.“IthoughtI’dlike…adviseonplacementorsomething.Giveyouafreshperspectiveontheaestheticsoftheplace.”
Isummonmypatience.
“Theaestheticsoftheplace.”
Heflipshishairbackandtipshischinup.“Isn’tthatwhyyoubroughtmein?”
Ididnot…bringhimin.Iwasconnedinfrontofthepapertowels.Ifoldmyarmsovermychestandleanagainstthesideofthetractor.Prancertakestheopportunitytohopfrommyshouldertothetopofthecab,settlingintothedivotnexttotheseat.ShelikestoridewithBarneyinthemorningsandwanderbackhomewhenshe’sready.
IdomybesttoignoreBarneyshakingwithsilentlaughteratopthetractor
“Whatdoyouknowaboutfarming,Jeremy?”
Hecombshishandthroughhishairandsquintsatthehorizon.“Iknowabit.”
“Let’shearitthen.”
“Well,”heshuffleshisfeet,putshishandsinhisjacketpocketsonlytopullthemoutagain.“Obviously,youplantthings.”
“Obviously.”
“Andnourishthem.”
“Sure.”
“Iactuallyhavesomeideasaboutyourgrowthpatterns.Howdoyoufeelaboutcanna—“
“Donotfinishthatsentence,”Igrowl.I’veheardenoughweedjokestolastalifetime.Ijerkmyheadtothebackofthetractor.“Maybewecantalkaboutgrowthpatternsnextweek.”Barneymakesachokingnoise.“Inthemeantime,wehaveatradition.Thenewestmemberofthecrewisonrockduty.You’regoingtofollowafterBarneyandscooprocksoutofthetopsoil,tosstheminthatbucketontheside.It’llmakeiteasierforustodiscandthenplantinthenextweekorso.”
IwasonrockdutyeverysummerforfouryearsatParson’sProduce.DiditmyselfherewhenitwasjustBarneyandmegettingthefieldsready.It’llbeanicechangenottodoitthistime.IglanceatJeremy’sshoes.
BrandnewNikes,pristinewhite.
Atwingeofguiltpullsatmygut.It’snotexactlyhisfaulthedidn’tknowwhattoexpect.IremembermyfirstdayatthefarmwhenIwasakid,tooskinnyandoutofmyelement,stumblingtokeepupwitheveryonearoundme.Itwasliketryingtojumpintoadancemidwaythroughwithouthearingthedamnmusic.Irememberlaughterwhenmyfeetslippedinthedirtbehindthetractor,thesunbeatingdownonmyneckandblisteringmyskin.
“Yougotahat,kid?”
Heshakeshishead,stillstaringattheshovelinhishand.Idigintooneofthepacksslungovertheseatandpulloutanoldbaseballcap,fadedandrippedononeside.Itossittohim.Ithitshiminthechestandthenfallstothedirt.Helooksatitlikehe’dratherdiethanputitonhisperfectlystyledhair.
IshrugmyshouldersandBarneysnortsalaugh,hittingtheignitionandputtingthetractorintogear.“Youseeingyourpoptonightfordinner?”Barneyshoutsovertherumbleoftheengine.
Inod.WehavefamilydinnerseveryTuesdaynight,atraditionforaslongasIcanremember.
“TellhimIsayhello.Andheowesmeonehundredandforty-sevendollarsafterourlastpokernight.”
Irollmyeyesandwavehimoff.BarneyandmydadhavebeenplayingpokertogethereverySaturdaynightforaboutaslongaswe’vebeenhavingfamilydinners.Prettysureneitherofthemhaseversettledthedebtbetweenthem.
JeremystaresmournfullyatmeasBarneystartstheslowtrektowardstheedgeofthewestfields,thewheelsofthetractorbumpingalong.It’sslowwork,butimportant,andwe’llspendthenextcoupleweeksgettingthefieldsreadyfortheshipmentofsaplingsfromthenorth.Thetreesweplantwon’tbereadyforatleastfiveyears,butthat’sthenatureofatreefarm.
It’sallaboutpatience.
“Whereareyougoing?”Jeremyyellsacrossthefield,stoppingtoscoopthehatfromtheground.Ifhedoesn’tgethimselfmoving,he’llbeshovelingrocksuntilnextweek.
“Totakealookattheaesthetics,”Ishoutback.
There’splentytooccupymyselfwithwhilethefieldworkgetsunderway.StellaandIdecidedafterourfirstseasonthatwewouldn’trelysolelyonChristmastreestoseeusthroughtheyear.Intheoffseason,weexperimentwithseveraldifferentcrops.Cornandpumpkinsinthefall.Berriesinthesummer.
Bellpeppers,apparently,inthespring.
SalvatoremeetsmenearthebarnasImakemywayovertotheproducefields,asunnygrinonhisweatheredface.Heclapsmeonceontheshoulderandguidesmetowardthemassiveslidingdoorsinsteadofthefields.
“Gotalittlehiccup,”hetellsme,thatgrinstillstretchedacrosshisface.Lastsummerwehadarainstormthatturnedallofthefieldsintogapingmudpits.Twostepsoffthetractorandhehadslipped,coveredheadtotoeinthicksludge.Hehadsmiledsowide,Icouldonlyseethewhiteofhisteeththroughthedirt.I’mhalf-convincedhisfacegotstuckthatway.I’veneverseensomeonesmilesomuchinmydamnlife.
“Idon’tknowhowmanyhiccupsIcanhandlethisseason,Sal.”
“Bah,”hegivesmeaslylookasweslipintothebarn.“Ithinkyou’lllikethisone.”
Susie,oneofthefarmhandsthathelpswithcollection,offersawavefromthefarcorneroftheopenspace.HalfofthebarnisusedforvisitingSantaduringtheholidayseason,theotherhalfforstorage.She’ssetuprightbythedividerinthemiddle,herarmscradling…something.
“Didyoufindmorekittens?”Iask.Lastfall,Stelladiscoveredawholefamilyofcatstuckedbehindoneofthegiantwoodennutcrackers.Allfourofthemlivewithmenow,atinyarmyofsoftfurandobstinateopinionsaboutthequalityofmysheets.Iwakeupeverymorningwithatleastoneofthemcurleduponmychest,purringaway.
“Better,”Saltellsme.AsIgetcloser,Iseeatinypuffofyellow.Susieopensupthetowelshe’sholdingandtuckedinsideisaduckling,hardlybiggerthanthepalmofmyhand,astreakofdarkfluffrightontopofitshead.Itgazesupatmeandletsoutthetiniestlittlesqueak,itswingsrufflingslightlyatthedisruptiontoitscocoon.
“Ah,shit.”Thedamnthingiscuteashell.“Youthinkitwasabandoned?”
“Looksthatway,”Salrocksbackonhisheels.“Haven’tseenanytraceofmom.”
Idon’tknowmuchaboutducks,butI’dassumeducklingscan’tsurvivelongwithouttheirmomcloseby.Istaredownatthelittleguyandrubmyknucklesagainstmyjaw.“I’lltakehimintotown.SwingbyDr.Colson’sandseewhatcanbedone.”
Iholdoutmyhandsforthebundle.ItrytoavoidtownifIcanhelpit,butI’vegottoplaceanorderatthehardwarestoreanyway.Christopher,theowner,refusestodoanythingoverthephoneandwon’tanswerifIcalltoomanytimes.Icandropthislittleguyoffatthevet,placetheorder,andbebackbeforelunch.
Theducklingsqueaksupinmygeneraldirection,itsbillnudgingonceatthebackofmyhand.Istrokemyfingeroverthetopofitshead,itsdownyfuzzimpossiblysoft.
Itrytogatherthethreadsofmyrestraintaswegazeatoneanother.Naturally,mybrainhasalreadystartedmakingplans.Wehavesomechickenwireinthegreenhouse.Icouldloopitaroundtheedgesofthekitchen.Makeafence
IsighasIwatchthelittleguydozeinthesafetyofmyhands.Ican’tadoptanotheranimal.Idon’tknowthefirstthingaboutducks.
Youdidn’tknowthefirstthingaboutcats,either.Thatdidn’tstopyou.
Theducklingmakesasmallsqueakandnuzzlesfurtherdowninmyhand.Isigh.
Iwillnotadoptanotheranimal.
IheartheclickofacameraandlookuptoseeSalandhisdamnsmileanglinghisphoneatme.Ifrownandheclicksagain,achuckleunderhisbreath.
“Whatthehellareyoudoing?”
“Stella’scalendaridea,”hetellsmewithalaugh.StellahasbeenpushingtheideaofafarmcalendarfeaturingonlypicturesofLukaandIoutinthefieldsforclosetoayearnow,anattempttotryandboostprofits.Needlesstosay,Iamnotonboardwithit.“You’vekindofgotaSnowWhitevibegoingon,myfriend.”
Iheadoutthedoorwithoutanotherword.
“Well,”Dr.Colsonholdstheducklinginthepalmofhishand,nudginghisglassesuphisnosewithhisknuckles.“It’saduckling,alright.”
Ishiftonmyfeetandfighttheurgetorollmyeyes.Iampushingmycapacityforsocializationtodayandit’snotevennoon.Istillhavedinnerwithmyfamilytonightandmysistersaren’texactlyknownfortheircalmandquietdemeanor.
“Sureis,”Imanageinstead,clenchingmyteethwhenDr.Colsonpeersupatmefromabovehisglasses.HeswivelsonhischairandplacestheduckcarefullybackintothecardboardboxIbundledhimupin.Thelittleguyquacksandwaddlesclosertome,settlingdowninacornerandmouthingatmyhandwithhistinybill.
Donotnamehim,Itellmyself.IfIgivehimaname,I’llbringhimhome,andI’mnotsureapackofkittensandababyduckwouldmakegoodroommates.Don’tyoudaregivehimaname.
“I’llmakesomecallsandseeifthereisarescuenearbythatwilltakehimin,butducksaretricky.He’llhavetobeacceptedbyanewmother.”
Ibreatheindeepthroughmynose.“Andifheisn’t?”
“Ifheisn’t,I’mafraidthelittleguywon’tmakeit.Notunlesssomeoneadoptshimasapet.”
Hegivesmeasignificantlook.
Fuck.“Isthatapossibility?”
Dr.Colsonnods.“Withthepropercareandattention,absolutely.It’llbetime-consumingatfirst,butduckscanmakegreatpets.”Helooksupatmewithaslygrin.“Farmsareagreatenvironment.”
“Notsurefarmswithafamilyofbloodthirstycatsareagreatenvironment,”Igrumble.Prancerbroughtmethreemicelastweekend.Shelinedthemupinfrontofmydoorlikeasacrificialoffering.Itwasbothdisgustingandendearing.
“RemindmetosendyouoneofthoseToksallthekidsaresharing,”Dr.Colsonsays.Hestandswithawinceandclapsmeontheback.Hiskneeshavebeenbotheringhimsinceheturnedsixty.“Sheilaatthefrontisalwaysshowingmenewones.Ithinkthere’sawholeaccountdedicatedtocatsandducks.”
Iwouldn’tknow.Ihavenointerestinsocialmedia.
Ihaven’tlookedEvelynupagain,notsincethatfirsttime.Notevenaftershepostedhernow-viralvideoofLukaandStellapretendingtoloveeachotherwhilealsodesperatelypretendingnottoloveeachother.Lukahadbeensopleasedwithhisinternetcelebrity,hewalkedaroundautographingeverythingwithinreachforweeks.Thethirdtimehesignedapotatowithasharpie,Isnappedthemarkerinhalfrightinfrontofhisface.
“Ican’tadoptaduck,”Isay.MaybeifIvocalizemyintentions,they’llmanifest.MysisterNessahastoldmethatnolessthanseventy-fivetimes.Isigh.“You’llkeephimhereforabit?Givemeacallwhenyouhearfromtherescue?”
Dr.Colsonnods.Theduckletsoutaquack.Ipinchthebridgeofmynose.
Icannotadoptthisduck.
“Areyouadoptingaduck?”
“Fuck,”IcurseundermybreathasNovapopsupinmywindow.ShehopsuponthesidebarandloopsherarmthroughmyopenwindowbeforeIevenmanagetoslowmytrucktoastop.Atfive-foot-nothingandwearingherstandardheadtotoeblack,it’sawonderIdidn’trunherrightover.
ShepokesmeonceinthecheekasIshiftintopark.Iswatherhandawayandgrabthepiefromthepassengerseat
“Howdoyouknowabouttheduck?”
Donotnametheduck.Youwillnotnametheduck.
“Thephonetree.”
TheInglewildphonetreeisonlysupposedtobeusedincaseofemergency,butinthelastsixmonths,it’sturnedintoatowngossipdistributionchain.Twoweeksago,AlexAlvarezfromthebookstorecalledtotellmeSheriffJonesandMattywereseenpickingouttulipbulbsatthegreenhousefortheirbackgarden.WhenIaskedhimwhythefuckhewascallingmeabouttulipbulbs,hemutteredphonetreeandhungup.
Ididnotcontinuethephonetreethatday.Ihaven’thadasinglephonecallsince.I’massumingI’vebeenremoved.
“Isheadoptingaduck?”Harpershoutsfromthedoor,hangingoverthebanisteronthefrontporch,adishtowelslungoverhershoulderandawoodenspooninherhand.Iclimboutofmytruckwithasigh,carefulnottosendNovaflyingoffthedoor.
“I’mnotadoptingaduck.”IslingmyarmoverNova’sshoulderandruffleherhairaswewalkuptherampthatleadstotheporch.SomeoftheboardscreakundermybootsandIpause,considering.Ireachoutandpushatthehandrail,thewoodwobblingslightlyundermygrip.
“I’llhelpyoufixitthisweek,ifyouwant,”Novatellsme,urgingmeforwardandgentlyguidingmetowardsthehouse.SheprobablyknowsI’maboutthreesecondsawayfromgettingthetoolboxoutofmytruckandreconstructingthewholething.Guiltpricksatme.It’sbeentoolongsinceI’veaskedmyparentsiftheyneedanything.
“Stop,”Harperadmonishesassoonaswestepontotheporch.Shesmacksmeoncewithherspoon.Ofallmysisters,she’stheonethatlooksmostlikeme.Darkblondehair,blue-greeneyes,analmostpermanentfrown.She’stwoyearsyoungerbutshemightaswellbemytwin.“You’rebeatingyourselfupbeforeyouevenenterthehouse.Thatmustbeanewrecord.”
“No.RememberChristmasEvetwoyearsago?Heforgotthestickofbuttermomaskedhimtobringandhealmosttookoutthemailboxheadingtothegrocerystore.Hedidn’tevenmakeitoutofthedriver’sseatbeforehestartedbeatinghimselfup.”
“OrwhenheforgotaboutNessa’sdancerecital.Ithoughthewasgoingtosinkthroughthefloor.”Harper’slipscurlupattheedgesandhergazecutstome.“Youdidn’tevenmissit.Youjustgotthedatewrong.Youwerefeelingguiltyaboutpotentiallymissingsomething.”
TheydissolveintoafitofgigglesandIpushthroughthebothofthemintothehouse.Itdoesn’tbodewellformethattheteasinghasalreadystarted.IcanusuallycountonNovatobeonmysidebutnottonight,apparently.
GarlicandrosemarydriftdownthehallwayfromthekitchenasItoeoffmyboots.Freshbakedbreadandahintofhoney.IcanhearthelowmurmurofmymomandNessachatting,mydadwheelingbackwardinhischairtopokehisheadaroundthecornerasNovaandHarperfollowmein.
“Youadoptingaduck?”
Irollmyeyesandshrugoutofmyjacket.Icontemplatereturningtomytruckandaskingmymomtobringdinnerouttome.Sheprobablywould.NovaloopsherhandaroundmywristbeforeIcanturnforthedoorandtugsmedownthehallwayintothekitchen,directingmetotheislandinthecenter.Hergripisscarystrongforsomeonesosmall.Shemanhandlesmeuntilmyarmisexposedunderthelight,thecuffofmysleeverolledupsoshecanseetheinkthatdecorateseveryinchofmyskin.
“CanIgetadrinkfirst?”
“No.”
Shedoesn’tbotherlookingupasshetracesoneofthevinesthatstartsatmyelbowandcurlsdownovermywrist.Sheaddedsomeflowerbudstoitabouttwoweeksago,andthey’realmostfullyhealed.
“Theylookgood,”shetellsme,flippingmywristandpokingaroundatmyskinwithalmostclinicaldetachment.Shestartedtattooingmewhenshewassixteenanddecidedshewantedtobeanartist.Sheapprenticedatashopdownthecoast,butnoonewouldletateenagerpracticeontheirskin.SoIvolunteered.Everytattooonmyarmsisbyher,aninterestingprogressionfrommyleftarmtomyright.Nowthatshe’soneofthemostsoughtafterartistsontheEastCoast,she’sbeengoingbackoverherwork,addingdetailandcleaningupoldmissteps.
“Iwanttofixthisone,”shetellsme,pokingatatinyoakleafontheinsideofmywrist.Theedgesareslightlyblurredfromtoomuchpressurefromthegun,awobbleinthecrisplines.Ipullmyarmoutofhergripandrollmycuffbackdown.
“Nope.”Ilikethatone.Itwasoneofthefirstsheeverdid,andshehadbeensofuckingproudwhenshepressedthatcoolwipeovermyskin,wipingawayexcessink.It’sagoodmemory,andIdon’twanttochangeit.“Youcanharassmeintootherchangesafterpie.”
“Andyoucancomesayhellotoyourmother,”mymomsaysoverhershoulder,stirringsomethingthatsmellslikecinnamonandhoney.Iwanderovertothestoveandpressakisstothebackofherhead.
“Hi,mom.”Ireachforasliverofroastcarrotfromthepan,enjoyingthesharpcrunchandansweringsweetness.
“Thesefromthefarm?”Iask.Ialreadyknowtheanswer.Thecarrotsarefromthefarm,andthebreadisfromNessa,andthemusicisaplaylistHarpermadeoverthesummer,andthedelicatebouquetofwildflowersdrawnonthebackofherarmisbyNova.Mydadwhittledthespoonshe’susing,andthiswholekitchenisfilledtothebrimwithpiecesofmyfamily.Thelovebetweenmyparentsandforallofus,mixingtogetherwiththymeandbutterandpieuntilallthetensionIusuallyfeelinaroomfullofpeopleisbackinthehallway,shovedinthepocketofmycoat.I’llpickitbackuplater,I’msure,butfornowI’msettled.
I’mhome.
Foodisservedandconversationdissolveswithinminutesintoaspiriteddiscussionofsomedatingshow,thevolumeofmysisters’anddad’svoicesrisinguntilthey’reallyellingovereachother.
Whenmydadfirsthadhisaccident,hesatinthedarkofhisbedroomalldayeveryday,caughtinadepressionthatwasalmostascripplingasthefallthatparalyzedhimfromthewaistdown.Nessastartedsittingintheroomwithhim,rightattheedgeofthebed.She’dturnonsomeshowabouthousewivesbehavingbadlyandhe’dpretendnottobeinterested.
Nowtheyhaveweeklyviewings.
HarperglancesatmefromacrossthetableasNessashriekssomethingaboutchardonnay.“Doyouwantyourearmuffs?”
Inod,gratefulsheofferedandIdidn’thavetoask.Shetugsopenadrawerinthechinacabinetbehindherandpullsoutafluffypairofpinkearmuffs.IthoughtNessahadbeenmakingfunofmewhensheboughtthemformethreeyearsago,butshehadbeeninsistentthattheywouldhelp.
I’vealwaysstruggledwithnoise.Itsetsmyteethonedge,makesmefeellikeneedlesareprickingatmyskin.Theearmuffsmufflethesoundwithoutwipingitoutcompletely.Icanstillhearwhat’sgoingonaroundmewithoutanoverwhelmingwaveoftension.
Andtheyneverfailtomakemymomsmile.
Islipthemovermyheadandmychestloosensabit,abletoparticipatenowthatthenoisehasdulled.NessahasanexhibitioncomingupinJune,herbiggestoneyet.AndapparentlyNovahasbeentalkingtoStella’sbrother,Charlie,aboutatattooofascorpiononhisass.
Ilevelaglareather.“WhyareyoutextingCharlieabouthisass?”
Novashrugs,unbothered.“I’mnot.He’stextingmeabouthisass.”
“Alright.Whyishetextingyouabouthisass?”
“Becausehewantsascorpiononit.Idon’tknow.”
Harperkeepstoherselfthroughoutdinner,unusuallyquiet,rearrangingherfoodaroundandaroundonherplate.Imakeamentalnotetodigintothatlaterjustasmydadlaunchesintohisweeklydramaticretellingofthefailedwheatcropof1976.Ispearacarrotonmyplateandmymindbeginstodrift.
IpictureEvelynsittingatthetable,inthestraightbackedchairwiththeflowerscarvedintothearms,rightnexttoNessa.Ipicturehersmileandherglowingskinandthewayherthumbsmoothesoverherbottomlipwhenshe’sthinkingaboutwhatshewantstosay,eyesglintingwithmischief.Wouldshelaughatmydad’sstupidjokes?WouldshedancewithNessaaroundthekitchenduringclean-up?Ican’tstoppicturingherinalltheplacesIam.
“Beck?Youalright?”
Inod.I’vegotnoideawhat’sgoingoninmyheadlately.Awholelotofnonsense.Ineedtosleepmoreorsomething.Iforkabiteofpotatoesintomymouth.
“M’fine,”Isay.
Mydadgivesmeaskepticalglanceandcontinuestoshootmeanentirespectrumworthofconcernedlooksthroughouttherestofdinner.Imanagetodeflectuntiltheendofthenight,whenI’moverfullfrompieandtryingtobalancethreecontainersofleftovers.Ishrugonmyjacketinthehallwayandhecornersme,hismovementseerilyquietdespitehiswheelchair.
“Beckett.”
“Jesus.”Mywholebodytopplessideways,myelbowlandingintheantiqueclockmymomboughtwhenIwassix.Oneofthecontainersgoestumblingtothefloor.“Youneedabell.Youscaredtheshitoutofme,dad.”
“Paralyzedornot,Ialwaysgotthejumponyoukids.”HescoopsuptheTupperwareandbalancesitonhislap.“Comeon,I’llfollowyouout.”
Inodinagreementandhesqueezesmyarmonce,awordlessreminderofhisdinnerquestion.He’slikelywalkingmetomycarinanefforttointerrogatemefurther,mymomandsistersknowingthefutilityoftryingtogetmetotalkatthedinnertable.Wheretheypreferbrashinterrogation,mydadhasamoresubtleapproach.
Ifollowhimoutthefrontporchanddowntheramp,frowningwhenInoticethewayhiswheelchairjumpsoverthericketyboards.Hishandholdsoneofthewheelssteadywhilehepivots.Heshouldn’thavetomaneuverhiswayupanddownthisthing.
“I’llswingbynextweekandfixit,”Itellhim.
Hepeersoverhisshoulderatme,hiseyesreflectingthelightfromabovethegarage.“Fixwhat?”
“Theramp,”Ikickataboardthat’sstickinguphalf-an-inch,edgingatthebackofhiswheelchair.“It’sfallingapart.”
“Psh,”hewaveshishand.“It’sonlylikethatbecauseIbetyourmomIcouldgetupanddowninlessthanthirtyseconds.Thisthingwasn’tbuiltforthatkindoftorque.”Hegivesmealookandreleaseshisgriponthewheels,lettinghischaircoastdownthelastfootoftheramp.Heslipsontothedrivewaywithasoftsound.“Plus,I’vegotarms,don’tI?”
“Youdo.”
“Good.Thenleavemyrampalone.Itsuitsmefine.”Hesquintsupatme,hisfacescrewedupinthesamelookhealwaysgetswhenhe’stryingtoworkoutapuzzle.Pinchedbrows,scrunchednose,adownwardtilttohislips.HeusedtomakethatsamefacewhenHarperwouldlietohimaboutherplansforthenight,shimmyingoutherwindowandsneakingdowntheroadtothebonfirepartiesinsteadofstudyinginherroom.
“Youdoingalright,kiddo?”
Iopenthepassengersideofthetruckandatinyfeltmousefallstothedriveway.HalfofmeexpectsCupidorVixentocometumblingoutafterit.Ofallofthecats,thosetwocausethemosttrouble.Stellafoundtheminoneofherkitchencabinetstwoweeksago,pawingthroughaboxofTriscuits.
“I’mgood,”Itellhim,placingtheTupperwareonthefloor.Ituckthemouseinmypocketandleanupagainstthetruck.“What’sgoingon?Everythingokaywithyou?”
Henods,swallowshard,andthentiltshisheadbacktolookupatthesky.Ifollowhisgazeandglanceup,myeyesimmediatelylandingonPleiades,aclusterofstarsshapedlikeaquestionmark.Everythingisilluminatedtonight,notacloudinsight.Clearenoughthatyoucanseetheslightdifferentiationincolor.Paleblue.Crispwhite.Brightandshiningyellow.
“Youwouldn’tshutupaboutthestarswhenyouwereakid,”mydadlaughs,neckstillcranedbackandfaceturnedup.Iignorethestarsandlookathiminstead,watchingthewayhishandscurlaroundthearmsofhischair.“Youwantedtogotothatspacecamp,doyouremember?”
Ido.IsawthecommercialandimmediatelystartedsavingthemoneyIearnedaroundtown.Idevouredanythingandeverythingaboutastronauts.Ilaunchedaone-mancampaigntohaveaspace-themedweekduringSTEMunitsattheelementaryschoolandImadeNovaandNessabuildaspaceshipoutofoldgarbagecansinthebackyard.Iwantedoneofthosepatchestheyhandedoutwith“JuniorAstronaut”stitchedonit.Iwantedtoeatspaceicecream.
Stupidstuff.Kidstuff.
ButasIgotolder,IstartedtolookatwhatIhadtostudy.Itookoutbooksfromthelibraryonengineering,math—goddamnbiologicalscience.Schoolstoppedbeingboringandbecameapathinstead.Achallenge.
ButInevermadeittothatcampandInevertookasingleclassonengineering.Mydadfelloffaladderwhilerepairingsomeroofshinglesattheproducefarm.Oneoftherailshadbuckledandtheladderlistedtotheleft,sendingmydadtothegroundfromafifty-footdrop.Afreakaccident.
IremembertheexactpairofshoesIwaswearingwhenmymomgotthecall.Redconversewithbothsetsoflacesundone,onehalfoffmyfootasIsatatthekitchentableandtriedtodomyEnglishhomework.Thephonerangtwiceandmymomansweredwithacupofcoffeeinherhand,thereceiverwedgedbetweenhershoulderandear.Irememberthesmallnoiseshemade.Asharpintakeofbreath.Aquiet,whereishe?Shatteredglassonthekitchenfloor.
“What’sthisabout,dad?”
Heheavesadeepbreathandrubshispalmsoverhisknees.“Ijust—“Heswallowsaroundtherestofhissentenceandturnsfromthestarstolookatme.“IguessIjustwanttoknowifyou’rehappy.”
“‘CourseI’mhappy,”Ireply.Hestudiesme,lookingfortheflinchinmywords.“WhatdoIhavetobeunhappyabout?”
IloveworkingatLovelight.Ilovemycabinontheedgeofthegroundsandtheearly,briskmorningswhenit’sjustmeandmybreathandthesuncrawlingupfrombehindthehorizon.Cottoncandyskiesandtheleavesonthetreesrustlingassunbeamsurgethemawake.Ilikethestillness,thequiet.Laylainherbakery,thesmelloffreshbakedbreadtwistingthroughthetoweringoaks.Stellainheroffice,paperworkeverywhereandadrawerfullofpinetreeairfreshenersshethinksnooneknowsabout.SalwithbasketsloopedoverhisarmsandBarneyonthetractor.Everysinglepersonthatfindstheirwaythere,downthenarrowdirtroadandaroundthebend.Throughthearchesandupthegraveldriveway.Thebigredbarnbytheroadandtherowsandrowsoftrees,waitingforahome.
ItisexactlywhereI’msupposedtobe.Myhandsinthedirtandmyfeetontheground.I’veneverdoubtedthatforasecond.
Rooted.
“IfeellikeImadeachoiceforyou,isall.Youwerefifteenyearsold,andI—”
Ipushoffthetruckandgrabhisshoulderthewayhe’salwaysgrabbedmine.Ishakehimonce.“Itwasmychoice,”Itellhim.
Heputshishandovermine.Squeezestight.“You’resure?”
“I’msure.”CHAPTERFOUREVELYN
“God,Evelyn.I’msosorry.”
Onthevergeoftears,JennystandsbehindthesmalldeskatInglewild’sbedandbreakfastwithabig,fluffyrobewrappedtightaroundherthinframe.ShehadbeenlockingupforthenightwhenIpulleduptothecurbinmyrentalandhurriedtoletmein,robeandall.
“It’sjust—youdidsuchagoodjobforusthelasttimeyouwerehere.We’vebeenbookedsolidsince.Andthere’sakitefestivalatthebeachthisweekendand—“
I’vesentherintoatailspin.Sheflipsopenthepaperledgerandsortsthroughthepageslikeit’llsaysomethingdifferentthanthecomputersittingonthecornerofherlittledesk.Sheswallowsandglancesupatmebeforecontinuingtoflipbackandforth.It’sbadenoughthatI’veheldherupafterhours.NowI’mabouttogiveheranervousbreakdown,too.
Ireachoverandcatchherhandinmine,keepingherfingersfromrippingthepagesoutofthebook.“Jenny.It’salright.”
It’snotlikeIbookedthistripinadvance.Orputanythoughtintoitotherthan—
IwashappystandinginthatfieldwithmybootssinkingintothemudandmaybeIshouldgobackandseeifIcanfindmyhappyagain.
Astupididea.Awhimsicalone.OnethatseemedbrilliantaftersixempanadasandJosiefist-pumpingacrossthetablewhileIbookedmyticket.Ipullbackmyhandandtugmyhairintoaponytail.Ifeelgreasyandgrossfromtheplanetrip,myshirtclingingtothesmallofmyback.Istareattheledgermournfully.Damn.IhadbeenlookingforwardtoalongsoakinthegiantclawfootbathtubsJennyhasineverysuite.
“It’salright,”Irepeat,andtrytoconvincemyselfofthesame.I’lljustfindsomewhereelsetostay.Noproblem.“Canyourecommendanotherplacecloseby?”
Jennyswallowshardandlooksdownatthedesk.Shemumblessomething,herhandsclenchedtightaroundtheedgesoftheledger.
“Whatwasthat?”
Sheexhales.“Withthekitefestival,”shebeginsslowly.“Everythingisbookedup.I’mnotevensurethebiggerchainhotelsdownatthebeachwillhaveanythingavailable.”
Shit.Well.Okay.Ididn’tknowpeoplelikedkitesthatmuch,butthat’s—it’sfine.That’swhatIgetformyimpulsivity,Iguess.Ishouldn’thavejumpedonaplanewithoutmakingsomereservationsfirst.Ididn’tevencallStellatoseeifit’sagoodtimeformetovisitthefarm.
ButIknowmyself.IknowifIgaveitaday,Iwouldhavetalkedmyselfrightoutofit.Iwouldhavefoundsomethingelsetooccupymyselfwith—anewproject,anewtask—andinaweek,amonth,ayear,I’dprobablystillbestuckinthissamerut,thisendlessloopofnumbambivalence.
IfrownandglanceoutoneofthebigwindowsthatlooksoutoverMainStreet,thestreetlightswrappedinvibrantgreenvineswithflowersstartingtopeekopeninbloom.Mabel,thestunningandslightlyterrifyingwomanwhorunsthegreenery,musthaveputthemuptowelcomespring.ThelasttimeIwashere,therewerewreathshangingfromeveryfrontdoor,garlandandlightsstrungneatlyfrompoletopole—arowofperfectgingerbreadhouseswrappedintinselandlights,guidingyoutoLovelightFarmsattheveryedgeoftown.
I’mgladpeoplearefinallydiscoveringthisgemofatown.Ionlywishitwasn’twhenIneededit,too.
“AnyotherideasonwhereIcouldstay?”
MaybeI’llchecklocallistingstomorrowmorningandseeifanyonehasaspacethey’rewillingtorent.IhavenoideahowlongIplanonbeinghere,butIdoknowthatthisfeelslikemybestchanceatgettingbacktomyself.Atfiguringoutwhat’swrong.
Jenny’sfacebrightensforthefirsttimesinceshecamepaddingdownthefrontstepsinapairofbrightblueslippers.“Oh!Icouldusethephonetree.”Herfacecollapsesintoafrownalmostasquickly.“Shoot.Butwe’renotallowedtouseitpastsevenunlessit’satrueemergency.”
“Youhaveaphonetree?”
Shewavesherhandaboveher,likeshe’scallinguponthespiritstoexplainthemysticismofitall.“It’showwecommunicateacrossthetownwhenthere’snews.Icoulduseittofigureoutifanyonehasaplaceforyoutostay.”
“Butyoucan’tuseitpastseven?”
Sheshakesherheadsadly.“Therehasbeensome…abuseofthesystemlately.Gusdidatown-widecalllastTuesdayat10pmtoaskifanyonehadextratortillastosparefortaconightatthefirehouse.TheSheriffalmostdisbandedtheentiresystem.ItwasonlyonaccountofCalebsteppinginwiththecurfewrulethatthephonetreewassalvaged.”
“Uh,thankgoodness.”Fromthegravityofhertone,itseemsliketherightresponse.
Shenods.“I’lluseitinthemorning,dosomediggingforyou.Inthemeantime,IthinkyoumightfindsomespareroomatLovelightFarms.”I’mnotsure,butitlookslikeasmilecurlsattheedgeofherlips.Athoughtfullookknitsherbrowstogether.“Itusedtobeahuntingretreat,Ithink.”
IrememberStellasayingsomethingaboutthatthelasttimeIwasintown.Ialsorememberherlittlecottageattheedgeofthepumpkinpatch,filledtothebrimwithvariousoddsandends.Atonepoint,Lukastoodinherkitchenwithhisarmsoutstretched.Hecouldtouchoneofthewindowsandtheentryhallwayatthesametime.Idon’twanttoshowuponherdoorstepinthemiddleofthenightandaskifIcancrash.EspeciallyifshealreadyhasLukathere
“Thanksforthat,”Isay.IhaveabsolutelynointentionofdrivinguptoLovelighttonight.NotuntilIhaveashower,afreshcoatoflipstick,andaseriouspeptalk.I’mnotanxioustoseeBeckettagain,I’mjust—
Idon’twanthimtoseemeandthinkI’m—thatI’maskingforanything.Ididn’tcomehereforhim.
Icamehereforhisfields.Iwanttositinthetallgrassandstareupattheskyandtrytofindtheplacewithinmyselfthat’slockeduporrustedoverorwhateverthehellthat’sbeengoingonwithmelately.Iwanttofixit.I’mtiredoffeelinglikethis.
Icamehereforabreak.Iwanttositinthequietanddonothing.IhaveseventeenemailsinmyinboxfromrightbeforeIleft—courtesyofSway—andIhaven’tlookedatasingleone.AnxietygrabsmebythethroateverysingletimeIseethelittlerednumberonmyscreen.IturnedmyphoneoffthethirdtimeIreachedforitandburieditatthebottomofmybag.MaybeI’llgetaburnerwhileI’mhere.Reallyleanintothewholeofftheradarthing.
IthankJennyforhertimeandassureheranotherfourtimesthateverythingisfinebeforeslippingoutthefrontdooranddownthemarblestepstomyrentalparkedatthecurb.Agustofwindliftsmyponytailandtheedgeofmycoat,bringingwithithintsofhoneysuckleandjasminefromtheflowerstwistedaroundthelightpole.IeyeballthebackseatasIstandatthedriver’ssidedoor.
I’vesleptinmycarbefore—duringlongroadtripsandlast-minuteones.OncewhenIwasdrivingthroughColorado,myrentalcarkickeditinthehigheraltitudesandIhadtopushithalfwayofftheroadandwaituntilmorningwhenitwassafeforatowtocomeandgetme.Ihadsleptfineinthebackseat,onlyslightlyterrifiedabearwasgoingtocomecareeningthroughthewindshield.
I’llhavetofindsomewhereslightlyprivate.SomewhereJennywon’tseeme.OrtheSheriff.OranyonewhomightcalltheSheriff.Idon’texactlywanttostartmytripherewiththetowngossipmillrollingaboutEvelynSt.Jamessleepinginthebackseatofhercar.
Ialsodon’twantapictureofmegoingviral,curledupinthebackandusingmysweaterasablanket.
Ibiteatmybottomlip.Maybenotsuchagreatideaafterall.
I’mstilldebatingmychoiceswhenIhearfootstepsonthepavementacrossthestreet.IglanceupatthesamemomentBeckettglancesacross,andit’sjustlikethatnightinthebar,whenheelbowedhiswaythroughthefrontdoorandlookedrightatme,thosedamneyesofhissweepingacrossmyfaceanddownmyshoulders.Aglancelikeatouch,afingertipatthehollowofmythroat.
He’sfrozenacrossthestreet,halfonthecurbandhalfoffofit.Corduroyjacket.Openflannelbeneath.Darkjeansandheavyworkboots.HehasaboxfromMs.Beatrice’sbakeryinhislefthand,plainwhitewithathinpieceofstringinaprettylittlebowontop.Ifocusthereinsteadofhisface,andwatchashishandtightensaroundthebox.
Icouldlaugh.HelookslikeeverydecadentthingI’veeverindulgedin.Flannelandscruffandaboxofbakedgoodsinhishand.
ItmakessensethatI’drunintohimlikethis—anabandonedstreetwithjustusandtheflowerpetals,mybackbreakingunderthestrainofallmyexhaustion.It’slikethiswithBeckettandI,I’mstartingtofigureout.Wekeephurtlingintoeachother.
“Don’ttellLayla,”isthefirstthinghesaystome.Hisvoiceisalowrumble,asroughasIremember.Ibitemylipagainstasmileandhiseyesrolluptotheskylikehe’sfrustratedwithhimselfbeforeslantingthemrightbacktome.Hestepstherestofthewayoffthecurbandstrollsacrossthestreet.
Ilookattheboxinhishand.“Onlyifyoushare.”
Hehuffsandclutchestheboxtighter.“Idon’tthinkso.”
“Youarenotinapositiontonegotiate.”
“We’llsee.”
Ipressuponmytiptoesandtrytogetapeekthroughthethinplasticontop.“WhatdoesMs.BeatricemakebetterthanLaylaanyway?”
Helookssupremelyuncomfortableatbeingcaught.Ormaybethat’sjustthesurpriseofseeinghisone-night-standsuddenlyappear,again,intheplacehelives.Iwince.
“Sorry,nevermind.”Irubattheheadachethat’sstartingtoformbetweenmyeyebrows.“Listen,Ishouldhave—“
“Shortbreadcookies,”hetellsme.Hestopsaboutthreefeetawayfrommeandstudiesmyrental.Hiseyesdartovermyshouldertothebedandbreakfast,andthenbacktothecar.Hezeroesinonmewiththatsingularintensityhealwaysseemstocarry,whetherhe’slickingalineofsaltfrommywristorchangingthetireonatractor.
Iswallowhard.Neitherofthoseimagininghelpwiththesharppulseofheatlowinmybelly,asingleforcefulbeat.
Beckettlooksgood.
He’salwayslookedgood.
“She’sbeenmakingthemformesinceIwasakid.Layla’sdon’tcomeclose.”Hiseyesnarrowintoslits.“IfyoutellherIsaidthat,I’lldenyit.”
Igivehimasolemnnodwhilefightingmygrin.“Alright.”
Henods.“Good.”Heconsidersmycaragain.IwonderifJennyiswatchingfrombehindherdeskandifthisconstitutesaphonetreeemergency.IsawhowthistownhandledStellaandLukatogether.I’dbetthisrentalcartheywerethesubjectofseveralphonetreediscussions.Beckettrapshisknucklesonceagainstthehatchback.“You’reintown?”
Inod.“Yep.”
“Stelladidn’ttellmeyouwerecoming.”
“Itwouldhavebeendifficultforherto,”Isayquietly.Somuchforeasingintoit.“SinceIdidn’tknowIwascominguntilthismorning.”
“Yougotathingcloseby?”
Bything,Iassumehemeansaprofileorsmallbusinesshighlight.Idonot,andIdon’tespeciallywanttogetintomyrecentissuesouthereonthestreet.Icertainlydon’twanttogetintothemwithBeckett,ofallpeople.Healreadythinksmyjobisstupid,andIdon’twanthimthinkingIcamehereasanelaborateexcusetoseehim.
Ididn’t.
Ishakemyheadandrubmyhandsovertheoutsidesofmyarms,wishingIpackedajacketthatwasalittlebitthicker.IforgotMarchontheEastCoastisjuststartingtocreepoutofwinter,themorningsandeveningscarryingawhisperofitstill.Ipullmythinwoolcoatalittletighteraroundmeandrockbackonmyheels.Beckett’seyesnarrow,buthedoesn’tsayanything,theboxinhishandcreakinginprotestatthewayhe’sgrippingit.
“Youneedhelpwithyourbags?”
“What?”
“Yourbags,”hesaysagain,noddingtowardsthebedandbreakfast.“Youneedhelpbringingthemin?”
“Oh,no.Um,”ifJennyiswatchingrightnow,sheisgettingamasterclassinawkwardanduncomfortableinteractions.Ihitchmythumbovermyshoulder.“Jennyisfullforthenight.Apparentlythereisakitefestivaldownatthebeach.”
Beckett’sbrowfurrowsintoaheavylineofconfusion.“Kitefestival?Theyhavefestivalsforkites?”
Isnicker.Ithoughttheexactsamething.“Yeah,apparently.”
“Sowhatareyougoingtodo?”
“What?”
Heheavesanotherdeepbreathtothesky,hisexhaleacloudofwhitethatthewindcarriesaway.Iamexhaustinghim.
“Areyougonnastaydownbythebeach?”Inglewildisaboutatwenty-fiveminutedrivefromthecoast,alongstretchofhighwaybetweenhereandthere.Morefarmland,someoutletshopping,andacustardstandthatI’vehadseveralrecurringdreamsabout.
“Iwas—”IcannottellhimIplannedonsleepinginmycarinthealleybehindthecafe.Ilookforanalternative,appropriateexplanationofmyplan.Aplanwhichdoesnotexist.“Iwasgoingtofiguresomethingout.”
Heconsidersmequietly.Istillcan’tgetoverhowdifferentheisherecomparedtothemanImetinMaine.Hehadbeenlooseandcomfortable,quietbutcharming.Hissmileshadbeeneasyandfrequent.Here,now,standingaperfectthreefeetapartonthesidewalk,thestreetlightsandthemoonpainthiminshadows.Heseemsstiff—frozenanduncomfortable.He’sgotafrownoneverylineofhisfacefromthesetofhiseyebrowstothedownwardtiltofhisfulllips.
Iwonderhowmuchofthatismyfault.
“Youdon’thaveaplan.”
MychinfallstomychestandIkeepmygazeonhisboots.He’sgotabitofmudclingingtoone,rightatthetoe.Ithinkofhimoutinthefields,hatonbackwardsandsleevesrolledtohiselbows.Itloosenssomethinginsideofmeandletsmebealittlehonest.Ipressoutasigh.
“Thistripwasn’t…planned.Icamehereonawhim.Josie,myassistant,sheaskedmethelastplaceIwashappyand,Idon’tknow.”Ishrug,feelingsillyandsmall,outhereonthestreetwithamanwhoprobablynevergavemeasecondthought.
“Itwashere,”heoffers.
It’snotaquestion.IblinkupathimandmyshouldersslipfrommyearswhenIseethewayhisfacehassoftened,alightnesstothoseseaglasseyesofhisthatIhaven’tseensincetherewasabottleoftequilaonthetable.
“Itwashere,”Iconfirm.
Hislipstiltupatthecorner.Justtheslightestbit.Iwouldn’thavenoticedifweweren’tstandingdirectlybelowastreetlight.Icockmyheadatthechangeinhisexpression,immediatelycurious.
“What’sthatlookfor?”
Heshakeshisheadandswitcheshisboxofshortbreadcookiestohisrighthand.“Nothing,justsomethingmydadsaidtonight.”Heholdshishandout,palmup.“C’mon.”
Istareathishandlikeheuncurledhisfingersandrevealedatinybabycobrainthere.“C’mon,what?”
HejerkshisheadbehindhimandIcanbarelymakeoutthebedofhistruckparkedatthecorner.“Ihavethreeextrabedrooms.Youcancrashinoneuntilyoufigureoutwhatyou’redoing.”
Thatseemslikea…monumentallybadidea.ThelasttimeIwashere,wecouldbarelylookateachother.Ithinkthelongestamountoftimewespenttogether—justthetwoofus—wasthatmorningatthebakehousewherehetoldthatstupidjokeaboutthestrawberryfields.Wedidn’ttalkmuchbeyondthat.Hecommentedontheweather.Iaskedhimsomequestionsaboutthetrees.Heconsideredmequietlywhileheslowlyatehiszucchinibread,flippinghisforkaroundandofferingmeabite,nudgingtheplateacrossthetablewiththebackofhishand.
Thatwasprobablytwentyminutesofpeacefulcoexistence.I’mnotsureshackingupfortheimmediatefutureisgoodforeitherofus.
“Idon’tknow,”Ishiftonmyfeetandcurlintomyselffurtherwhenthewindpicksupagain.Beckett’sfrowndeepens.“Won’tthatbeawkward?”
“Doesn’thavetobe,”hemutters.“It’sabigcabin.Andwe’rebothmatureadults.”
Iraisebotheyebrowsathim,rememberinghowheshowedupatthissamebedandbreakfastacoupleofmonthsagoandbasicallyaccusedmeofbeingaflakewithastupidjob.Heflinchesandscrubshishandagainstthebackofhishead.“AtleastIthinkwecanbothbematureadults,”heamends.
Ihuffalaughthroughmynose,butmakenomovetotakehishand.Afteranothermomentofindecision,hepullsitback,curlingthoselongfingersbackaroundtheedgesofthebox.Thecardboardgivesslightlyunderhisgrip,likeit’sbarelyhangingon.Thatpoorbox.
“Wecouldstartoverifyouwant,”heoffers.Heswallows,andIwatchasfrustrationtightenseverythingonhisface—thestraininhissharpjaw,thetiltofhislips.Hereallyishandsome,evenwhenhe’smakingafaceatmelikesomeonestuckalemoninhismouth.“Wecould—ifyouwanted,wecouldpretendthisisthefirsttimewe’remeeting.”
“Andyou’reinvitingmebacktoyourhouseonanisolatedstretchoffarmland?Okay,serialkiller.”
Asmiletwitchesathislips.“Yeah,you’reprobablyright.”
NottomentionI’mnotsureIcouldforgetBeckettifItried.There’snopretendingbetweenus,notanymore.
Iavertmygazebacktotheflowervinestwistedaroundthelightpole.GreenandwhiteandyellowandthepalestpurpleI’veeverseen.Iwanttotoucheachbloomandfeelthesoftness,pressmynoseintothepetals.WhenIwasakidrunningthroughthewoodsbehindmyparentshouse,Iusedtopluckhoneysuckleblossomsfromthebushes,tearthestemandlickatthenectar.Purestickysweetness,petalsinmyhair.Mudonmykneesandhandsandeverywhereinbetween.
Itwouldbeconvenienttostayonthefarm.IknowBeckett’shouseattheedgeofthepropertyisbiggerthanStella’s.IsawitoncewhileIwasexploringduringmylasttrip.Thelargestonechimney,thewraparoundfrontporch.It’sagorgeoushouse.StellasaidhisplacehadbeenthelodgingquartersforwhateverhuntingretreatLovelightusedtobe.Icouldstayinoneofhisspareroomstonightandseewhatthephonetreeturnsuptomorrow.
Withhisschedule,weprobablywouldn’tevenseeeachother.
IlookbacktoBeckett,mygazesnaggingonthejutofhiscollarbone,barelyvisiblethroughtheopeningofhisshirt.Iremembersinkingmyteethintoexactlythatspot,tracingmythumboverthemarksIleftbehind.
Idragmyeyesbacktohis.
“Yousureit’salright?”
Abeatofsilencepulsesbetweenus.Hedoesn’tlookaway.“Iam.You?”
Ithinkaboutitforasecond,andthenslowlynodmyhead.Itfeelslikeabadidea,butI’mfreshoutofoptions.
Thewindwhistlesthroughtheoldpicketfencethatlinesthegardensbytheroad.Alockofhairfallsoverhisforeheadandhesmoothesitbackwithhispalm.Iglanceattheboxinhishand
“Areyougoingtosharethecookies?”
Heturnsonhisheelandheadstowardshistruck.“Absolutelynot.”CHAPTERFIVEBECKETT
Ihavelostmydamnmind.
There’snootherexplanationforit
Ididn’tseeherwhenIfirststeppedoutofthebackentranceofthecafe,aboxofcookiestuckedundermyarmandmymindstillbackinmyparent’sdriveway.Mydadhasn’tbroughtuphisaccidentinclosetotenyears.Certainlynotwhathappenedafter.Iwassocaughtupintryingtountanglethatparticularknot,Ididn’tnoticeheruntilIwassteppingoffthecurb,headingbacktomytruckdownthestreet.
Itwasherhairfirst,thewindliftingitandswingingitoverhershoulder.Jetblackandcurlingattheends,brushingagainstsmoothbrownskin.Thesharpcutofhercheekbonesandthesoftswellofherbottomlipcaughtbetweenherteethasshestaredaholeinthesideoftheunfamiliarcar.
Seeingherstandingthereinacoatthatwasfartoothin,asecondshyofshiveringrightoutofherboots,itfeltlikegrabbinganexposedwire.Ididthatonce,whenIwasreplacingthebulbsthatwindtheirwaythroughthefieldsatthefarm.Itzippedrightupmyarm,asharpandbrilliantsurge.
Ittookmeasecondtocatchmybreath.
“Youareanabsolutefuckingidiot,BeckettPorter.”Ishoveanothercookieinmymouthwithahuffandwatchtheheadlightsbehindmeriseandfallasweturnintothefarm.Thebutterandsugarisdoingabsolutelynothingforme.IglanceoutthepassengersidewindowasIrumblepastStella’scottageontheedgeofthepumpkinpatch,relievedwhenIseeherwindowsaredark.ThelastthingIneedisStellaandLukawithapairofbinoculars,rilingupthephonetree.
Pretendthisisthefirsttimewe’remeeting.Whatadumbfuckingthingtosay.LikeIcanforgetthewayshelookedtangledinthesheets.Asmilethattastedlikelimeandsalt.
MyfootedgesonthegasandIgrunt.Stupid.IhavenoideawhyIinvitedEvelyn—thesamewomanwholeftmewithoutawordinahotelroom—tostayindefinitely.Myhouseisbig,sure,butnotthatbig.
Iturndownthewindingdirtroadthatleadstomycabin,thewaymarkedbyflickeringsolarlanterns.IinstalledthemlastmonthwhenLukagotlosttryingtocutacrossthefieldsfrommyplacetoStella’safteronetoomanybeers.Stellacalledahalfanhourafterheleft,askingwherehewent.Ifoundhimwanderinginthesoutheastfieldsbythecarrots.
Ipullintothedrivewayandcuttheengine,watchingasthreelittlefurryheadsappearinthewindowoneaftertheother.Ican’thelpsmilingdespitethetensiontwistingmyneck.It’snicetohavesomethingtocomehometo,eveniftheytearmyfurnituretoshit.
EvelynisbusywrestlinganoversizeddufflefromthebackseatofhercarasIclimboutofthetruck.“Youneedhelp?”
Sheshakesherheadandgrabsarollingsuitcaseaswell.Itrynottoreadtoomuchintoit.Ifshewantstohavealittleambiguityaboutwhatshe’sdoinghereandforhowlong,that’sfine.IfeellikeIhaveatleastonepersoninmylifewithholdinginformationatanygiventime.What’sanother?
ThreecatsjostleformyattentionassoonasIopenthedoorandIscooptheminmyarms,lettingthemcrawlupmyjackettosettleacrossmyshoulders.They’restilltiny,notgrowingmuchsincewefoundthemcurledupinthecornerofthebarn.Comet,Cupid,Vixen.ItwasalittleonthenosewhenInamedthem,butitfeltappropriateforafamilyofcatsthatliveonaChristmastreefarm.IglancearoundtheopenlivingroomandspotPrancerstretchedoutinfrontofthefireplace,herheadrestingonthestone.Sheopensoneeyeandlazilybatsherpawintheair,asenthusiasticahelloasIevergetfromher.Goodtoseeshefoundherwaybackafterthismorning’sjoyrideonthetractor.
Thedoorshutsbehindme,andIwatchEvelynplaceherbagsbythedoor,steppinghesitantlyintothespace.Allfourcatsstopwhatthey’redoingandstareatherlikeshe’sjusttossedahandfuloftheirkibbleupintheairlikeconfetti.
Sheblinks,herdarkeyeswide.
“Thisis,”shelooksaroundtheroom.AsmileloosenseverybitofherbodywhenPrancerdecidesshe’snotathreat,doesafullbodystretch,andpromptlyfallsrightbacktosleep.Shelooksatme.“ThisisnotwhatIexpected.”
Feelingsheepish,Iglancearoundthespaceandtrytoseewhat’sunexpectedaboutit.It’sfairlysimpleintermsoffurnitureanddecor.Big,oversizedsecondhandcouches,wornandwell-loved,acoupleofblanketsthrownovertheback.ThekittenswentthroughaclawingphaseandI’drathernothavestuffingspillingovermeeverytimeIsitdown.Adarkredrugbeneathtokeepthefloorswarminthewinter.Shelvesoneithersideofthefireplace,haphazardlystackedwithbooks.Agiantcanvasbetween—afieldofwildflowerspaintedbyNova,redandyellowandpale,palepink.
MycoffeemugfromthismorningisstillsittingontheedgeofthetableandIgrabitonmywayintothekitchen,slidingtheleftoversfromdinnerintothefridge.
“Youwantsomethingtoeat?”
Ibarelycatchhersoftnoinresponse,herfeetcarryingherovertooneofthebigwindowsthatlooksoutoverthefields.Inthemorning,sunlightfillsthiswholespaceuntilit’sfittoburst,thehillsrollingoutbehindthehouseinapatchworkquiltofgreenandgold.Rightnow,darknesscloakseverythingbeyondthewoodenporch.Insteadofrowsandrowsofsturdygreentrees,IonlyseeEvelyn’sreflection.Fingertipsatherlipsandhighcheekbones.Bigbrowneyes.Istareasecondtoolong,somethingscratchingatmythroat.
Iswallowaroundit.
“I’llshowyouyourroom.”Isnaptherefrigeratordoorclosedandcollectallthescatteredpiecesofmyself.It’sonenight,maybe,andthenshe’llbeonherway.Offtothenextadventure,thenextexcitingthing.I’mastoppingpoint.I’mbarelyastoppingpoint.Onesheneverevenwantedtohave.
Ineedtorememberthat.
Islipoutofthekitchenanddownthehallwaythatleadstothebedrooms.Thehouseisallonelevel,theupstairsagiant,unrenovatedstoragespacewithancientfloorboardsthatcreakbeneaththeslightestpressure.Nessausesitfordancerehearsalsometimes,whenherusualstudioisrentedoroccupied.Ithoughtshewasgoingtocomerightthroughtheceilingthelasttimeshewashere,thegentlepitterpatterofherfeetinterruptedbyboomingshakesasshepracticedjumpafterjump.Thecatshadnotbeenthrilled.
Ipushopenthedoorforthefirstroomontheleftandflickonthelightwithmyelbow,grabbingCometfromherplaceinmyneckjustforsomethingtodowithmyhands.IrubherheadwithmyknucklesandpokemyheadintotheattachedbathtomakesureNovaorHarperhaven’tleftaheapofwettowelsclumpedinthecorner.Allofthebedroomshaveanattachedbathroom.It’saremnant,Ithink,fromwhenthisoversizedhouseusedtobealodge.
It’snowonderitwentoutofbusiness.TheonlythingsI’veseentohuntaroundhereareacoupleofsquirrelsandawaywarddeer.AfoxthatStella’snamedGuinevere.
“Areyourunningabedandbreakfastontheside?”
EvelyncollapsesontothebedwithahappylittlesighandIimmediatelyavertmygazetothetrunkfullofextrasheetsandblanketsatthefootofthebed.
“Somedaysitfeelslikeit,”Imutter.Ifoneofmysistersisn’therecrashinginaspareroom,it’sLayla,workingtoolateatthebakeryandtoodamntiredtodriveherselfhome.OrLuka,sayingheneedsguytimeandpretendinghe’sactuallygoingtostaytheentirenightinsteadofwanderingbacktoStella’sbeforemidnight.OrCharlie,Stella’shalf-brother,snoringsoloudtheraftersshakewithit.
“Blanketsareinthetrunk,”Itellher.IgrabVixenfromthebackofmyneckwhereshe’svaliantlytryingtoclimbtothetopofmyhead.Cupidleapsfrommetothebedandkneadsherlittletinypinkpawsintothepillow.Evelynreachesoutahandandsmoothesherpalmdownthekitten’sback.“Sparetowelsinthebathroom.You’rewelcometoanythingyoufind.”
Ifeelawkward,uncomfortable,kickedoutoforbitandflounderingtofindmywayback.Iclearmythroattwice.“I’llbeupandoutearly,buthelpyourselftowhateveryouneed.”
“Iwon’tbeinyourspacelong,”shesaysquietly.“Jennyissupposedtoringthephonetreetomorrow.Findmeaplacetostay.”
Alotofgoodthatwilldo.Thephonetreeiseasilythemostuselessthinginthistown.Iignoretheflipinmystomachandthespikeofprotestthatflaresinresponse.I’mconfusedbythereaction.Ihavenoreasontowanthertostayanylongerthansheneedsto,butI’vealwaysbeenabitoutofmymindwhereEvelynisconcerned.
“Alright,”iswhatIsettleon,collectingthecatsinmyarmsandturningtoleave.I’mafraidofwhatI’lldoifIstayinthisbedroomasecondlonger.IfItooktwostepsforward,mykneeswouldknockintohers.Icouldplacemyhandnexttoherhipandleanoverher,pinherdowntothemattresswithmyhips.She’snothingbuttemptationsplayedoutonthebedlikethat,windsweptandwarm.
Ipickedthisbedroomforareason.It’stheveryfurthestfrommineontheoppositesideofthehouse.
“Beckett?”
IglanceupfromwhereI’vebeentryingtountangleVixen’sclawsfrommysleevecuffandfocusonEvelyn,sittinginawedgeofmoonlightthatfiltersinthroughthewindow.Shelookstired,herhairbeginningtoslipfromherponytail,herwhitebuttondownwrinkledwithtravel,oneofthesleeveshalfrolledandtheothercaughtatherelbow.Sheisdeliciouslyunraveled,alittleblurredaroundtheedges,andIonlywanttomessherupalittlebitmore.
Shegazesupatme,andIshovetheurgeaway.
“Thankyou,”shesays,voicewhispersoft.
Ibreatheindeepthroughmynose.
“It’snoproblem.”
Itwon’tbe.She’llstayhere,she’llfindwhatsheneeds,andshe’llbeonherway.It’llbefine.
I’llbefine.CHAPTERSIXBECKETT
Dawnbringswithitapoundingheadacheandastormcloudofforeboding.ItakebackwhatIsaidlastnight.
Itisaproblem.
Iamnotfine.
Ididn’tsleepforshit.Ijoltedawakeateveryfloorboardcreak,everyscratchofatreebranchagainstthewindow,everysinglesoundthehousemadeasitsettledaroundme.WhenIfinallydiddrifttosleep,itwastodreamsofEvelynstandinginfrontofthatwindowinthelivingroom,themoonlightonherbareskin,thosedimplesatthebaseofherspinetemptingme.Idreamtofmyhandssmoothingaroundherhipsandmylipstrailingupthecolumnofherneck.
Iwakeupfrustrated,desirepoundingthroughmybloodstream.IgroananddragmyselfoutofbedandforcemyselfintothecoldestshowerIcanmanage.ThelastthingEvelynneedsismethinkingaboutherlikethatwhileshe’sworkingthroughsomething.
IcurseasIpullonmyjeans.Isomehowmanagetostubmytoeontheedgeofthedresserandthetableinthehallway.IburnmyhandonthecoffeepotandfalldownthebottomtwoporchstepswhenI’mleavingthehouse.
Thewomanhasmadeadamnmessofme
Shesaidthistripwasn’tplannedandIhavenoideawhatthatmeansintermsofhowlongshe’sstaying,orwhatshe’splanningondoingnowthatshe’shere.Shesaidsomethingabout—somethingaboutrememberinghowtobehappy,herlipsturneddownatthecorners,hereyessomewhereonthegroundbyourboots.Itwaslikeshewasembarrassedaboutit,hervoicecatchinginthewindanddriftingawayfromthebothofus.
Hasshenotbeenhappy?It’shardtoimagineEvelynfeelinganythingotherthanabsolutejoy.Filledtothebrimwith—fuckingsunshineandbutterflies.Thelasttimeshewashere,shehadapermanentgrinonherface,herlaughloudandbrightasitslippedthroughthetrees.Butthat’sthethingabouthappiness,Iguess.Youcanshowwhateveryouwanttotheworldandnotfeelalickofitinsideyourself.
“ButI’mnotnewanymore.”
“You’vebeenworkingherefortwodays.”
Voicescarryaroundtheedgeofthebarn,alowgrumbleinresponsebeforeaheavysighofexasperation.IturnthecornerjustasJeremypushesahandthroughhishair,hipcockedagainstthesideofthetractor.I’mgladtoseehe’swearingbootstoday,eveniftheylooklikesomethingoutofamagazine.“Beckettsaidthenewbieshovelsrocks.I’mnotthenewbieanymore.”
“Onedayoffarmworkdoesn’tremovethenewbietitle.”Iclaphimontheshoulderandhejumpsabouttenfeetintheair.“You’rethenewbieuntilsomeoneelsecomesalong.”Ihandhimtheshovelandhegroans.“Notmuchlefttodotoday.”
Barneychucklesandrunsbothhandsoverhisbaldinghead.“Plentylefttodotoday.Younghotshotoverherecan’tshovelforshit.”
“Thesearmsweremadeforlove,baby.Notlabor.”
BarneyandIexchangealook.Ibitetheinsideofmycheeksoharditalmostbleeds.
“Goodtoknow.”Igrabanotheroneoftheshovelsandnodtowardsthefields.“C’mon.I’llhelpyou.”
Alittlemindlessphysicalworkwillbegoodforme.ThetractorenginekicksupandIcatchaflashofwhiteboundingacrossthefieldtowardsusasPrancersettlesintoherspotonthetractor,athinlyveiledlookofdisgustshotinmydirection.Sheneverdidcometoherusualspotonmybedlastnight,probablybusycarvingdeaththreatsintomycouchupholsteryfordaringtobringanotherwomanintoherhome.
Barneyrubsherheadandwe’reoff.Theworkisslowmoving,especiallywithJeremyshovelingattherateofasmallbabybird,hisarmslimpathissidesandhisgripallwrong.Irollmyeyesandlosemyselfinthework,myminddriftingwitheachrepetitivemovement
Push.Dig.Dump.Didshesleeplastnight?Push.Dig.Dump.DidIwakeherthismorningwhenIfumbledmycoffeemugacrossthekitchenfloor?Push.Dig.Dump.Howlongisshestaying?Push.Dig.Dump.Whyisn’tshehappy?Push.Dip.Dump.HowcanIhelp?
Push.Dip.Dump.
Doesshewantmetohelp?
Harpercallsitmyherocomplex.ShesaysIfixotherpeople’sproblemstoavoidmyownandshe’sprobablyrightaboutthat.Idon’tliketoseeanyonestruggle.
Iespeciallydon’tlikethelookIsawonEvelyn’sfacelastnight,theself-doubtmixedwithhesitation.
“Alright,boss,”Barneyisgivingmeaconcernedlook,thetractoratastandstill,hisarmslungoverthebackoftheseat.IglancedownatthefieldandtheholeI’veapparentlybeendiggingbehindthelefttire.
“Thinkyou’vegotamorningmeetingtogetto,”Barneysays.HenodsinthedirectionofStella’soffice,asteadystreamofsmokepumpingoutofthechimney.Thesunisalreadywellabovethehorizon,theskyabrightandbrilliantblue.Jeremyisflatonhisback,chestheaving,hisshovelabouttwentyfeetbehindhim.Ithinkhemanagedtworockstoday.
“Aren’tyouonthebasketballteam?”Icallovertohim.
Heliftsalimphandintotheair.“Iridethebench,bro.Ijustdoitfortheladies.”
WehaveourpartnermeetingsonalternatingWednesdaymornings.Anattempt,Ithink,fromStellatobemoretransparentaftershehadhidsomeofthebusinessdetailsfromuslastyear.Laylausuallybringssomesortofbakedgood,andmystomachgivesahappyrumbleatthereminder.Iglancedownatmyt-shirtwithagrimace,coveredindirtandsweat.
LaylamirrorsthesamegrimaceassoonasIswingintothetinyoffice,haphazardstacksofpaperoneveryflatsurface.Stellalikestosayshehasasystem,butIthinkshe’sfullofshit.IsnapapictureonmyphoneandsendittoLuka.He’llprobablybreakintohivesassoonasheseesit.
“Whydoyoulooklikeyoucrawledyourwayoverhere?”Laylapullshersweateroverhernoseandkicksouttheseatnexttoheruntilthere’sahealthyfourfeetofdistancebetweenmyseatand…everythingelse.
Stellafrownsather.“It’snotthatbad,”shesays.Itakeastepfurtherintotheroomandshesucksinasharpbreath.“Ohmygod,Beckett.Isthatblood?”
Itis,andIhavenoideahowitgotonthesleeveofmyshirt.Iignorethembothandcollapseintothechair,thelegsgivingaprotestingsqueakatmyweight.I’mprettysureStellafoundthesechairsonthesideoftheroadanddecidedtobringthemhomewithher.Ipeerinthetinsittingontopofastackofinvoices.
“Isthiscarrotcake?”
Laylaplucksamuffinfromthetopandhandsittome.Shepauses,considers,andthenhandsmeanother.Inarrowmyeyesather.It’snotlikehertowillinglyofferextras.
“What’sgoingonwithyou?”Iask,suspicious.
“What’sgoingonwithyou,ChildrenoftheCorn?”Shefiresrightback.
Idebatehidingitfromthem,butthey’llknowsoonenough.EspeciallysinceEvelyn’scariscurrentlyparkedinmydrivewayandfarmgossipismoreefficientthanthetownphonetree.I’mhonestlysurprisedStelladoesn’talreadyknow.Itakeagiantbiteofcarrotcakeandkickmylegsout.“Evelynishere.”
Igettwoblankstaresinresponse.Laylasmoothesherhandsdownthebrightredskirtshehason,thermalblacktightsbeneath.“Caretorepeatwhatyoujustsaid?”
IswallowandreachforthecoffeeStellahaswaitingformeontheedgeofthedesk.“Evelynishere.”
“InInglewild?”
Inmysparebed.Wrappedinsheetsthathavetinyrosesonthem.Inlessthanhalfasecond,mybraintakessomecreativelibertieswiththat,imaginingherstretchedoutnakedbeneaththeblankets,onelonglegkickedout.Iclearmythroat.
“Atmyhouse,”Isayslowly.IdrageachwordoutandwatchasStella’seyeswiden.SheexchangesalookwithLayla.Laylacollapsesbackintoherchairandraisesbotheyebrows.Stella’snosetwitchesandhershoulderkicksuptoherearbeforeitsettlesagain.
“Cutthatshitout,”Igrumble,finishingthefirstmuffinandmovingontothenext.“Iknowyou’retalkingaboutme.”
“Wedidn’tsayanything.”
“Mightaswellhave.”
“Alright,let’stakeastepback,”Stellasteeplesherhandsinfrontofherface.Withherbehindherdesk,andLaylaandIinthetwochairsinfrontofit,itfeelslikeeverysingletimeIwasevercalledtotheprincipal’soffice.Myphonebuzzesonthearmofthechair.IglanceatitandspotatextfromLuka.
Luka:HurricaneStella.
Luka:Isthatcarrotcake?
“Stoptextingmyboyfriendandpayattention.”
Ibreatheoutslowlythroughmynoseandtryforasubjectchange.IglanceatLayla.
“Didn’tyouhavedinnerwithJacoblastnight?”
Shemakesaface.“IbrokeupwithJacobtwoweeksago.IwentonadatewithaguyImetthroughanapp.”ShewavesherhandbetweenusandfixesmewithalookthatsayssheknowsexactlywhatI’mdoing.“Don’ttrytodistractme.I’mnotlettingtheEvelynthinggo.”
“Aren’twesupposedtobegoingoverthisquarter’snumberstoday?”
“Nicetry,”Stellaadds.“Wecandiscussthisfirstandmoveontoreportingafter.IalsowanttotalkaboutwhyyouhaveJeremyRoughmandoingmanuallaboroutinthefields.Butfirst,howdidEvelyngettoyourhouse?”
“Shetookaflight,I’dimagine.Andthenrentedacar.”
Stellaisnotimpressed.“Beckett.”
“Iranintoherintownlastnight,”Iexplain.IleaveoutthepartwhereIranintoherleavingthecafe,aboxofcontrabandcookiestuckedundermyarm.Idon’tknowwhatLaylawoulddoifshefoundoutI’msneakingbakedgoodsfromMs.Beatriceontheside,butitprobablywouldn’tbepretty.Ilikemyfacethewayitis.“Thebedandbreakfastwasfullandshedidn’thaveanywhereelsetostay.”
Laylagivesmeacriticallook,oneeyebrownotchedhighonherforehead.“Soyouinvitedhertostaywithyou?”
“Idid.”
“Forhowlong?”
Ishrugandpickatthewrapperonmysecondmuffin.Theyhavechocolatechipsinthem,likeLaylasomehowknewI’dneedtheextrastrengthtoday.“Ihavenoidea.Shesaidsomethingaboutthistripnotbeingplanned.”IleaveoutthepartwhereshetalkedaboutLovelightbeingthelastplaceshewashappy.Thatfeelsprivate,andIdon’twanttosharethingsthatbelongtoher.“Jennyisringingthephonetreetodaytofindhersomeplacetostaylongerterm,Ithink.”
Iignorethethrumofdiscomfortthatsettlesinmyshouldersatthat.Itfeelsthesameaswhenthere’stoomuchnoisearoundme,myteethclenchingdownaroundit.Idon’tliketheideaofheranywhereelse,andI’mwellawarethatmakesmeafuckingidiot.Agluttonforpunishment,probably.Shemadeherintentionsveryclearasfarasourrelationshipisconcerned.Ican’timagineroommateswithherone-nightstandwasinherplanwhenshedecidedtocomeouthere.
Shecouldhavetextedme,though.Givenmeaheadsup.Didshethinkshewouldn’thavetoseeme?Isthatwhatshewashopingfor?Ifrown.
StellaandLaylabusythemselveswithanothersilentconversationwhileIfocusoneatingtherestofmybreakfast.Idrinkmycoffeeandtrytoputeverythingbackinorderwithinmyself.MybrainkeepsskippingbacktoEvelyncollapsingbackwardsintothebedinthespareroom,oneofthepillowstumblingdownbyherlegs.Cometnudgingunderherchinwithhernose.It’sbeenplayingonrepeatinmymindallmorninganditleavesmefeelinglikeI’vebeenkickeddownahillinabarrel.Thatexposedwirethingagain,myhairstandingonend.
“Beck?”Stella’slookingatme,faceetchedwithworryandherpalmscuppedgentlyaroundhermug.There’sapinetreehangingfromherdesklight,andsheknocksitwithherelbowwhensheducksherheadtogetabetterlookatme.“Areyouokay?”
“I’mfine.”
Iam.I’mfine.Evelyninmyspaceisn’tanythingIcan’thandle.Ifbeinghereisgoingtohelpherfigureouthernextstepsorwhateveritisthatshe’sdoing,thenIcansuckitup.It’llprobablybelikelasttime,wherewecircleeachotherandthensettle.Shareabakedgoodandmoveon.
Thisdoesn’thavetomeananything.
Laylaplucksanothermuffinoutofthetinandhandsittome.
“Here,”shesays.“Youlooklikeyouneedit.”CHAPTERSEVENEVELYN
It’ssoquietontheotherendofthephone,IcheckseveraltimestoseeifJosieaccidentallyhunguponme.SilenceisnotwhatIexpectedwhenIdeliveredthenews.Infact,Iwasbracingmyselffortheopposite.Extended,obnoxiouslaughter.Acackleortwo.Ascreamingshriek.
“Josie?”
“You’restayingathishouse?”Hervoiceispitchedlowandforonce,Ican’thearasinglethinginthebackground.Josieisconstantmotion,oftensoundinglikeshe’satatrainstationinsteadofherhouse.Rightnowshesoundslikeshe’sinacloset.
“Yeah,I’mstayingathishouse.”Heleftakeynexttothecoffeemachinethismorning.Anotewithsurprisinglyneathandwritingwiththecodetothegaragedoor.
“Doeshe—”shebreathesoutashakyexhale.“Doesheonlyhaveonebed?”
“What?”Igivethewaitressatthecafeasmallsmile,noddingmythankswhensheplacesmylattecarefullyonthetableinfrontofme.Shetakesastepback,butkeepslookingatme,anover-brightsmileonheryoungface.Iknowthislook.I’veseenitathousandtimesbefore.Igiveheralittlewaveandturnslightlyinmyseat,loweringmyvoice.“Whatareyoutalkingabout?No,hehasatleasttwobedsthatIknowof.”
Probablymore.Iwasn’tkiddingwhenIsaidhecouldrunabedandbreakfastontheside.Theinsideofhiscabinishuge.Surprisinglycomfortable.Anentirecollectionofthrowblanketsandcozylookingpillowsinhislivingroom.
Josiecontinuestobreatheheavilyintothephone.“Whatdoesheweartosleepin?Isitsweatpants?Aretheygray?”
“Areyoudrunk?”
“Pleasejustanswerthequestion,Evie.”
“Ihavenoideawhathewearstobed,”Ianswerasquietlyaspossible,consciousofthefactthatI’msittingsmackdabinthemiddleofthecafeinatownthatlovestogossip.Ipeekovermyshoulderatthetablebehindme,twoofInglewild’sfirefightersonwhatlooksliketheirthirdplateofcinnamonrolls.“Ididn’tkickinhisdoortolook,Josie.”
“Maybeyoushouldhave,”shehisses.“Okay,butseriouslythough—“
Isighinrelief.
“—Ineedyoutotellmeinexcruciatingdetail.WhatisMr.Beckettlookinglikethesedays?Youneverdidshareapictureandyouwereannoyinglyvague.Doeshehavescruff?”
“Whathasgottenintoyou?”
“ThiswholesituationisbananasandI’mtryingtocapitalizeonthebenefits.Haveyouatleastsnoopedthroughallofhisbelongingslikeareasonablehumanbeing?”
“Ihavenot,thoughIhaven’truleditoutforthisevening.”
Ididnoticeacouplethings.Whatlookedlikeacelestialmaptapedtothefrontofthefridge,acircledrawninredoveraclusteroflittlespeckswithadateandtimescrawledabove.Thecornerofthelivingroomwiththreeoversized,soft-lookingcatbeds,atinyblanketoneach.Fivedifferenttypesofgroundcoffeeonthekitchencounter,allhalf-usedandneatlyrolledshut.
Itwasn’twhatIexpected.
Thoughtobefair,Ididn’tletmyselfexpectanythingoutofBeckett.Besidesmygameofpicturinghiminrandomplaces,perplexedbymintgreensucculentvasesandfruitarrangements,Ihardlyletmyselfconsiderhimatall.Rememberingisaslipperyslopeintowanting,andI’vebuilttoomuchformyselftogetdistractedbyagorgeousmanwithtattoosandverylargehands.
Isupposethatdoesn’tmattermuchnow,though.I’monebigballofdistraction.
“Haveyoucheckedyouraccountsyet?”
Aspikeofanxietyturnsmypalmshot.“No.Howbadisit?”
Idon’tthinkI’veevergonemorethanfourhourswithoutposting,acompulsiontoalwaysbeonestepahead.JosiehumsandIheartheclickofamouseasshedoessomethingonhercomputer.“Notbad.Youarecausingquitethestirthough.Isawacoupleblogsaskingwhereyouwere.YouhaveawholeWhereintheWorldisEvelynSt.Jamesthinggoingforyourightnow.”
“I’msureSwayispleased.”
“Asmuchastheycanbewiththeirinternetdarlingonlockdown.”Shemakesaninterestedsoundunderherbreath,anothercoupleofclicks.“Imeanttotellyou,I’msortingthroughsomeofyourinboxeswhileyou’reout.ItlookslikeSwayhasbeenscreeningsomemessages.Doyouplanonpostingatallwhileyou’rethere,orisitafullblackout?”
“Ihaven’tdecidedyet.”Thisissupposedtobeastepbackfromwork.I’mnotsurescrollingthroughmyaccountsandpostingrandomcontentisgoingtohelpwiththeperspectiveIwanttofind.Idon’twanttodoanythinguntilitfeelsgoodagain.
ButIhavefoundmyselfitchingtoswipeopenmycamera.It’sareflex,ahabitformedoverclosetoadecadeofsharingmylifewithmillionsofstrangers.IwantedtosnapapicturewhenIopenedthebedroomdoorthismorning,allfourcatssittinginaline,staringupatmewiththeirtinyheadstiltedinquietconsideration.WhenIsteppedoffthefrontporch,thesunabrilliant,beautifulorangeinthesky,everythingglowingattheedges.WhenIwandereddownthenarrowalleyonmywayhere,floralvinescriss-crossedbackandforthbetweenthebuildings,acanopyofblossomingflowersanddriftingpetals.Thescentofhoneysuckleticklingmynose.
“Youdon’thavetodoanythingatall,”Josietellsmeoverthephone.“You’reonabreakforareason.Idon’tevenrememberthelasttimeyoutookatruevacation.”
“Iknow,”Ismoothmythumbovertheedgeofthecup.“ButmaybeitwouldhelpifItriedjusttellingstoriesagain.That’showwestartedallofthis,isn’tit?”
Nopressure.Noexpectations.Justme,talkingtopeople.Listeningagain.
“Idon’tthinkitwouldhurt,”sheoffers.“Butpleasegiveyourselfabreak.Drinkalatte.”Shepausesforasecond.“Findoutifthemanownsgraysweatpants.”
Alaughburstsoutofmeandhalfofthepeopleinthecafeturntolook.Thisfeelsnormal,theattentionfromstrangers.WhenIwasyounger,itwasexciting.Irememberthefirsttimesomeonerecognizedmeinpublic.IwasatthegrocerystoreexaminingorangesandayoungwomanwithbrightbluehaircameuptomeandaskedifIwasEvelynSt.James.ShesawmyvideoabouttheBagbyHotSpringsandtookatripwithherfriends.Irememberbeingoverwhelmed.Flattered.Exceedinglydelighted.
Nowthough,theattentionfeelsabitlikesun-warmedskin,justshyofaburn.Ahotprickleofawarenessandanitchthatdoesn’tfeelrighttoscratch.Myeyessnagonmywaitressinthecorner,huddledtogetherwithatablefullofteenagers.TheirgazesscatterassoonImakeeyecontactandIbitemybottomlipagainstasmile.Igivethemalittlewaveandtheycollapseintofuriouswhispers.Onebravegirlwiththickblackglassesandherhairinbraidswavesback.
ThebellabovethedoorjinglesandJennyslipsin,oneoftheflowerpetalsfromoutsidecaughtinherhair.Iraisemyhandtogetherattentionandstarttoshiftmycollectionofplatesaround.Icouldn’tdecidewhattoorder,soIgotoneofeverythinginthecase.Imighthavetogetupforanothersausageandcreamcheesebiscuit.
Iwedgethephonebetweenmyshoulderandearandmoveabearclawtothecornerofthetable.Iconsideritbriefly,andthentakeabite.I’venevermetapastryIdidn’tlove.“Gottago,Jo.”
“Iexpectapictureinmyinboxlater.”
Isnortalaugh.IfIsentherapictureofBeckett,she’dbeonthenextflighttoMaryland.“Sure,sure.Loveyou.”
“Youtoo.”
Jennyraisesbotheyebrowsassheslidesintotheseatacrossfromme.Ihandheraplatewithacranberrysconeandshegivesahappylittlewiggleinherchair.“Boyfriendmissingyou?”
Mylipstwitchatthethinly-veiledfishforgossip.AtleasttwoheadstiltinourdirectionthatIcansee.Ineedtorememberthatthere’salwayssomeonelisteninginthistown.
“Lifepartner,”IexplainandJennyeyeballsmeasshebreakshersconeinhalf.Idon’tbotherexplaining.“Didyoucallaround?”
Shenods.“Haven’tbeenabletofindanything,butit’searly.I’msuresomethingwillturnuptoday.”Shedragsthetipofherfingeralongtheedgeofherplate,blondehairhalfcoveringherface.Sheremindsmeofmymom.Samelinesbyhereyes,samegentlesmile.
Sameinabilitytohideherduplicitousintentions.
“Didyouhappentofindaplacetostaylastnight?Ifeelsoterribleaboutwhathappened.”
Igrinandtearoffsomecinnamonroll.Theicingclingstomythumb.Ittasteslikesugarandsmalltowngossip.“I’msureyousawthewholethingfrombehindyourdesk,JenniferDavis.Didyoureallycallthephonetreethismorningorareyouscheming?”
Sheblinkstwice,slowandsteady.Shethenproceedstostufftherestofthesconeintohermouth.“Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.”
Idropmychininmyhand.“Mmhmm.”
“Itoldyou—”
“—thekitefestival,yeah.”Ihaven’tseenasinglepersoninthistownwithakite.
“I’llkeepchecking,”shemumblesaroundamouthfulofdensepastryanddriedcranberry.Iofferhertheglassofwateratmyelbow,concernedaboutthecompulsivewayshekeepsswallowing.Shetakesitwithashakyhandanddownsthewholethingintwogulps.“Youneverknowwhatmightturnup.”
“Sure.”
“Betseymighthavealeadonastudioapartment,butIthinkit’sabovethemechanicstation.Probablysmellslikeoil.”
“Probably.”
“AndIknowtheMcGivenssometimesrentouttheirsparebedroom,butIthinkthey’rehostingan…exchangestudent.”
“Makessense.”Itdoesn’tmakeanysense.
“I’llkeepyouupdatedthough!”Sheslipsfromherseatandtakesastepbackwards,closertothedoor.IfIthoughteveryonewaslookingbefore,it’snothingcomparedtotheintense,avidattentionweareattractingnow.Twooftheemployeespeeroutfromthebackkitchen,watchingtheexchange.IthinkGus,oneofthefirefighters,isrecordingthewholethingonhisphone.Jennylaughs—abright,unnaturalthing.“Okay,bye!”
Herponytailhashardlydisappearedfromviewwhenasmallbutsturdyshadowappearsovermyshoulder.
“Thatwomanisfullofshit,”saysMs.Beatrice,hervoicealwayssofterandsweeterthanIexpectittobe.IheardrumorsofheraroundtownbeforeImetherthefirsttime.Thingslike:
Remembernottolookherdirectlyintheeye,and:
Doyouthinkshe’llmakeanyonecrytoday?
SowhenIwalkedintothecafeandsawasmallwomaninafloralapronwithherlonghairpulledupinaloosegraybun,Iwassurprised.
ThenIsawherthrowanemptycanofcoffeeattheSheriffandthingsmadealittlemoresense.
“Yeah,Iknow,”Isigh.IthinkaboutBeckettstandinginthedoorofhissparebedroomlastnight,hisbodyallrigidlineswithafrowntwistedacrosshislips.Hehadlookedaboutsevensecondsawayfromclimbingoutthewindow.“IguessI’llhavetopokearoundmyself.Seeifthereisanywhereelsetostay.”
ThelastthingIwanttodoismakeBeckettuncomfortableinhisownhome.
“Howlongareyouherefor?”
“I’mnotsureyet.”
Ms.Beatricehums,handsflexingonthebackofthechair.Shedoesn’twearanyjewelry,butshedoeshaveatinytattooofasongbirdonthebackofherhand,justaboveherwrist.Inodatit.
“That’sbeautiful.”Delicatelines,atouchofredonoutstretchedwings.Itlookslikeit’sabouttoflyupherarmandrestinthecrookofherelbow.
Sheglancesatitonce,asmileflirtingatherlips.“Novadidit.”
“Nova?”
“Beckett’syoungestsister.”Iblink.Ididn’tevenknowhehadsisters.“ItoldherIwantedBOSSacrossbothknuckles,butwesettledonthisinstead.”
“Well,”Isearchfortherightwords.Shewouldlookprettybadasswithknuckletattoos,andthelookonherfacesayssheknowsit.“Maybeyoucanconvinceherinthefuture.”
Shenods,butdoesn’tbudgeaninch.Iraiseaneyebrow.“IstheresomethingIcanhelpyouwith?”
Aslowsmilecreepsacrossherface.
“Sinceyou’reasking…”
Ms.BeatricewantsanInstagrampage.
ShesawoneofmypostsfeaturingacoffeeshopinNorthCarolina—rowsandrowsofcoffeebeansbehindthecounterandcolorfulribbonhangingfromtheceiling.Walkingintothatlittleshophadbeenlikesteppinginsidearainbow,BobMarleyonthespeakersandsprinklesinmylatte.
“Thatthinghadovertwo-hundredthousandcomments,”shesaysfromthesideofmytable,shovingherphoneinmyface.“Andthebeanslookedcheap.”
Idon’tknowwhatconstitutesacheapbean,butIindulgeher.Wesnapacouplepicturesofherbehindthecounter—afiercelookonherfaceineverysingleone—andsetupherdetails.Iftherainbowshophadanopposite,Ms.B’swouldbeit.Butthere’sacertaincharmtoitnonetheless.Iapplyamoodyfilterandsmileattheresult—afiercewomanholdingaplateofscones,asteamingcoffeepotatherelbow.ShelookslikesomethingoutofGoodfellas.Maybesheshouldgetthoseknuckletattoosafterall.
“Youknowyoucan’tusethisaccounttopubliclyshamepeople,right?”
Asecretsmile.“Nopromises.”
GusandMontycornermeafterthat,askingifIcanswingbythefirehouseandhelpthemwithavideo.Intriguedandamused,Ican’thelpbuttrailafterthemtotheopenbaydoors,musicspillingoutfromthebackoffice.IproceedtowatchthemchoreographasurprisinglyinvolveddancetoJenniferLopez.Montyexplainsafterwithpantingbreathsthatthey’retryingtoraisemoneyforanewambulance.
“Andyou’redoingthatthrough…dance?”Kirstynwouldbedelighted.
Montywinksatme,foreheaddewywithsweat.“Gottagivethepeoplewhattheywant.”
IspotMabelatthedoortothefire-station,armscrossedoverherchestandasmiletickingupthecornerofhermouth.She’sbusylookingatGuslikehe’soneofMs.Beatrice’slattes.
“Evelyn,”shecalls.ShedragsherattentionawayfromGuswipingthesweatfromhisbrowwiththehemofhist-shirtandblinksatme,alittlebitdazed.“Ineedsomehelpwithmywebsite.Doyoumindstoppingbythegreenhouseforasec?”
Thedaycontinueslikethat.AssoonasIfinishupwithoneperson,anotherappearswithaquestionorataskor—abannerforthefarmer’smarketthatneedshangingacrossthefountaininthecenteroftown.Idon’tknowifit’ssmalltownlifeorjustInglewild’sownbrandofwelcomebutI’mpulledwonderfullyandperfectlyoutofmyheadfortheentireday.Noanxietyclawingatmythroat,nopitinmybelly.Idon’twonderonceifthisiswhereI’msupposedtobe,ifIcouldbedoingsomethingbetterordifferent.
I’mjusthere,leaningoverastonefountainwithabitoftwineheldbetweenmyteeth.
“How’sitlook?”IaskAlex,whoisapparentlyinchargeofbannerhanginginadditiontoowningthebookshop.Hegivesmeathumbsupfromtheedgeofthefountain,glassesslippingdownhisnose.
Istepofftheladderandtiltmyheadbacktoreadtheboldloopinglettershandstenciledacrossthecanvas.
WELCOMESPRING
Rightbelowit,inasmallerfont:
SEASONSCHANGEANDSODOWE
Istretchmyarmswidetothesideandwigglemyfingersbackandforth.
Sodowe.
IpullintoBeckett’sdrivewayandsitinmycarforamoment,staringathishouse.Itsuitshim,thisbigcabinattheedgeofthefield.Fadedwoodshingleswarpedbyweatherandtime.Anancientlookingtreetotheleft,itsbranchesreachingoutovertheroof.Awideporchthatwrapsaround,acoupleofrockingchairsnexttothefrontdoor.Asingle,widewindow.Alightoninthecornerofthelivingroom.
IlaughalittleasIletmyselfthroughthefrontdoor,abottleofwinewedgedundermyarmandafamilyofcatsappearingatmyfeet.TheyweavethroughmylegsasIdropmybagnexttoawornwoodentableflakedwithredpaint,anoldbaseballcapontop.Irubmythumbovertheedgeofthebrimandletmyeyestrailoverthewalls,takingineverythingIdidn’tseelastnight.
Istudythecollectionoffamilyphotos,alldifferentsizesinmismatchedframes.Mygazesnagsononeinparticular.Beckettwiththreestunningwomenwhocanonlybehissisters,twosharingalaughwhileBeckettandawomanwithhoneyblondehairgivethecameraalong-sufferinglook.IgrinasIstareatitandimaginethesoundhemakeswhenhe’sfrustrated.Thesighcaughtinthebackofhisthroat.
Myeyesdrifttothecanvaspaintinghanginginthemiddleofallthepictures,thesamecolorsandbroadpaintstrokesastheoneabovethemantle.Abiggoldensun,hanginglazyandfullinthesky.
Thecatsfollowmetothespareroomandmakeanestoutofmyt-shirtsasIchangeintoanoversizedsweaterandwornleggings,thicksocksthatIpulluptojustbelowmyknees.IfBeckettishome,he’sbeingquietaboutit.Ican’thearanythingbesidesthesoftpatteroftinypaws,therustleofcottonandflannel.
OneofthecatsnudgesherheadagainstmythighandIscratchunderherchin.
“Where’syourdad,hm?”
Hiskitchenisasneatastherestofhishouse.Iresisttheurgetogosnooping,insteadtakingineverythingIcanseefromthecounterthatstretchesoutintothecenterofthespace.Anopenbill,ascatteringofloosechangerightnexttoit.Booksstackedontheshelf,pagesdogeared.Acoupleofcoastersoutofplaceonthecoffeetable.
Icollectaglassfromoneofthecabinets,anoldjamjarwithbitsofthelabelstillclingingtotheedgesinpieces.Irubmythumboverthefadedgrapesandshoulderopenthebackdoor,shufflingontothebackporchwherethere’sacouplewide,comfortablelookingchairs.
ThecricketsbegintheireveningsongasIshutthedoorquietlybehindme,acallandresponseofchirpsacrossthewideyard.Ididn’tnoticelastnight,butBecketthasasmallgreenhouseattheveryedge,rightbeforethetreesbegintoclusterintowoodland.Icanseetheshapeofleavesthroughthefoggedwindows,stackedboxesandalongbenchdownthecenter.Atableinthebackwithterracottabalancedinstacks.Iwonderwhathegrowsinthere,ifhelikestospendhiseveningswiththeflowersafterspendingalldaywiththetrees.
ThedwindlinglightmovesacrosstheporchandIpourmyselfaglass.Isipcarefullyandholdmyselftoostill,waitingforthecreakofthefrontdoor,bootsagainsthardwood.Butafteranhourofwatchingthesunsinkinthesky,itbecomesapparentthatBeckettisn’tcominghomeanytimesoon.Ifallbackinthechairwithasigh,thethoughtoddlydisappointing.Isheavoidinghishouse?Orishesomewhereelse?Withsomeoneelse?
Ifrownandcurlmylegsbeneathmeinthechairandwatchthecolorschangeacrossthesky.Cottoncandypink.Vibrantred.Adeep,indulgentviolet.IsitontheporchandIwait.
Butasnightbeginstoedgeacrosstheyardandayawnworksmyjawopenwide,Idecidetocallit.Icollectmyjamjarandthebottlebymyfeetandretreatbackinside,tidyingupsomeofthethingsonthecounterbeforeshufflingdownthehalltothespareroom.
Iclosethedoorbehindme.I’lltalkwithBecketttomorrow.CHAPTEREIGHTEVELYN
Beckettisavoidingme.
ThreedaysandIhaven’tseenasingleglimpseofhim.Iknowhe’sbeencomingandgoing.There’salwaysfreshcoffeeinthepotandahandwrittennoterightnexttoitlistingoutwhatleftoversareinthefridge.Idon’tknowhowhemanagestobesoquietaboutit,butIdon’tcatchhimonce.NotevenwhenIattempttostayuplateonthethirdnight,determinedtotalkwithhim.
InsteadIfallasleeponthecouch,twoofthecatspurringonmylap.Iwakeuparoundmidnightwithablanketdrapedovermeandafreshglassofwateronthecoffeetable.
It’sinfuriating.
“WhereisBecketthiding?”IaskLayla,mypalmspressingpastrydoughintothecountertop.I’vebeenspendingmydayswithLaylaandStella,helpingoutwhereIcan.NeitherofthemlookedsurprisedtoseemewhenIfirstappearedinStella’soffice,soattheveryleast,BecketttoldthemIwashere.
Orthephonetreedid.
Laylahumsandcontinuespipingintricatelayersoficingacrossacookie.Sheleansback,rotatesitonce,andthenbendstocontinue.“Aren’tyoustayingathishouse?”
“Iam,buthe’snot.”Laylamakesanothercontemplativesoundunderherbreath.Ipressmyknucklesintoastubbornbitofdough.“Orhe’sthequietestmanalive.”
“Heisprettyquiet,”Laylaoffers.“OnceIwentthreewholeweekswithouthearinghimsayasingleword.Justgrunts.”Shestraightens,fixesherfaceinafrown,andgruntsfromsomewheredeepinherchest.It’saprettygoodimpressionofBeckett.“He’sprobablytryingtogiveyouspace.He’slikethat.”
“I’dpreferifhewasn’tavoidinghisownhome.”
“Youcouldtrytellinghimthat.”
Iwould.IfIeversawhim.“Ihaven’tseenhiminthreedays.”
Laylagivesmealookoverhertrayofcookies,astreakofbrightbluefrostingonherchin.“Heworkshere,doesn’the?Gofindhim.”
MyforearmsandshouldersaresorebythetimeIdecidetoleavethebakehouse.Itookallofmyfrustrationoutonthedough,andIthinkIrolledoutenoughpiecrusttoblankettheentireacreageofthefarmandthensome.
Itrudgemywaythroughthefields,lettingmypalmspassoverthebristlybranchesoftheChristmastrees.Thefarmisnolessmagicalnowthanitwasduringtheholidayseason,thetreessodenseoutinthefieldsthatIcan’tseethebuildingsorthenarrowroadbeyondit.It’sjustmeandtheevergreens,thesunhighinthesky.Ibreatheindeepthroughmynoseandsmile.
Balsam.Cedar.Freshcutgrassandappleblossoms.
Idon’tfindBeckettoutwiththetreesoralongthefencethatdividesthelandintoneatquadrants,soIchangedirectionandheadtothebarninstead.IpassacoupleoffarmhandsIrecognizefrommylasttripandgivethemawave,amanpassingbywithwhatlookslikeabasketfullofradishes.Ishieldmyeyesagainstthesunwithmyhand.
“HaveyouseenBeckett?”
Themannodsandpointstoasmallerbarnbehindtheonetheyuseforholidaydecorations,thedoorproppedopenwithadiscardedtractorwheel.Finally.IletthefullweightofmyfrustrationguidemywayovertotheshedandIslipthroughthedoor,half-expectinghimtoboltassoonasheseesme.Itwouldbepoetic,inaway,forBecketttorunfrommethistime.
Buthedoesn’trun.Hedoesn’thearmeatall.Istepthroughthedoorintothesmallspacefloodedwithafternoonlightandalmostfaceplantintothewheelbarrowinfrontofme.
Beckettstandsshirtlessinthemiddleoftheroom,botharmsbracedabovehimashewindsathickcoilofropearoundandaroundtwoparallelpegs.Iwatchtheinkonhisarmsshiftandflexwitheveryrotationofhishands,theconstellationsandplanetsonhisleftarmabeautifulcomplimenttotheflowersandvinesonhisright.
Thesmoothskinofhisbackisunmarked,hisspineastrongcolumnflankedwithleanmuscle.Hisbodyisconditionedbywork,hardenedandcutbydaysspentunderthesunandinthefields.Irememberpressingmyfingersintothatwarmskin,howhishipsrolleddownintome,pinningmebeneathhim.
Iswallowhardashedropshisarmsandrollshisshouldersbackwithasigh.Hereachesforat-shirtthrownovertheedgeofalargemetalshelfandIclearmythroat—shiftmyeyesawayfromthespanofhisfirmshoulders.
“Sothisiswhereyou’vebeenhiding.”
Beckettstartlesandknockshisheadonalow-hangingbasketofgardentools.Igetaglimpseoftonedstomachasheturnsandpullshisshirtdowntocoverhimself.ThereminderthatI’vebeeninbedwiththismanislikeastringloopingustogether.ItpullstautandIswayforward,furtherintohisspace.
Herubshisknucklesbehindhisear,hissweat-damphairstickingupeverywhichway.Hishatisbackononeoftheshelves,afadedblacksnapbackwithanOrioleslogowornattheedges.There’saredmarkacrosshisforeheadfromwhereitmusthavebeenpressingintohisskin.Istareatitashelooksatmewithloweredlashes,asheepishlookturninghischeekspink.
Thatbodywiththatface.
Ineverstoodachanceinthatbar,allthosemonthsago.
Istraightenmyspine,gathermyfrustrationclose,andholdontoittightwithbothhands.“Haveyoubeensleepinginthebarn?”Itsnapsoutofmequickasawhip.ApparentlyI’mmoreannoyedaboutitthanIthought.
“No,”heanswers.Hisdeepvoiceisevenandcalm,buthedoesn’tlookmeintheeye.“I’vebeensleepingatthehouse.”
“When?”Ishootback.
“Atnight.”
Isetmyhandsonmyhips.Hiseyesnarrow,studyingthestackofsparetiresbehindmelikeit’sthemostinterestingthinghe’severseen.
“Beckett.”
Hiseyesreluctantlycrawlbacktomine.
“I’vebeengettinginlate.I’vebeen—”hehesitates,soclearlylookingforanexcuseIhavetofightnottorollmyeyes.“I’vegotaproject.”
“Aproject.”
Heshiftsonhisfeetlikeamanwithsomethingtohide.“Yes.”
“Isthatprojectavoidingme?”
“No,”hedrawsoutthewordlikeithasathousandvowelsattheendofit,gazingovermyshoulderattheopendoorwithnakedlonging.Ibethe’sfantasizingaboutrunningrightoutintothehills.“It’s—well,it’scomplicated.”
Thisconversationisridiculous.“Tryme.”
Heopenshismouthandnothingcomesout.Idon’tthinkI’veeverseensomeoneatsuchalossforwords.
“It’saduck,”hefinallymanages
Agroupoffarmhandswalkpasttheopendoor,theirlaughtercarryingintothesmallspace.IblinkatBeckettandhestaresrightback.Isheserious?“Awhat?”
“I’mtryingtofigureoutwhereIcanputaduck,”hemumbles.HiswordsaretuckedunderhisbreathandIhavetostraintohearwhathe’ssaying.
“Andyoucanonlydothatinthemiddleofthenight?”
“Ah,Idon’t—”Heletshisarmsfallbyhissides.Ifocusonthevinetattoothatcurlsfromhiswristandaroundhisbroadforearm,allthewaytohiselbow.Therearesmallwhiteflowersonit,anewadditionsincethelasttimeIsawhim.“Ithoughtyou’dpreferitthatway.”
“YouthoughtI’dpreferyousneakingaround?”
Henods.
“WhendidIgiveyouthatimpression?”
Hedoesn’tsayanythinginresponse,handsclenchingathissides.Isighandpresstwofingersagainsttheever-presentheadachebetweenmyeyes.
“I’vebeentryingtotalktoyou,”Iexplain.“IfoundarentalinRehoboth.Icanbeoutofyourplaceintwodays,onceitbecomesavailable.”
It’llbeapaintodrivebackandforthfromthecoast,butit’sbetterthan—whateverthisis.
Hisfacecrumplesinconfusion.“You’releaving?”
Idon’tunderstandwhyhecares,consideringhe’sseenmeforacombinedtwenty-eightminutessinceI’vearrivedandhe’s—hidinginstoragesheds,apparently.Inodandslipmyhandsintomybackpockets,rockingbackonmyheels.
Heconsidersmequietly.Hereinthemutedlight,hiseyeslookmossgreen.Darkanddeep.“Didyoufindyourhappy,then?”
“What?”
Hetakesastepforwardandreachesforatowel,wipinghishandsonitwithquick,practicedmovements.Hiswholefaceisangledlines,afrowntwistingeverythingdown.“Thefirstnightyouwerehere,yousaidsomethingaboutlookingforyourhappy.Didyoufindit?”
I’msurprisedheremembers,butIguessIshouldn’tbe.Becketthasalwaysbeengoodwiththedetails.
“Bitsofit.”GusandMontydancingatthefire-station.Asausageandcreamcheesebiscuit.ThesmelloffreshbloomingjasmineatMabel’sgreenhouse
Handwrittennotesnexttothecoffeemachine.
Hegivesmeacriticallook.“Youdon’tsoundsureofit.”
“BecauseI’mnot,”Isay.Istilldon’thaveanswerstothequestionsbuzzinginthebackofmyhead.Istilldon’thaveasolutiontomyburnoutproblem.“ButI’mnotgoingtohaveyousneakingaroundyourownhousewhileIfiguremystuffout.”Ishruguponeshoulder.“TheplaceinDelawareisfine.”
Becketttosseshistowelbackonthemetalshelfandpropshishandsonhiships.Iknowhe’snotdoingitonpurpose,buthisarmsflexwiththemovement,hisinkedbicepsstrainingatthesleevesofhist-shirt.Ihavenoideawhathewasdoingthatcausedhimtosweatsomuch,butI’dliketopenathankyounote.
“Stayhere,”hesaysinhisgruffvoice—hisbossyvoice—avoicethat’susedtogettingwhatitwantsouthereonthefarm.Hishandrubsathisjaw,hisfingertipsfannedoutunderhislefteye.Helookstired.“Stayatthehouse.I’llstop—“
“Avoidingme?Beingweird?”Ithinkforasecond,voicingasuspicion.“Sleepinginyourgreenhouse?”
“Ihaven’tbeensleepinginmygreenhouse.”
Okay,well.He’sbeendoingthoseotherthings.
“Iwon’tstayhereifit’slikethis,”Itellhimquietly,thefightdrainingoutofme.“Ididn’tcomeheretomesswithyourlife.Iwantedalittleperspectiveandthisseemedlikethebestplaceforit.”
NowI’mnotsosure.I’vebeentopsy-turvysinceIsetfootinInglewild.
“Stay,”hesaysagain,andhenodstowardstheopendoor.Someoftheapprehensionmeltsoutofhiseyes.There’sasoftnessthere,abitofunderstanding.Forasecond,he’sthatmanfromMaineagain.Theonethattangledhisfingersinmyhairandpressedhislipssosweetlytomine.Butthenheblinksandtherecognitionisgone.
Hegrabshishatofftheshelf.
“I’vegottawrapupafewthingsandthenI’llcomeuptothehouse.Iwon’tbe—”asmiletwitchesatthecornersofhislips.“Iwon’tbeweird.”
Truetohisword,Beckettappearsaboutanhourlater.Iheartherollofgravelinthedrivewayandtheheavystompofbootsuptheporchstepsbeforeheswingsthroughthefrontdoor,aguardedlookonhisfacewhenhespotsmesittingathiskitchentable.Irestmychininmyhandandwatchashetoeshisbootsoffandplacesthemcarefullynexttomine.
“I’mmakingsoup,”hetellsme.
Hesaysitlikeheexpectsafight.
“Okay.”
Hetakestwoslowstepsdownthehallway,closertothekitchen.“It’sMarylandcrab.”
“Thatsoundsnice.”
Heeyeballsmeasheopensthefridge,onearmbracedonthedoor,palmflatagainstthefreezer.Itrynottonoticethestretchofhist-shirt.“You’renotallergictoshellfish,areyou?”
It’sstrangethatIknowwhatthismansoundslikewhenhecomesandtheshapehisfingertipsleaveonmyhips,butwhenitcomestothesimplethings—allergies,coffee-to-creamerratio,sockfoldingpreference—we’rebothflailinginthedark.
Adifferentkindofintimacy,Isuppose.
“I’mnotallergictoshellfish.”
“Good.”Heduckshisheaddownintothefridgeandbeginstopullthingsout—tomatoes,onions,chickenstock,twocontainersofcrabmeat,astalkofcelery—andstacksthemonthecounter.Hedropsacuttingboard,aknife,andanonioninfrontofme.
“Canyoucutthis?”
Inodandletoursilencefillthespacebetweenus.Apotsizzlesonthestove.Myknifesnicksagainstthecuttingboard.Beckettmuttersunderhisbreathaboutpisspoorceleryquality.
“Fortherecord,”Ioffer,inbetweenchops.“You’rebeingalittleweird.”
Asmilequirksonhismouthandhiseyescuttomine.Itfeelslikeapeaceoffering,likeastepintherightdirection.
“Fortherecord,I’mnottryingtobe.”
Wefindourrhythm.
BeckettspendshisdaysonthefarmandIspendmydaysintown,wanderinginandoutofshops,watchingtouristsgeticecream,helpingMs.Beatricecuratecontentforheronehundredandthirtysevenpassionatefollowers.Idisconnectmyemailandallmysocialaccountsandletmyselfbreathe…forthefirsttimeinalongtime.
Noplan.Noschedule.
Justmeandwhateverstrikesmyinterestfortheday,whetherit’shelpingre-shelvenewpaperbacksatthebookstoreorlearninghowtocleantheespressomachineatthecafe.Iholdmyselftoabsolutelynoproductivitystandards.Iletmyselfbe.
Intheevenings,IfindmywaybacktoBeckett’scabinandwaitforhimathiskitchentable,anabandonedbookofcrosswordpuzzlesI’veclaimedasmyownatmyelbow.Hedeclareswhathe’smakingassoonasheseesme,andsilentlyhandsmeacuttingboardoramixingbowlorapotatopeelertohelp.Everydayisexactlythesameandthere’sacomfortinthat.Inthewayhissmilesslowlygetatouchwider.Inthelowrumbleofhisvoiceoverthehissofthefryingpan.
Wesitathistableandweeatourmeal,andIwashourdishesafter.
It’snice,ifnotalittleconfusing.
Tonight,Idecidetoupsettherhythm.
I’mwaitingonthebackporchwithtwosteamingbowls,nestledinthechairI’mstartingtothinkofasmyownwhenIhearhimpullupinthedriveway.Thefrontporchstairscreak,thethirdonefromthetopmakingasoundofprotestasheclambershiswayup.Thedoorshutsbehindhimandhisstepsstuttertoanabruptstopinthehallway.
Ahesitantvoice.“Evelyn?”
“Outhere.”
Ilistenashemovesaroundthehouse,acomfortinthesoundsofhimsettling.Waterfromthefaucet.Hisjacketonthehook.ThebackscreencreaksopenandItiltmyheadback.
Standingtherelikethat,fingerscurledloosearoundtheneckofabeerbottle,faceangleddowntowardsmine—abitofdirtonhisbrowandonthebackofhishand—helookslikeeveryflickerofawarmthoughtI’vehadinthepastsixmonths.
Asoftandsteadyglow,burningundermyskin.
“Youmadedinner?”Heleansoverslightlytogetalookatmybowl.Inodtowardstheemptyseatnexttomeandthedishthat’swaitingforhimonthetableinbetween.
“Mmhmm,”Ihum.“Oneofmymom’srecipes.Ihopeyoulikespice.”
Hiseyesflareintosomethingheatedandsharp.Arecollection,asharedmemory.Hismouthbelowmyearandhisbigpalmatmythigh.Iwatchashetucksitaway,settlinghisfaceintosomethingflat.
Hemightnotbeinthattinyshedanymore,buthe’sstillhidingfromme.
“You’reinmyseat,”hetellsme.
Itakealongpullfrommyjamjarwineglassandholdeyecontact.Ihavenointentionofmoving.Justlikethecrosswordpuzzlebookandtheextra-softtowelIhavehanginginthesparebathroom,I’veclaimedthesethingsasmine.He’llhavetofightmetogetthemback.
Hesnortsalaughandmovesaroundmetocollapseinthechairtomyleft.Heletsoutagroanashedoes,hislongbodystretchingoutinalazycurve,onelegkickedwide.Hedropshisheadagainstthebackofthechairandreachesforhisbowl,lookingatmewithahazysortofsoftness.
“Thanksforthis,”herasps.“It’snicetocomehometodinner.”
“Youshouldfeelhonored,”Itellhim,forkingabiteoffoodinmymouth.“I’vemadethisdinnerforexactlytwootherpeople.”
Hiseyesnarrow.“Who?”
Iswallowandreachformyglass.“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Whodidyoumakethisfor?”
“Josie,”Iofferslowly.Ithinkforasecond.“Josie’smom.”
Herelaxesintohischairandgrabshisbowl,pokingaroundattherice.“Thankyou,”hemuttersagain,barelylookingatme.
“It’snoproblem.”Ikeepwatchinghim,atthewayhisjawworkswhenhetakesabite.“It’stheleastIcando.”
Ihadofferedtopayhimrentonmyfifthnighthere.BecketthadgivenmealooksoaffrontedIdidn’tbotherbringingitupagain.
WeeatinsilenceandIletmyselfwonderifthisiswhathedoeseverynightafteralongdayinthefields.Sunsetsonthebackporchinhissocks.Hisflannelsleevesrolledupandabeerathiselbow.Ihavethesudden,confusingurgetosmoothhishairbackfromhisforehead.Getupfromthischairandgotohis,slideontohislapandtuckmyheadunderhischin.
Thatwastheproblem,Ithink,inthatlittleroominMaine.ItwaswaytooeasytoimaginebeingwithBeck.Towantformore.
Iclearmythroatanddecidetotacklethereasonforthislittlemeal.“Idon’tknowforsurehowlongIplantostay.”
Helooksupatme,eyebrowsraised.“Okay.”
“Probablyacoupleofweeks,Ithink.”Thatshouldbeenoughtimeformetogetmyheadonstraight.Ifit’snot—well.I’llcrossthatbridgewhenIgettoit.
Herollshisheadbacktolookoutoverthetrees.“That’sfine.”
“Yousureyoudon’tmind?”
Heshakeshishead,fingersflexingonhisfork.“Notifyoukeepmakingchickenlikethis.”
Ihesitatebeforemynextquestion.Ifeellikeanidiotforasking,butIdon’twantanysurprises.It’ssomethingIshouldhaveaskedsooner,honestly.“Thereisn’tanyonethatwouldbeupsetaboutmestayinghere?”
Heturnstolookatmeagain.“Whowouldbeupsetaboutit?StellaandLaylaobviouslyknowyou’rehere.”Hespearsanotherpieceofchicken.“Didn’ttellthemwhythough.”
That’sgood,becauseIdon’tevenknowtheanswertothat.Ionlyknowthatitfeelsgoodtositonthiscomfychaironhisbackporchwithmykneestuckedtomychest.“I’maskingifyou’reseeinganyone,Beckett.Andifthiswillcomplicatethingsforyou.”
“Oh.”Abrushofcolordancesoverhischeeks,thesameexactshadeasthesunmeltingintothehorizon.“No.”
No.That’sit.That’sallhesays.Hetipshisbeertohismouthandswallowsheavily.One,two,threegulpsinarow.
“What’syourplanfortomorrow?”
Alright,then.
“Idon’thaveone,”Ianswerhonestly.Istretchoutmylegsandflexmyfeetbackandforth.Backandforth.Isquintmyeyeandtouchmytoetotheverytopofthegreenhouse.“IthoughtitwasprettyapparentIdon’thaveanysortofplan.”
“You’vealwaysgotaplan,”hetellsme.“Evenwhenitfeelslikeyoudon’t.”
That’sfair.I’vehadaplansinceIwassixteenyearsold.TheYouTubechannel,thencollege,thenaprogramatPratt.Ideviatedslightlywhenmydreamofworkingatabignamepublicationdidn’tworkout,anddecidedtomakemyownplatforminstead.I’vebeenpursuingthateversince.
Notlettingmyselfbreathesince.
“Newterritory,Iguess,”Isay,forcingmyvoicetobelightandignoringtheswarmofuneasethatsettleseverytimeIthinkaboutwork.“Forsomeonewhopostscutepicturesallday.”
Hemakesasoundunderhisbreath.Afrustratedhuff.Idropmyfootbackdowntotheporchandlookathim.
“Stopdoingthat,”hefinallysays
“What?”
“Makingyourselfseemsmallerthanyouare.”Hedoesn’tbothertoelaborate.Hishandfindshisbeerbottleagainandhetapshisthumbthereonce.Heheavesoutagustingsigh.“Whatareyoudoinghere,Evelyn?”
“Imissedthetrees,”Itellhim.
“Tryagain.”
“You’reright.ImissedLayla’spepperminthotchocolate.”
“Morebelievable.”Heturnsinhisseatuntilhecanfixmewithagazethatoffersnoroomforteasingremarks.Itdemandsthetruth,andallofit.Rightnow.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
Ireachforthewinebottlebymyfeetandpourmyselfaglassthatredefinesthetermheavypour
“Idon’tknow.IjustknowthatIfeltstuck,andthiswasthefirstplacethatpoppedintomyheadwhenIthoughtabouttakingabreak.IthinkI’mlookingfor—“Ithinkaboutstandinginthemiddleofthefield,pinetreesallaroundme.“IthinkI’mreevaluating.ToseeifwhatI’mdoingisstilltherightfit.”
Iwatchthetreebranchesliftwiththebreeze,tinygreenbudsstartingtoappear.Everythingwillbeinbloomsoon,thefieldsburstingwithcolor.Ismile.IbetitlooksjustlikethelightsonaChristmastree.
“Iwantedtobeajournalist,youknow?IthoughtI’dworkforNationalGeographicormaybeTheNewYorkTimes.Somethingamazing.”Theconfessiontripsoffmytongueeasilyenough,loosenedbywineandthesmelloffreshearth.Springrainanddirt.“Iwantedtotravelsobadly.Seealltheplacesfromthosefeatures.IgotintothemediastudiesprogramatPrattandIthoughtI’dmadeit.IwassosureI’dbeabletolandagoodjobaftergraduation.ButIdidn’t.Ikeptgoingtointerviewswithmyportfolioanditwasalwaysthesame.Toowhimsical.Toolighthearted.”Ishrugandrememberonepainfulinterview,whereawomanwithahighcollarflickedhereyesupanddownmyarmsandtoldmeIdidn’thavetherightlookforon-camerawork.“Toobrown.”
Beckettshiftsinhisseat,thewoodcreakingunderhisweight,butIdon’tlookathim.Ican’t.
“Iwenthometolickmywoundsandmyparentswerehavingtroublewiththeirshop.TheyownaboutiqueinPortland.Theysell—allsortsofstuff,really.Alllocallysourcedandproduced.IhadaYouTubechannelwithadecentfollowingthatIplayedaroundwith.ButImadesomevideosformyparentsanditjust—tookoff.Therestishistory.”
Itallsnowballedfromthere.Trafficincreasedforthestore.Myaccountsbegantoattractattention.Istartedboppingaroundmyoldneighborhood,talkingtopeople.Askingabouttheirbusinessandwhattheyweredoing.Theirpassions.Theirinterests.Justeverydaypeopledoingincrediblethings.
Idon’tknowwhenIstopped.Orwhy
IglanceatBeckettoutofthecornerofmyeyewhenhedoesn’tsayanything.“Iknowyouthinkit’sstupid,butsocialmediahelpsmeconnect.It’slikehavingaconversationonamassivescale.Ireallyamtryingtohelppeople.”
Helooksstartled.“What?”
“I’mnotjustpostingpicturesallday.There’sastrategybehindit.Planning.”Anever-endingcycleofcontent.Acrushingdesireformore,more,more.Unsolicitedopinionsandcriticism
“Iknowthat.”He’slookingatmelikehedoesn’tunderstandthewordscomingoutofmymouth.LikeIjustjumpedoutofthischairandslappedachickensuitonandstarteddoingtheMacarena.“Idon’tthinkwhatyoudoisstupid.”
Iblinkathim.“Yes,youdo.”
“No,Idon’t.”
“Yes,youdo.Yousaidso.”
“When?”
“WhenIwasstayinghereinNovember.WhenIwasheretoevaluatethefarm.”WhenhefiguredoutwhoIreallywasandlookedatmelikeIwasn’tworthhistime.
Hefrowns.“Ineversaidanythingaboutyourjobbeingstupid.”
“Yes,youdid.”
“Evelyn.No,Ididn’t.”Hedragshispalmdownhisface.“HowcouldIthinkyourjobisstupid?Lookwhatitdidforus.Forthetown.”
“Oh.”Alrightthen.Ihavenoresponsetothat.
Istareoutattheyardandtrytorememberthespecificsofthatconversation.Beckettinterruptswithaquestion
“Whereareyoulooking?”
“Forwhat?”Iwanttothumbbetweenhiseyebrowsuntilthatlinedisappears.Hespendstoomuchtimefrowning.
“Foryourhappy.Wheredoyouthinkyou’llfindit?”
“Idon’tknow.”Icurlmyhandaroundmyglassuntilthecondensationticklesmypalm.I’mbusythinkingaboutmyanswerwhenhefindsoneforme.
“CauseIthinkit’sstillintheresomewhere.”Hegesturesinmygeneraldirectionwithhisbottle.“Youwouldn’tglowlikethatifitwasn’t.”
Hefinisheshisdrinkandplacesitdownbyhisfeet,andthentiltshisheadtolookbackoutatthefieldslikewhathesaiddidn’tslammerightinthechest.“It’sokayifittakesyousometimetofinditagain.Andit’sokayifyoufinditjusttoloseabitofithereandthere.That’sthebeautyofit,yeah?Itcomesandgoes.Noteverydayisahappyoneanditshouldn’tbe.It’sinthetrying,Ithink.”
Iclearthecobwebsoutofmythroat.“Tryingtobehappy?”
“No.”Heshakeshisheadonce.“Thatdoesn’twork.Tryingtobehappyislike—it’sliketellingaflowertobloom.”Hecrosseshisanklesanddragshispalmagainsthisstubble.“Youcan’tmakeyourselfbehappy.Butyoucanbeopentoit.Youcantrustyourselfenoughtofeelitwhenyoustumbleonit.”
Istareathim.Stareandstareandstare.
“You’renotwhatIexpected,BeckettPorter.”Notnow.NotthelasttimeIsawhim.AndnotthathazyeveninginMaine,whenhewalkedinadoorlikehe’dbeenlookingformeforever.
OneofthecatswandersoutfromthehouseandjumpsintoBeckett’slap,settlingonhisthighwithawideyawn.Hedropsaheavyhandoverherbackandsmoothsitgentlydownoversoftfur.Hissmileisalmostshywhenhelooksatme.
“Rightbackatyou.”CHAPTERNINEBECKETT
Iwakeupfacedowninmybed,twocatsburrowedbetweenmyshoulderbladesandmyphonevibratingonthenightstand.Igroanandfightnottoflingthedamnthingrightoutthewindow.IwashavingadreamaboutEvelynandthosesocksshewaswearingonthebackporch—theonesthatgoallthewayuptoherknees.Inmydream,shewasonlywearingthosesocks,acoysmileonherdarkredlips.
I’macreatureofhabit,andIcanfeelmyselfmakingnewhabitswithEvelyninmyspace.I’musedtohavingherherenow—Ilikeit,even.Ilikehearinghermovearoundontheothersideofthehouseinthemiddleofthenight,amuffledcurseunderherbreathwhensherunsintosomethinginthedark.Ilikelisteningtohertalktothecats,argumentswithPranceraboutwhohasarighttothebigfluffyscarfsheloopsaroundherneck.Ilikehershoesinthehallwayandherbagononeofthehooksbythedoor.Hertubeoflipstickonthekitchencounterandherhairtiesforgottenontheedgeofthesink.
IrolloverinbedandCometandVixenvoicetheirprotest,findinganotherplaceintheblanketstocurlupin.IdigtheheelsofmypalmsintomyeyesuntilIseespots.
Ishouldn’tlikeanything.
Icertainlyshouldn’tlikedreamingabouther.Prettysurethatcrossessomesortoflineinthetremulousfriendtrucewe’veslowlypiecedtogether.
Butmybrainhasn’tgottenthememo.Everynightisafree-for-allofvividfantasies.Evelyninthegianttub,bubblesslidingdownherneck.Evelyninthekitchen,bentovermycountertop.Evelynupagainstthebookshelfbythefireplace,herhandscurlingaroundtheedges.
MyphonevibratesagainandIblindlyslaparoundmynightstand.Predawnlightflirtswiththeedgesofmywindowinashadowofgray.
4:32am
Nessa:You’reneededattriviathisweek.
Nessa:Idon’twanttohearasinglecomplaintorexcuse.
Nessa:Oneofthecategoriesisbotany.
Ifrownatmyphone.
4:41am
Beckett:Whatareyoudoingupsoearly?
Beckett:Andno.
Myfamilyhasatriviateamforthebar’smonthlycompetitions.They’rescarycompetitiveaboutit.HarperalmostthrewachairthroughthefrontwindowwhenshegotaquestionwrongaboutBoyzIIMen.
4:42am
Nessa:Earlyrehearsalbeforework.
Nessa:Youhave72-hourstocometotermswiththisreality.Harpercan’tmakeit.
Irackmybrainforanappropriateexcuse.
4:43am
Beckett:I’mnotregistered.
Iknowforafactallteammembersneedtoberegisteredatthestartofthetriviaseason.CalebhadtointerveneinadisputelastyearwhenGusandMontypulledLukainfortheBruceWilliscategorywithoutanyclearance.
Isitupinbedandswingmylegsovertheedge,thefloorboardscoldbeneathmyfeet.It’sbeenunseasonablychillythisMarch.Iglanceatthewindow,andthenbackdowntomyphonewhenitbuzzesagain.
4:45am
Nessa:Oh,sweetbrotherofmine.
Nessa:Weregisteryoueveryyearforexactlythisreason.
Nessa:Nowisyourtimetoshine.
Nessa:ThecategoryisBOTANY.
4:47am
Beckett:Ourfatherisalsoafarmer.
4:49am
Nessa:Seeyouthisweekend.
Idon’tbotherwitharesponse.IknowifIdon’tshowuptotrivia,Nessawillappearatmyhouse—probablywithHarper—andphysicallydragmetherekickingandscreaming.It’shappenedbeforeandit’lllikelyhappenagain.
Idon’tlikegoingtotrivia.Idon’tlikespendingmytimeinacrowdedroomthatsmellslikebeerandhotwings,atelevisiononineverycornerandanoldrecordplayerthatanyonecanchangewhenevertheywant.Forsomeinsanereason,JesselovesplayingABBA.It’soverwhelming,andatleastsevenpeopletrytotalktomeeverytime.
Igothroughthemotionsofgettingreadyfortheday,theedgesofmydreamclingingtomythoughts.Inmydream,Ihadbeentracingthegentleslopebetweenhershoulderandneck,myfingertracingsoftbrownskin.Ishuffledownthehallwaywhilepullingmyflannelovermyshouldersandindulge.WouldshestilltastelikecitrusifIpressedmytonguetoherskin?Wouldshestillhiccupmyname?
Theclinkofthecoffeepotdistractsme,awarmglowoflightcomingfromthekitchen.
Evelynstandswithherbacktomeatthecounter,Prancernuzzlingherheadintoherhip.Shehumsandpetsherhanddownthecat’sback,whisperingsomethingwithalaughasPrancerpushesharderintoher.Iglanceatthecountertop.Twomugssittingout,steamingwithcoffee.
Myheartgivesaheavythumpinmychest.
“Morning,”IgreetandEvelynturnstoglanceatmeoverhershoulder,hairswingingaroundherface.Withhereyesstillheavyandayawnmakinghernosescrunch,she’sbetterthananydreamIcouldevercomeupwith.Soft.Sleepy.
Perfect.
“Morning,”shesaysback,voicealittlescratchyattheedges.Irememberitgetslikethatwhenshefirstwakesup,bodylazybeneaththesheets.Iclearmythroatandcontinuefasteningmyshirt,hergazestuckonwheremyhandsworkatmybuttons,thethinstripofbareskinthatisexposed.Ifeelthetouchofhereyeslikeafingertipagainstmyskin,startingbelowmycollarbonesandteasingslowlydown.Apulseofheatpoundsonceatthebaseofmyspine.
“What’reyoudoingup?”Imakemyselfask.MyvoicesoundslikeI’veswallowedabagofrocks.
Hertongueswipesatherbottomlipassheturnsherbackandgrabsthetwomugsfromthecountertop.Iwishshewouldkeepstaringatme,wishshewouldpressherhandsbeneaththisflannelanddighernailsintomyskin.
Shehandsmeamug,herfingertipsbrushingmineasIcurlmyhandaroundwarmceramic.
“I’mcomingwithyoutoday.”Shebringshermugtoherlips.“I’dliketoseewhatyoudo.Wouldthatbealright?”
Inod.ShecouldtellmetoputonahotdogcostumeanddothemerenguedownthefrontstepsandI’dprobablyagree.
“Yeah,that’salright.”
“You’resure?”Iaskforwhatfeelsliketheeighty-seventhtimesinceweleftthecabintwentyminutesago.Shegivesmealookoverhershovellikeshe’sbeencountingtoo,entirelyunamused.
“WhydoyouthinkIcan’thandlemanuallabor?”
Iscratchatthebackofmyheadroughly,squintingoutoverthefields.Thetransplantswillbeheresoonforplanting,andwe’llbeallhandsondeckfordigday.Iprefertodigbyhand(likealunatic,asLaylalikestosay)andofcourse,Stellahasmadeitintoathing.Music,snacks,abunchofpeoplewhoarefranklyunhelpfulwiththewholeprocess.Calebmightbeagooddeputy,buthedigsthemostlopsidedholesI’veeverseeninmylife.
ButitmakesStellahappy,sodigdayitis.
We’redoingspacingtoday,markingthedistancebetweeneachtree.It’llbeeasierforpeopletodigifeverythingisalreadyplacedwhereitshouldbe.IlearnedthatthehardwaywhenCharliethoughtitwouldbe“cool”tomakehisown“privateforest”inthelastfieldwedid.Inowhaveseveralclumpsoftreesgrowingwaytooclosetooneanother,throwingoffthebalanceofthewholething.
“Justtellmewhatyouneedmetodo,”Evelyncommands,andmybrainimmediatelyoffersseveraldetailedsuggestions.Shesnapsherfingersinfrontofmyface.“Instruction,farmerboy.”
Ihesitateandhereyesnarrowintoslits.Iforgothowdemandingshecanbe.
IforgothowmuchIlikeit.
“Youdon’tthinkawomancandowhatamandoes?”Iflookscouldkill,I’dbesixfeetunder.
“No,”Ireply,amused.“Awomancandowhatamandoesandmakeitlookeasy.”
Hereyesnarrowfurther.“Don’tpandertome.”
“I’mnot,”Ilaughandareluctantsmilebloomsonherprettylips.“Mysistercouldkickmyass.Allofmysisterscouldkickmyass.I’mnotashamedtosayit.Theyusedtobeatupthekidsthatmadefunofmeatschool.”
PoorBrianHargravesneversawNessacoming.OnesecondhewaslobbingkernelsofcornatthebackofmyheadasIwalkedtowardsthebusandthenextNessahadspearedhimtothegroundlikeshewasanMMAfighter.
ThesmilewobblesonEvelyn’sface.“Kidsmadefunofyouatschool?”
Havingtroubletalkingtootherpeoplecombinedwithworkingonafarmmademeaneasytarget.Itwasneveranythingtoomalicious.Easyenoughtoblockout.
AndeveryonestoppedtalkingshitwhenIsuddenlygrewsixinchesmyjunioryear,mybodybulkingupfromearlymorningsattheproducefarm.
Iclearmythroatandnodtowardsthefieldofdirtstretchedoutbehindus.Soonenoughitwillbedottedwithsmallbundlesofgreen,theyoungesttreeswe’veeverhad.They’llgrowhereforfiveyearsbeforethey’llbereadyfortheirhomesinfrontoffireplacesandinlargewindows,decoratedwithtinselandlights.
“Digashallowshovel-fulleverysixsteps.”Iglanceatherlonglegsandconsider.ShepointshertoelikearunwaymodelandIswallowaroundanotherlaugh.IswearI’veneverlaughedsomuchinmylife.“Fiveandahalfsteps.”
“See.”Sheheftstheshovelupandoverhershoulder.“Thatwasn’tsohard,wasit?”
Shetakesofftowardthefarsideofthefield,ponytailswingingbehindher.Iwatchasshestopsattheveryedge,digshershovelintotheearth,andneatlytossesittotheside.Fiveandhalfstepsforward.Again.
Idon’tknowwhatitsaysaboutmethatI’mgettingturnedonbyawomanshovelingdirt.Probablynothinggood.
“Oh,sweet,”Jeremysuddenlyappearsatmyshoulderandwhatevertraceofarousaltuggingatmedissipatesimmediately.Iclenchmyteeth.“There’ssomeonenew?Idon’thavetoshovelrocksanymore.Excellent.”
HeholdsuphisfistformetopoundandIstareathim.
“Youshoveledrocksfortwodays.”
Andonlybecausehetoldmehestrainedhiswristthethirdmorning.HecomplainedenoughthatIrippedtheshovelrightoutofhishands.
“Twodaystoolong,bro.”
IhandhimmyshovelandpointintheoppositedirectionofwhereEvelynisworking.ThelastthingsheneedsisJeremybeing…Jeremyaroundher.Hesquintsatherinthedistance,herspinecurvedovertheshovel.Shepressesherboottotheblade,pivotsdown,andliftswithhershoulder.Imakeapainedsoundundermybreath.
“Shit,dude.Ohmygod.Ohmigod.”Jeremybobblesthetoolinhishands.“Isthat—holyshit,bro—isthatEvelynSt.James?”
Idon’tevenknowhowhecantellwhosheisfromthisfaraway.She’swearingthickathleticpantsthatmoldtohercurveslikeasecondskinandanoversizedwhitet-shirt.AsweatshirtovertopwithastitchedoutlineofHalfDomeonthebottomedge.Shecouldn’tbemoreinconspicuousifshetried.
Thoughthepantscertainlyleaveanimpression.I’msurethey’llhaveastarringroleinmydreamstonight.Iwanttosmoothmypalmsovertheshinymaterial,tugthewaistbandwithmyteeth
“Whatthehellisshedoinghere?Ohmygod.”Jeremybendsatthewaistandpresseshispalmstohisknees.“Doyouthinkshe’lldoavideowithme?Ohmygod.”
“Whatisthatsoundyou’remaking?”It’sawheezingnoise,highpitchedandirregular.“Doyouneedwater?”
“Ineedmycellphone,”hepants,reachingintohisjeanspocketandthenhiscoat.Whenhecan’tfindwhathe’slookingfor,heturnspanickedeyesmyway.“Dude,myphoneisn’there.”
“Doyounormallybringyourphoneoutherewithyou?”
Henodsslowly.“GottafeedtheGram,youknow?”
Idon’tknow.Ihavenoideawhathe’stalkingabout.
“Earlymorninglightingisdope.ThehoneyshavebeenlightinguptheDMssinceIstartedworkinghere.Youmightactuallybeontosomething.Isthatwhyallthewomenintownlosetheirshitwhenyourollup?”
“Noonelosestheirshit.”
Ifanything,Igetalotofstaresandafewwhispers,butthat’sprobablybecauseIdon’tbothershowinguptoanything.Nessa’sinvitationtotriviafeelslikeaburrcaughtinmyshoe.
“Sure,dude.Whateveryousay.”Heslapsmeonthebackandturnstoheadbacktothelotwherehismom’scarisparked.“I’llberightback.Gottagrabmyphone.”
IgrabhimbythescruffofhisneckbeforehecangotoofarandpushhimintheoppositedirectionofEvelyn.“Starthereinstead.Youcangetyourphoneafter.”
Hepoutsatme.“Yoursenseofresponsibilityissuperinspiringandall,but—”
Ishakemyhead.“Digyourholes,andthenyou’respendingthemorningwithStellainheroffice.”
Heperksupatthat.“Yeah?”
Yeah.Stelladoesn’tthinkallthemanuallaborisconducivetoshapinghimintoanupstandingyoungadult.Orsomething.Shewantshimtospendtimeintheofficewithher,seehowwerunthingsfromthebusinessside.Youprobablydon’teventalktohim,doyou?
NotifIcanhelpit,Itoldher.
Ipointoutintothedistance.“Offyougo.”
Hegivesmeapetulantlook.“Iseehowitis.Putthewomanandtheminortoworkwhileyoukickback.Iseeyou,bossman.”Hesplitshisfingersandpointsathiseyesandthenmine.
Thisfuckingkid.
JeremydragshimselftohiscornerandIspareaglanceinEvelyn’sdirection.Iwatchassheswipesthebackofherarmacrossherbrow,herhandscurlingaroundthebottomedgeofhersweatshirtandlifting.Iseeaflashofbrownskin,thetopedgeofthosetightpants.
Ipickuptheotherdiscardedshovelandturntothesoutheastcorner.
“Didyourparentsteachyouhowtoplant?”
Sal’slaughboomsoutofhim,hishandsbusypluckinggreenbeansfromthestemasheanswersEvelyn’squestion.“No.Absolutelynot.Mydadisamechanicandmymotherkillseverythingshetouches.Idon’tletheranywherenearmyhouseplantswhenshevisits.”
Igruntandjerkataplanttooroughly,acoupleofleavescomingwiththegreenbeans.It’sbeenlikethisallday.Evelynhasbeenuncoveringthelifestoryofeveryoneshemeets,charmingthemwithhersmilesandherlaughuntilthey’reputtyinherhands.ShespottedJeremyacrossthefieldduringdiggingthismorningandwaved.Tenminuteslater,andtheslylittleshitwasbellylaughingwithher,neitherofthemdiggingasinglehole.Barneycamerumblingupwithhistractorandafterafive-minuteconversationwheresheproppedherhipagainstthewheelwell,hewasblushingandinvitinghertopokernight.
Sheisbrightlaughterandeasysmiles.Genuineinterestandaffectionthatleavesyoufeelinglikeyou’refloatingwiththeclouds.That’sthemagicofEvelyn,Iguess.Sheshinessobrightshecastseveryonearoundherinthatsameglow.
Iwanttofeelthatlight,too.ButallI’vegottenishesitantsmilesandacarefullymaintainedbitofspacebetweenus.
Evelynglancesatthecollectionofleavesandbeansstrangledinmyhands.She’sgotdirtuptoherelbowsandonthecurveofherjaw,hairfallingoutofhersmoothponytail.
Shelooksbeautiful.
“Everythingalright?”
Igiveintotemptationandreachoutmyhand,thumbingatastubbornstreakofmudjustunderherchin.EverythingwouldbealrightifIcouldstopmybrainforahalfasecond,remindmyselfthatshe’snotheretostay.Shesentthatmessageclearenoughthelasttwotimesshedisappearedfrommylifewithoutaword.Evelynislikeaspringstorm.Sheappearswithoutwarning,makeseverythingaroundherbloom,andthenleaveswiththewind.
ButIcan’tkeepmyselffromtouchingher.Ifanmyfingersoutagainstthesideofherjawandsheswaysintome,stumblingcloser.Iwanttopressmythumbtoherchinandguidehermouthopen.Iwanttocurlmyhandaroundthebackofherneckandpullherintome.IwanttofeelthatheatbloomdeepinmychestasIlowermymouthdownonhers.
Instead,Isettleforthis.Slow,carefultouchesagainstherwarmskin.Islipmythumbdownthelineofherthroatandrubgentlyatastubbornstreakofdirt,backandforth.Herskinissosoft,it’sliketouchingsilk.SheswallowsandIdragmyeyestohers.Westareateachotherforthelengthofonesharedinhale,myhandagainstherthroat.Iwonderifshe’sthinkingaboutmyhandsonherskininthathotelroom.Ifshe’sremembering,too.
AdeepbreathrattlesinmychestandIdropmyhandtomyside.
Salthrowshishandupintheair,atschunderhisbreath.Hecontinuestomovedownthelineofplantswithoutlookinguponce.“Don’tmindhim.He’salwayslikethat.”
Evelyn’seyesslanttowardsme,asecretinthesmilethatcurlsatherlips.Finally,asmilejustforme.“Notalways,”shemutters,mischiefwithatouchofheat.Irememberanothertimemythumbwasatherthroat,herlegshuggingmyhipsandherpalmspressedtighttomyshoulderblades.Ishiftonmyfeet.
“Youstillneedmyhelp?”IcallovertoSal,breakingoureyecontactanddumpingthebeansinabucket.Ineeddistance.Somespacetocontrol…whateveritisthat’spressingdownonmychesteverytimeIsomuchasglanceatEvelyn.Touchingher,feelingherskinundermine.Itisn’tgoingtoleadanywheregoodforme.
IwatchthetopofSal’shatashecontinuestobobdowntheneatlineofbrightgreen,smackdabinthemiddleofthefield.“I’mgood.Notmuchlefttodotoday.”
Ibrushmypalmsonmyjeans,twotwinstreaksofdirt.EvelynfollowsafterSal,handsworkingintheleaves.Igrindtheheelofmybootdowninthedirtandtracethecurveofherspinewithmyeyes.“Youwannastayhereorcomebackwithme?”
Itakeoffmyhatandscrubmyhandagainstthebackofmyhead,makingamessofmyhair.Comebackwithmepoundsabeatinmyskullandpressessharprightbehindmyeyes.IfIcouldpullthatthoughtrightoutofmyheadandburyitunderthesebeans,Iwould.
“I’llstay.IthinkI’mfindingsomehappyouthere.“Shelooksatherhandswithagrin,thedirtcakedoverherknuckles.Hereyesfindmineandhersmiletipswider.“Outhereintheweeds.”
Itakethelongest,coldestshowerofmylife.
Watchingherinthefieldstodayhadbeentorture.Shefitshere,withherbootsinthedirtandherhandshadinghereyesagainsttherisingsun,callingouttomeoverthewidestretchofland.Shefitsonmybackporchwithherlegscurledunderher,chinonherknee,askingseventeenquestionsaminute.
Evelynisnothereforyou,ItellmyselfasIstandbeneaththestreamofcoldwater.Iclosemyeyesandignorethepullofwanting—therisingwarmthinmychestthat’sawholelotmoredangerousthananyfeelingsoflust.Shecamehereforsomethingthatisn’tyou.
Sheprobablyfitseverywhereshegoes.That’sthemagicofEvelyn.Shecanfindacomfortablenookforherselfineverycoffeeshop,foodstand,andhole-in-the-wallshevisits.
Me,meanwhile.Ifithere.Onlyhere.OnthisstretchoflandwhereIcangoentiredayswithouttalkingtoasingleperson.
MyphonebeginstobuzzonthecounterbythesinkandIgroan,knockingmyheadagainsttheshowerwall.Ihadplanstodisappearintothegreenhousetonight,losemyselfintrimmingandplantinguntiltheimageofEvelynlaughingnexttothetractorfadesoutofmymind.UntilIcanlookatherandnot…notwantsodamnmuch.
Islammyhandontheshowerhandleanditgivesanansweringcroakofprotest.IfI’mnotcareful,thishousewillbeinpiecesbythetimeEvelyndecidestoleave.Thatthoughtdoesn’tdoanythingtoeasemydarkmoodandwhenIfinallymanagetoanswerthephone,I’mthoroughlyagitated,ashiverworkingovermybodyfromtheicywater.
“What?”
Abeatofsilence.“Isthathowyouanswerthephoneforyoursister?”
Ihangupthephoneandslamitdownonmydresser.Itimmediatelystartsringingagain.IsuckinadeepbreaththroughmynoseasIpullonmyclothesandansweronthethirdring.
“Hi,Nessa.WhatcanIdoforyou?”
Shehums.“That’sbetter.”Ihearthelowmelodyofapianointhebackground.Shemustbeatthestudio.“Youneveransweredmytextabouttrivia.”
Igruntandcontinuetonotanswerherabouttrivia.Igrabat-shirtfromthetopdrawerofmydresser,anoldfadedonewithanangrybadgerstretchedacrossthechest.Luka’smomisheadofthePTAatthehighschoolandIbuyashirteveryyear.I’mafraidofwhatmighthappenifIdon’t.
“What’sgoingonwithHarper?”Ideflect,wrestlingmyselfintomyjeans.Ijammykneeintomydresserandcurseundermybreath.
“We’renottalkingaboutHarper.We’retalkingabouttrivia.”
Iignoreher.“What’sgoingonwithHarper?”
There’salengthypause.“Idon’tknowwhatyoumean.”
“She’sbeenquietatdinnerandnowshe’snotgoingtotrivia.”
“Shehasn’tbeenfeelingwelllately,”sheanswersinarush.Themusicinthebackgroundcutsoutabruptly.“Womanthings.”
“Nessa.”
“What?”
“Youcan’tjustsaywomanthingstogetmetostopaskingquestions.Whenhasthateverworked?”Islammydresserdrawershut,frustratedwiththisconversation.Myself.Theuniverse.“What’sgoingonwithHarper?”
“Okay,well,”shebreathesoutaheavysigh.“Youcan’tgetmad.”
Ilookupattheceilingandbegforpatience.I’malreadymad.Soit’snotaliewhenIsay:“Iwon’tgetmad.”
“Youcan’tdoanythingaboutit.”
“Iwon’tdoanythingaboutit,”Igritoutfrombetweenclenchedteeth.
“Really?Becausethelasttimeyousaidthat—“
“Vanessa.”
ShepausesandIpullmyshirtovermyhead.“ShewasseeingCarteragain,”shesaysslowly,draggingouteachwordwithreluctance.Ahotflashofangerimmediatelygrabsmebythethroat.“Andhebrokethingsoffwithherovertheweekend.”
Iknewit.Ifuckingknewit.EverysingletimeHarperhashadthatlookonherface,it’sbeenbecauseofoneman.Astupidfuckboywithblondehighlightsandafuckingpukashellnecklace.“Whatdidhesaytoher?”
Nessasighs.“Idon’t–“
Imakeafrustratedsoundintothephone.
“Hetoldhershe’sonlyflingmaterial,”shewhispers,likeifshesaysitquietly,Iwon’tturnintoagiantballofrage.Toolateforthat.“Hesaidthatshe’salotoffun,butthat’sit.”
Itakeadeepbreathin.Letitoutslowly.Itapthespeakerbuttonandpullupmytextmessages.
“Ialreadykeyedhiscartwice,butI’mprettysureDaneisontome.”Nessahesitates.“Whatareyoudoing?”
“I’mtexting,”Isay.
“Whoareyoutexting?”
“Luka.”
“Youguyscannotdothatthingyoudowhereyouhideinthebushesincamouflageandjumpoutwithbaseballbats.Youcouldgivehimaheartattack,andDanetoldyouhe’darrestyouifyoudoitagain.”Shemakesanamusedsoundunderherbreaththatshedoesherbesttohide.“Idon’thavethebailmoneyforyouthismonth.”
Ibracemyhandsontheedgeofthedresserandflexmyfingerstwice.She’sright.Danedidthreatentoarrestusafterthelasttime.
AndI’mprettysureweusedthelastofStella’sfacepaint.
“Okay.”Itapoutofmytextmessages.ItwouldtaketoolongforLukatogethereanyway.
“Okay?That’sit?”
“Mmhmm,”Ihum.CometandVixenpoketheirheadsintomyroom,seethelookonmyface,andquicklyscamperaway
“Whatareyouplanning?”
“Nothing.”Ikeepmyvoicecarefullyneutral.I’mplanningongoingdowntothebarandslammingCarter’sfaceintoabasketoffrenchfriesfifteentimesinarow.ThenI’llhaveaburgerwithabeerandcomehome.MaybeI’llgetoneofthoseveggiesandwichesEvelynseemstolikesomuch.
“Okay,”sheblowsoutadeepbreath.“Okay,Idon’tbelieveyou.Butokay.”
“Okay,”Iparrotback,lookingformycarkeys.IcouldhaveswornIleftthemontopofmydresser.Istompoutofthebedroom,almostmowingdownEvelynonmywayintothekitchen.Shegrabsatmyarmstokeepherselfupright,astartledsoundspillingoutofher.
“Shit,I’msorry.”
“It’sokay,”shesays,hernoseagainstmyneck.Islipthehandnotholdingmyphonefrombetweenhershoulderbladestothesmallofherback,palmdraggingdownherspineasImakesureshe’ssteady.Isuckinasharpbreathwhenmyfingersgrazebareskin.Hershirtmusthavegottencaughtbetweenus
Sheanswerswithashakysighagainstme,fingertipsdiggingjustslightlyintomyskin.Hernosenudgesup,thebrushofherlipsjustbelowmyear.Myentirebodygoesrigid.
“BeckettPorter,doyouhaveaWOMANOVER?”Vanessa’svoiceshrieksthroughthephonedirectlyintomyear.
“Gottago,Ness.”
“Donothangup,you—“
Ihangupthephoneandslipitintomybackpocket,leaningbackandlookingdownatEvelynplasteredagainstmyfront.She’scleanedthedirtoffofherfaceandallthat’sleftisarosyglowfromadayspentoutside,herhaircurlingattheedges.Ithumbastrandbehindherear.
That’stwicetodayIhaven’tbeenabletokeepmyhandsoffofher.Ifeeltrappedbetweenholdingheratasafedistanceandtugginghercloser.Apendulumswingingendlesslybackandforth
Istepbackandclearmythroat.IscoopmykeysoffthekitchencounterandtrytoscoopsomeofthefeelingsplayingPlinkoinsideofmychestbackwheretheybelong.
“Goingsomewhere?”
“Yep.”Mylipspopthelastletteroftheword,irritationslitheringthroughmewhenIthinkaboutCarter.Thatfuckingidiot.Ifrownandglanceatthetwochairsonthebackporch,ourdinnerplansneverdiscussedbutanewhabit,allthesame.“WantaveggiesandwichwhileI’mout?”
“Yougetmadaboutveggiesandwiches,huh?”ShedigsherfingerintothelinebetweenmyeyebrowsandIcuffherwristwithmyhand.She’ssosmall,myfingerseasilyoverlap.“What’sgotthatlookonyourface?”
“Someonewasadicktomysister,”Iexplain.Iletourhandsdropbetweenus,indulgingandswingingourarmsbackandforthonce.Herskinissosoft.“I’mgoingtogotakecareofit.”
Evelynblinksatme.Withoutasecondofhesitation,shereachesforthediscardedsweatshirtslungoverthebackofoneofthediningroomchairs.Shepullsitoverherhead,armspunchingthroughthesleeves,herhandsliftingherlongponytailtopullitfromthecollar.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Iask,alittlemesmerizedandalotdistractedbyallthathair.
Sheslipsherfeetbackintotheshoesshekickedoffrightattheendofthehallwayandgesturestowardsthedoorwithanod.
“YouthinkI’mgoingtoletyougoalone?”Sheshakesherheaddecisively.“Iwantthatveggiesandwich.I’mcomingwithyou.”CHAPTERTENEVELYN
AngryBeckettis…anexperience.
Tenseforearms,adeepgrooveinthecenterofhisforehead.Hardeyesandhismouthinaflat,severeline.Hekeepstakingdeepbreathsduringthedriveintotown,lettingthemoutslow.Hishandsflexonthesteeringwheelandhemutterssomethingaboutbeachblondesonofabitchunderhisbreath.
Frankly,it’sworkingforme.
Notthatthere’smuchBeckettdoesthatdoesn’tworkforme.
Watchinghiminthefieldsthismorningwaslikeaglassofwatersetjustoutofreach.Theflexandreleaseofhisarmsashethrusthisshoveldown.Thespreadofhisshouldersandthestronglineofhisjaw.Itdidn’thelpthatIknowwhathisbodylookslikeunderallofthoseclothes.Thewayhishardchesttapersdownintonarrowhips,thestackedmuscleacrosshisabdomenthatIdefinitelysunkmyteethintoduringourtimetogether.
“Wherearewegoing?”
Histruckslowsaswehittheedgeoftown,apaintedwoodensignwelcomingustodowntownInglewild.ItmakesmesmileeverytimeIseeit.Thedifferencebetweendowntownandtherestofitmustbetwosquareblocks.Beckettturnsleftatthefirehouseandrumblesdownthestreet,hisgazefocusedoutthefrontwindshield.IfeellikemaybeIshouldturnonsomeguidedmeditation,calmhimdownbeforehefindswhoeveritishe’slookingfor.
“Beckett,”Itryagain.“Wherearewegoing?”
I’mstartingtothinkhisplanistodrivehistruckrightthroughsomeone’slivingroom.
“Thebar,”heanswers.Twowords.Nothingmore.Iwatchhisjawflexandpop.
“Whoisatthebar?”
“CarterDempsey.”
Inodlikethatnamemeansanythingtome.“AndwhatareyougoingtodotoCarterDempsey?”
Beckettsmootheshishandoverthegearstickandslowsustoastop.Inaseriesofpracticedmovements,hemaneuvershisbehemothofatruckintooneoftheparkingspotsthatbordersthemainroad.NeverinmylifehaveIbeensoturnedonbyparallelparking.Beckettshiftsintoparkandlevelsalookrightatme.
“I’mgoingtokillhim.”
Okay,well.Thatisprobablynotagreatidea.Hekicksopenhisdoorandstridesacrossthestreetlikehe’sofftohappilymurdersomeone.Istruggletogetmyseatbeltunbuckledandfollowafterhimwithquicksteps,joggingtocatchupwithhisfuriouswalking.
“Didyouwanttogeticecreaminstead?”
Heshouldershiswaythroughthewidewoodendoor,keepingitopenwithhispalmsoIcanslipinbeneath.“No.”
“Theyhadanewflavoracoupleofdaysago.”
Chocolatewaffleconewithlittlebitsofbutterfingermixedin.LaylaandIgotthreeconesinarow.Hegruntsatmeandheadstowardsthelongcounterthatstretchesacrossthemiddleofthespace.It’sdark,evenduringmid-day,andnooneisstandingbehindthebar,theplaceemptyexceptforamanslouchedinaboothinthecorner.HeraisesahandingreetingasBeckstompshiswaytoastool,kickingouttheonenexttohiminwhatIassumeisaninvitation.
“Jesseworkingtoday?”
“No,it’sCarter,”themaninthecorneranswers.“ThoughIdon’tknowwherehedisappearedto.”
ItrailafterBecketttotheoldmahoganybar,catalogingtheornatetindetaillayeredacrosstheceiling.IfCarterhasalickofsense,he’lldisappearoutthebackofthebar.ItaketheseatnexttoBeckettandhepullsmecloserwithhisfootbetweenthebottomrungsofthestool,handingmeapapermenu.
Icurlmyfingersarounditandstareathim.“Willwebeeatingbeforeorafteryoucommitacrime?”
Asmilebarelytoucheshislips.“After.”
“Iimaginethatmightbedifficultwithbloodonyourhands.”
Hislipquirksupfurtherandhenodstowardsthebathroom.“Theyhavesoap.”
Alright,then.Iglancedownatthemenu,oneedgerippedcleanoff.“Whatwouldyourecommend?”
Sea-greeneyesslantinmydirection.“Thoughtyou’dliketheeggplantthing.”
IhumandtiltmyheadasIlookatthedescriptionprintedbeneath.“You’reright.ButI’mgettingfrenchfries.”Irefusetoeatasidesaladafterafulldayofmanuallabor.Or,youknow,ever.
“Okay.”
Hekeepshisbootbelowmystoolaswewait,hisgazenotwaveringfromthesmallhalf-doorthatleadstothebackkitchen.Hiskneebumpsintomylegeverycoupleofminutesandit’snice,despitethetensionhe’sholdinginhisshoulders.It’snicesharingaspace.Itwasnicespendingalldayoutinthefieldswithhim.Itwasnicecomingbacktothehousewiththeteakettleonthestoveandmuffinsfromthebakehouseinaprettygreenboxonthekitchenisland.ThecatsloungingacrossthefurnitureandBeckett’sbootsdiscardedatthedoor.Itwasniceseeinghimcomedownthehall,hairstillwetfromashower,jeanslowonhiships,hiseyeslightingupatthesightofme.Itwasnicebeingpressedagainsthim,hisskinwarmandhisbreathagentlepuffagainstmyear.
I’vealwaysfeltapulltowardsBeck.That’snosecret.Butit’sworsenow.Deeper.Ilikespendingtimewithhim,seeingthebitsofhimselfhedoeshisbesttohide.Hisroutinesandhisorderandbegrudgingcommitmenttoafamilyoforphanedcats.Hisloyaltyandhisquietcaretaking.
Ilikehim
ThelongerI’mhere,theeasieritistoignoreeverythingelse.Idon’tknowifthat’sagoodthingorabadthingyet.
AftertenminuteswithoutanappearancefromthemysteriousCarter,Beckettsighsandstandsfromhisstool,uncurlinghisbigbodyfromhishunchedoverposition.Ihearhimmuttersomethingaboutuselessfuckwadunderhisbreathagain.Heroundstheedgeofthebar.“Youwantabeer?”
“Cider,iftheyhaveit.”
Hesquintsdownatthetaphandles.Ismileashebendsslightlyclosertothelabels,hisheadtiltinginconfusion.
“Doyouneedglasses?”
Hewrapshishandaroundoneofthetaps,tippingaglassbeneathandfillingitwithamberbubbles.Hedoesn’tanswerme.
“Becauseitlookslike,perhaps,youmightneedglasses.”
Ithinkabouthiminapairofthickblackframes,slippinglowonhisnoseashesitsinthebigleatherchairbyhisfireplace,oneofthecatsonhislapandabookonhisknee.Mywholebodybreaksoutingoosebumps.
“IhaveapairIwearsometimes,butonlyforreading,”hemutters.Hegrabsanotherglassforhimselfandpoursabeer.Heglancesovermyshoulderatthemaninthecorner.“Youneedanything,Pete?”
“Tequilaontherocks,youngman.”
Beckettnodsandgrabsabottleoffthebackshelf.AslowcurlofheatunfurlsatthebaseofmyspineasBeckettlinesupaglass,forearmflexing.ThelasttimeIhadtequila,Becketthadlickedalineofsaltfromtheinsideofmywristandthenknottedhisfingersinmyhair,urgedmyheadbackuntilhecouldtasteitoffmytongue.
Heglancesupatmeashepours,eyesknowing.
Itrytosmilearoundthelumplodgedinmythroat.“Thisisfamiliar.”Myvoicecomesoutinagrittywhisper.
It’sascloseaswe’veevercometotalkingaboutthatweekend.Henodsandslidestheglassoftequiladownthebar.“I’mnotbringingittoyou,Pete,”hecallsoverhisshoulder.
Theoldmaninthecornerchuckles.“Figuredasmuch.Seemsyou’vegotyourhandsfullasitis.”
Beckettmovesbackaroundthebarwithhisbeer,hisstepsslow.Hischestbrushesagainstmyshouldersasheslipsbehindme.Ifeeleverysingleplaceourbodiestouch.Whenhesits,he’scloserthanbefore,hisbootbackonthebottomrungofmychair.Hetugsonce,themetalscreechingasitdragsacrossthefloor.Petemufflesalaughinthesleeveofhiscoatashecollectshisglass,returningtohissecludedspotinthecornerofthebar.IturnmyfacetoBeckettandwatchashistonguewetshisbottomlip.
“Haven’thadtequilasince,”hetellsmeandIdon’tthinkwe’retalkingaboutalcohol.Thelickofheatsparkingalongmyskinturnsintoaninferno.IspreadmylegsslightlyonthestooluntilIcanpressmykneetothesideofhisthigh.Iletmyselflookathim,delightinginallthedetailsIcancollectwhenI’mthisclose.Ituckthemintomypalmlikesecrets.Thebarelytherefrecklesdustedunderhislefteye.Thestraightlineofhisnose,alittledipinthecenterofit.Thecurlofhairbehindhisear.
“NeitherhaveI,”Isay.Awhisper.Aconfession.
Iwatchthestronglineofhisthroatasheswallows.“Didyou—“
Hedoesn’tfinishhisquestion.ThedoorbehindthebarswingsopenandamanslightlyshorterthanBeckettstrollsout.He’swearingaGunsN’Rosest-shirtthat’srippedatthebottomandlightwashjeans,anarmfulofcleanglassesbalancedagainsthischest.Hisbleach-blondehairfallsintohisfaceasheducksthroughthedoor,awashclothtuckedthroughhisbeltloop.He’skindofcuteinanunassumingsortofway.He’dprobablybecuterifIdidn’thaveBeckettsittingrightnexttome,handscurlingintofists.
ThismustbeCarter,then.
HehesitatesassoonashisgazelandsonBeckett,hiseyescuttingtotheexitandbacktothehulkingmanabouttotaketwofistfulsoutofthebartop
“Beckett,”hegreets,warinessinhisvoiceandwithgoodreason.ThewarmththatwascreepingintoBeckett’sexpressionwhilewewaitedisgonenow,andhisjawlookstightenoughtosnap.“Iseeyouhelpedyourself.”
Henodsatthedrinksinfrontofus.Beckettdoesn’tsayanything.Cartershiftsonhisfeet.Heactuallydoeshaveapukashellnecklaceon.IthoughtmaybeBecketthadbeenexaggerating.
“Didyouneedanythingelse?”
Beckettremainssilent.
Cartersighs.“Youjustgonnasitthere?”
Beckettreachesforhisbeerandtakesalongsip,gazenotbudginganinch.Impatient,Carter’sfacetwistsintosomethingunkind.Hedoesn’tlookcuteatallanymore.Helookspettyandchildish,hisdyedhairturningtoafadedgreeninthelightsoverhead.
“DidHarpertell—“
“Don’tsayhername,”Beckettinterrupts.Ashiverlicksupmyspine.I’veneverheardthattoneofvoiceoutofhismouthbefore,awarningineverysyllable.
Carterbristles.“Well,ifshe’srunninghermouthlikea—“
Beckett’shandsnapsout,quickaslightning.HegrabsthecollarofCarter’sshirtandpullshimoverthebaruntiltheothermanispracticallydanglingthere,handsbracedontheedgetokeephimselffromfallingface-firstintothedrainingtray.
“Likeawhat?”
Cartersputters.
“Goon,finishyoursentence.”WhenCarterdoesn’tsayanythinginresponse,Beckettreleaseshim.Hegoesstumblingtotheothersideofthebar,hisbackhittingtheedgeofatableholdinghistrayofcleanglasses.Theyrattleonimpact.
“Iknowit’sbeenaminutesincewelasttalked,butletmemakeitveryclearforyou.IfIhearanotherwordoutofyourmouthaboutmysister,Iwillbreakeveryboneinyourbody,”Beckettdoesn’tbreakeyecontact,notforasecond,hisvoicedeceptivelycalmforthethreatlivingineachword.“Don’ttalkabouther.Don’tlookather.Don’teventhinkabouther.IfIfindoutyou’vecontactedherwithanymoreofyourbullshit,I’llmakewhathappensnextlooklikeanaccident.Doyouunderstandme?”
HepicksupthemenuIplacednexttomydrink.Heglancesatitonce.Carteredgesclosertothedoorthatleadstotheback.
“Iwantaburger.She’llhavetheeggplantsandwich.”HetossesthemenuoverthebarandgivesCarteradismissivelook.“Don’tforgetthefries.”
Wetakeourfoodtogo.
Beckettisquietbutrelaxedonthewayback,fingersdrummingonthecenterconsole.IturnthedialuntilIfindaclassicrockstation,staticburstingbetweenFleetwoodMac.Irolldownmywindowanduntanglemyponytail,thewindpickinguptheendsofmyhairuntilit’sahurricanearoundmyface.Icansmellthesunandsweatofthedayandatouchofmyshampoo,thesweethintofspringtimeraininthefieldswe’rewhippingpast.Everythingisgreenandgoldandbright,brightblue.IlaughandscoopmyhairawayfrommyfacewithmypalmandwatchasBeckettpressesdownharderonthegas,agrintippingathislips.Itlightsuphiswholeface,thatsmile—thelinesbyhiseyesdeepening,hisbottomlipabitcrooked
Ireleasemyhairagainandclosemyeyes.IfeellikeI’mfloating,flying.Agentlesniptooneofthestringstiedtightaroundmylungs,Beckett’slowlaughwhisperingthroughthecabofthetruck.
Happiness.
Thefeelingholdsaswesettleintoourusualseatsonthebackporchofthehouse.Cupidjoinsusbrieflybeforescamperingofftothegreenhouse.IpointatitwithafryasIwatchherdisappearinside.
“Whatdoyougrowinthere?”
Heshrugs,legscrossedattheankleandhalfofaburgerinhishand.“Flowers,mostly.Theclimateisn’tgoodforthemwithoutalittleprotection,soIbuiltthegreenhouse.”
“Whatsortofflowers?”
Hestretcheshisshouldersandreachesforoneofmyfries.HisknucklesbumpupagainstthebackofmyhandandIalmosttipthewholecontainerintomylap.“Orchids,mostly.I’mexperimentingwithsomepoinsettiasfornextwinter,butwe’llsee.”Hechewsafryinconsideration.“Imightsettheduckupinthere.”
“Thereyougowiththeduckagain.Whatduck?”
“Itoldyouabouttheduck.”Hedid,butIthoughthewasfullofit.“Wefoundanabandonedduckonthefarm.Thetownvethasn’tbeenabletofindahomeforhimyet.”
“Isitababyduck?”
Henods.Isinkdownaninchfurtherinmyseatandshoveafryinmymouth,picturinghimsittinginthatchairwithababyduckinhisshirtpocket.
It’sdevastating.
“Didyoualwayswanttobeafarmer?”
Ican’thelpitwiththequestions.JosietellsmeIhaveacuriousspiritwhenshe’sfeelinggenerous.Nosy,whenshe’sannoyedbyit.WithBeckett,IfeellikeI’veonlyevergottencrumbs.Iwanttocrackhimrightopenandexamineeverytinydetail.
Helooksuncomfortablewiththeattentionthough,shiftingaroundinhischair.
“Youdon’thaveto—“
“No,I’mfine.”Hegrabsanotherhandfuloffriesandsettlesbackinhisseatwithasigh,kneessplayedwide,duskbeginningtocreepthroughthetrees.Everythingisadeepindigotonight,thebranchesofthetreesformingacanopyofmidnightblueoverthebackyard.Itfeelslikewe’reinthepagesofafairytale.Beckettglancesatmeoutofthecornerofhiseye,abrushofpinkonthetipsofhisears.Helookssobashfulandhesitantitstealstheairrightoutofmylungs.
Theprince.Ormaybethedamselinneedofrescuing.Ihaven’tquitedecidedyet.
“Don’tlaugh,okay?”
“Iwon’t,”Isayemphatically.I’dneverlaughatBeckett.Notever.
Heconsidersthat,rollinghiswordsaroundinhisheadashesquintsoutatthefields.“Iwantedtobe—”helaughsalittlebit,hispalmagainstthebackofhishead.“Iwantedtobeanastronaut.”
Ithinkaboutthemapoftheskyhehastapedonthefrontofhisrefrigerator,timesanddatesofcelestialeventsscribbledinthemargins.Abookofthemoonphasesontheverytopofhisshelf.
“Ithinkmostkidswanttobeanastronautforatleasthalftheirchildhood.IguessIwasjustcheckingoffthatbox.MymomgotmeaspacesuitformyeighthbirthdayandIdon’tthinkItookitoffforanentireyear.”IimagineatinyBeckettinaspacesuitwithahelmettoobig,hisblue-greeneyessmilingthroughthevisorandmyheartsqueezesinmychest.“IthoughtIcouldworkatNASA.Doresearch,orsomething.Idon’tknow.Ijustwantedtolookatthestars.”
“Youcouldhave.”StellatoldmeBeckettbuiltallofthesprinklersystemsonthefarm,anewdesignshe’sbeentryingtogethimtopatent.Hewouldhavemadeanexcellentengineerifthat’swhathewantedtodo.“Whydidn’tyou?”
“Mydadworkedatthemainproducesupplierforthestate.Parson’s.It’sacoupleoftownsover.”Iknowtheplacehe’stalkingabout.I’vedrivenpastitonmywayinandoutofInglewild.It’samassivefarm.Rowsandrowsofproduce,asfarasyoucansee.“Hehadanaccident.Hefellfromaladderandhe,uh—hewasparalyzedfromthewaistdown.”
Isuckinasharpbreath.“Beckett,I’msosorry.”
“Nothingforyoutobesorryabout.”Hesettlesdownfurtherinhisseatwithagrunt.“Mymomdidn’tworkatthetime.Shewenttocosmetologyschooltogetherlicenseoncemydadwasinabetterspot.Ittookhimabitoftimeto—todealwitheverything.”Herubshisfingersagainsthisjawabsently,remembering.“TheParsonfamilywasreallygoodaboutit,though.Theypaidallthemedicalbills,helpedourfamilyouthowevertheycould.Theyletmecomeonandpaidmethesamesalaryasmydad,eventhoughI’mprettysureIwasuselessthefirstcoupleofseasons.”
IstareatBeckett.“Youtookyourdad’splaceatthefarm?”
Henods.“Yeah,whenIwasfifteen.It’sbeenfarmingsince.”
Beckettmustseethelookonmyfacebecausehiswholebodysoftens,athoughtfullookonhishandsomeface.“Nah,don’tlookatmelikethat.It’salright.”
“Youwerejustakid,”Imanagearoundathroatthat’stootight.Apressureburningbehindmyeyes.Ithinkaboutthatlittleboyinaspacesuit,lookingupatthestars.“Youhadadream.”
“Foundanewone,”heanswers,smilekickingupthecornerofhismouth.Heleansbackinhischairandtiltshisfacetothenightsky,thestarsbeginningtowake.“AndIgottokeepthestarswithme.”
Ioversleepthenextmorning,mybodysorefrommyshouldersallthewaydowntomycalves.MusclesIneverevenknewexistedprotestasIpullmyselfoutofbed,shufflingdownthehalltothekitchen.CometandCupidtrailafterme,Vixenwaitingpatientlynexttoanemptymugbythecoffeemaker.
There’sanotetoo,aplainpieceofpaperwithascribbledmap.Istareatit,tryingtomakesenseofthefiguresBeckettdrew.I’massumingthepenciledoutlineofahousewithacatontopishiscabin,apathmarkedinaneatlinearoundseveralfarmlandmarks.
Thebigoaktreethatsplitsatthetrunk.ThepumpkinpatchbyStella’shouse.Thefieldswewereworkinginyesterday.AllofitleadstoabigXinthecorner.He’swrittenSOMEHAPPYintinyblocklettersrightnexttoit.
Igrin.
“Didyoufindoutaboutthesweatpants,yesorno?”
That’showJosieanswersthephoneasIbeginmytreasurehuntacrossthefarm.Isnortalaugh.“Ididnot.”
Shebreathesoutasigh,longandgusting.“Whatareyouevendoingoutthere?”
Goingonascavengerhuntforbitsofhappiness,apparently.Iroundthepumpkinpatchandreferbacktomymap.Becketthasdrawnalittledottedlinethatcrossesthenextfieldinazigzagpattern.Itakethreebigstepstotheleftandthentilttotheright.Ilookdownatmybootsandnoticethisfieldismoremarshythanthelast,asomewhatsolidstretchofgroundmovingatacrisscrossrightthroughthecenterofit.Ismile.
“I’mfiguringitout,”Ianswer.Iam,Ithink.IfI’mnotoutinthefieldwithBeckett,I’msomewhereelseintown.I’vehadasteadystreamofconsultingrequestssinceIarrivedintownandI’veacceptedpaymentintheformsoflattesandsecondhandbooks.It’sworkingoutwellforme.
Idon’tfeelthesamesuffocatingpressurewhenI’mhelpingsomeoneelse.I’mnotstuckinmyhead,trappedinanendlesscycleofoveranalyzingeverydetail.It’sslower,morerelaxed.
Ilikeit.
“Inoticedyoupostedtheotherday.”
Justashortvideo.Amash-upofclipsfrommywanderingaroundtown.Ahalf-eatencroissantonachippedplate.Flowerpetalsdriftingthroughtheair.DanestaringatMattyoverthecounteratthepizzashoplikehehungthedamnmoon.SandraMcGivensbellylaughingonthesidewalk.
Bitsandpiecesofanormal,extraordinaryday.JustlikeIusedto.
“Also,Kirstyncalled.Youowemearaisefornotendingthatconversationwithastringofexpletives.Shewantedtoknowifyou’velookedatanyofheremails.”
“Ihaven’t.”ThelongerIstayawayfrommyinbox,themoreclearitistomethatIneedtoendmyrelationshipwithSway.Idon’tthinkIcaneversitthroughameetingabouttheOkeechobeemusicfestivalagain.I’veknownitforawhilenow.Thetimeawayhasmadethatdecisioneasiertomake.“Ithinkwe’regoingtobedonewithSway,”ItellJosie.
Herreliefreachesthroughthephone.“Thankgod.CanIbetheonetoendit?I’lldoitrightnow.”
“No,”Ilaugh.“I’llsetupameetingforwhenIgetback.”
“Whichiswhen?”
IstopinthemiddleofthemuddyfieldI’mwalkingthroughandlookupattherollinghillslinedwithtrees.Icanjustmakeoutthesoundsofarumblingtractorinthedistance,thefiguresofpeopleworkinginthefield.IwonderifBarneyisneedlingBeckett.IfPrancerisonherthroneatthebackofthetractor.
Idon’tfeelreadytoleavethisplaceyet.Forthefirsttimeinalongtime,I’mcontentstandingstill.
“Idon’tknow,”Ireplyfaintly.“Istilldon’tknow.”
“That’salright,”Josieassuresme.“I’mactuallygladyoucalled.IwantedtotalktoyouaboutsomethingIsawinyourinbox.”
Istartwalkingagain.“Yeah?”
“RememberhowItoldyouSwaywasscreeningyourmessages?”
Notexactlyunexpected,asthatwasabigreasonwhyIsignedupfortheirservices.Iwantedsomeoneelsetosortthroughforpotential.Iwasalsotiredofthetrollsandthecommentsandtheneverendingcriticism.“Ido.”
“I’vebeensiftingthroughtoseeifthere’sanythinginterestingandIhaveafewnewplacesforyoutocheckout,whenyou’rereadyforthat.ButwhatreallycaughtmyattentionwasaguynamedTheofromtheU.S.SmallBusinessCoalition.Hashereachedouttoyoubefore?”
Irackmybrain.“Idon’tthinkso.”
“He’sbeenprettypersistent.SaidhetriedtocallthroughSwayandwasn’tabletoleaveamessage.Anyway,hethinksyou’dbeagoodfitforanewinitiativethey’relaunching.Ithinkyoushouldgivehimacall.”
“Likeapartnershipthing?”
“Notexactly.Ithinkit’sapositionwithintheirorganization.”
Thatwouldbeanewdirection.Ineverwentbacktoexploringtraditionaljobsaftermystringofhorribleinterviewsrightoutofschool.Ialwayslikedbeingmyownbosstoomuch.
“I’llthinkaboutit.Sendmehiscontactinformation.”
“Sure.Assoonasyousendmeapictureofyourhotlandlord.”
Isnortalaughandcontinuecarefullywanderingmywayacrossthemuddyfield.“He’snotmylandlord.”
“Interestingpartofthesentencetocontradict,”Josiereplies.“Igottago.I’mmeetingmymomforarun.”
Iglanceatmywatch.Itcan’tbemuchlaterthansixinthemorningonthewestcoast.ButJosiehasalwaysbeenanearlyriser.“Godspeed.”
Ituckmyphonebackinmypocketandcontinuefollowingthemap,snickeringatBeckett’sdoodles.Ilaughatacollectionofwavylinesscribbledonthepaper,supposedtobeaclusterofbushesrightbeforeadipinthelandscapehideseverythingfromview.IcrestanothersmallhillandthenIseeit.ExactlywhatBeckettintendedformetofind
Afieldofwildflowers,rollingoutfromthebaseofthehillinapatchworkquiltofcolor.Blueandpurpleandasmatteringofrichgold,thesightofitsoquietlybeautifulthatIdon’thesitatetowalkrightinthemiddleofitallandlayflatonmyback.Theymusthavebloomedtolifeduringthelaststringofwarmdays,stillstandingtalldespitethecold.Resilient.Stunning.
FlowerpetalsticklemycheekandIclosemyeyeswithasigh.Aquiet,perfectmiracle,hiddenbehindthehills.
SOMEHAPPY,Becketthadwritten.
Icurlmyfingersaroundtheedgeofthepaperandholdittightlytomychest.
Ilayinthefielduntilmystomachstartstogrumble,areminderthatI’vebeenhereformostofthemorning.I’mgratefulfortheextrasweaterIslippedovermyheadbeforeIleftthehouse,theearthcoldatmybackandthewindbriskenoughthismorningformybreathtobevisibleintinypuffsofwhiteaboveme.Becketttellsmetheweatherwillbreaksoonandthatwinterisbeingalittlestubbornthisyear.
Nottheonlystubbornthing,hehadmumbled,asignificantlookcastinmydirection.
Isighandwatchthestemsaroundmedanceinthebreeze.Flatonthegroundlikethis,it’sjustmeandtheblooms,theskyaperfect,cloudlessblueaboveme,endlessineverydirection.Isitupwithagroananddipmynoseintoaclusterofasteratmyhip.Theysmelllikemoss,thegrassafterrain.IpassmypalmsoverthepetalsasIleaveanddecideI’llbringBeckettwithmethenexttimeIcome.Iwanthimtositinthepatchoffoxglovesandseeiftheybringouttheblueinhiseyes.
Itakeadifferent,meanderingpathbacktothecabin,archingbackintheoppositedirectionfromthewayIcame.Becketthadscribbledahalf-moonshapeinthetopcornerofhisrudimentarymap,andIfindthepondhemusthavebeenreferencingeasilyenough.It’snotverylarge,butitdoeshaveadockextendingoverthewaterwitharowboattiedattheend.ThelittledinghybobsupanddowngentlyasthewaterlapsatthelegsoftheagedwoodandIsmile,imaginingBecketttryingtocramhisbodyinthetinything.Theropeisfrayedattheedges,theboatpaintedadark,midnightblue.
Treesarchupoverthewater,acanopyoftangledbranchesandbrightgreenleaves.Sunlightdancesthroughwhereitcan,paintingthestillwaterbeneathinstripesofgold.Iseeatireswingontheotherendofthepond,barelyskimmingthewater,athickropewrappedthreetimesaroundthesturdybranchofanoldoak.WhenIwasakid,Iusedtoclimbthebiggesttreeinmyparent’sbackyard,allthewaytothetop.I’dsitperchedtherewithabookuntilthesunbegantoset,achillmakingmeshudderwiththeleaves.Mydadhadofferedtobuildmeatreehouseamilliontimes,butIlikedclimbingtoomuch.Ilikedthechallenge,thescrapesitleftonmypalms.ItalwaysfeltlikeIwaskeepingapieceofnaturewithme.ProofthatIcoulddoanythingIwanted.
Feelingnostalgic,Iwanderovertothetrunkofathickmaple,widebranchesstretchingoutoverthewater,anaturalladderofmisshapenknobsanddivotsinthebark.Ireachforthebranchclosestandcurlmyhandsaroundit,leveragingmybodyupandpressingmyfoottothebase.MusclememorykicksinasIplacemyhandsandfeetinalltherightplaces,theacheinmymusclesdisappearingasmybodywarms.IpressandpulluntilIcanswingmylegoverabranch,holdingmybodysteadyabouthalfwayup.Fromherethepondlooksbigger,thestillwaterreflectingthebranchesabovelikeamirror.Igazedownatmywigglyreflectionandrestmychinagainstmyknee.
Idon’tknowifit’sthesliverofmychildhood,orthefieldofflowers,orBeckett’shanddrawnmap,ormytimeawayfromeverythingIthoughtwasimportant,butIfeelthewaywardpiecesofmyselfslidingbackintoplace.It’snotquitethereyet,nottheperfectfit,butisn’tthatwhatBeckettsaidthatnightonthebackporch?Someofitcomes,someofitgoes.It’saboutthetrying.Settlingintothehappywhenyoufindit,beingokaywhenyoudon’t.Feelingallthemisshapenbitsandpiecesandwheretheyfittogether.Thedelightful,ordinaryblankspaceinbetween.
IfinallyfeellikeI’mtrying.
Ilowermybodycarefullyalongthebranchuntilmyarmsandlegsarehangingfree,mycheekpressedagainsttheroughbark.I’llhaveimprintsonmyface,I’msure,butlikethis,whenIclosemyeyes,I’mweightless.Nothingbothersme.Notthecoldwindtwistingthroughthetreesandticklingatthesmallofmyback.Notthedigofastickagainstmythigh.Nottheendlessbuzzingofthoughtsinthebackofmymind.It’sjustmeandthegentlerustleofthebranches,thewaterlappingattheedgeoftheboatbelow,andthecallofbirdsastheyhopfromtreetotree.It’saperfectmoment.
UntilItilttotheside,andIfallCHAPTERELEVENBECKETT
“Youthinkthiscoldsnapwillendsoon?”
I’mstartingtogetworried.Wedon’tusuallyseethesetypesoftemperaturesthislateintoMarch.Theafternoonshavebeenwarmenough,butthemorningsandnightsaredownrightfrigid.IcheckedthetemperaturebeforeIleftthehousethismorning.Itwasbarelybreakingthirtydegrees.
“Hasto,”Barneyreplies,frowningdownathisboots,handsonhiships.“CauseIrefusetodoanyreplantingoftheproducewe’vealreadyputinthegroundthisyear.”
Itwouldn’tbetheworstthingintheworldtohavealow-yieldcropthisspring.Wedon’trelyonitasourmainsourceofincome.ButI’dhatetoseeallthosecropsgotowasteafterwepouredsomucheffortintothosefieldsandanybusinessisgoodbusinessforourfledglingfarm.
Iwasactuallystartingtolookforwardtobellpeppers.
“Where’sthekid?”
Iscratchatmyeyebrow.“WithLaylathismorning.Shewasshowinghimhowtostockinventory.”
Meaningshe’smakinghimlugthegiantsacksofflourandsugarthatshepicksupatthewholesalerintothebakehouse.Stellagetsonmeforforcingmanuallabor,butI’mprettysureJeremywillcomecrawlingbacktothefieldsafteranafternoonwithLayla.Sherunsherkitchenslikeapitcrew,butwithfrostingandpastelsprinkles.
Barneygivesmeaslylook.“Andthegirl?”
“Thegirl’snameisEvelyn,”Imutter.Andshe’snotagirl.She’sawomanwrappedintemptation,toppedwithaneager,honestsinceritythatmakesmychestfeelhollow.Spendingtimewithher,gettingtoknowher—Ionlylikehermore.Whichisaproblem,whensheplanstoleavewithoutabackwardglanceinacoupleofweeks.
Hopefully,rightnow,she’ssittinginabigfieldofflowers.Ipictureherthere,herhandscuppedlooselyaroundablossomingQueenAnne’sLace,thewhitebloomsbrightagainstherdarkskin.Ipicturemyselftherewithher,mynoseinherneck,herskinsweeterthantheflowersaroundus.Herlaughfreeandwarm.
Isighanddigthepalmofmyhandintomyshoulderandtrytoeaseoutsomeofthetension.IswearI’veturnedintothetinmansinceshestartedsleepinginmyhouse.Abunchofrattlingcans,lookingaroundforwherethehellmyheartgotoffto.“She’ssomewherearoundhere,I’msure.”
Barneystraightenssuddenly,hishandshieldinghiseyesagainstthesun.“Closerthanyouthink,yeah?”
Thesmileonhisfacewiltsandthenfallsoffcompletely.Ifollowhisgazetoahunchedfigurestumblingoverthehill.TherattleinmychestturnstoaroarasEvelynpausesattheverytopofit.There’snomistakingherdarkhairorherlonglegsassheswaysinplace,armscurledtightaroundherself.I’malreadystridingforwardwhenBarneymuttersacurseunderhisbreath.
Somethingiswrong.
“Issheokay?”
“GettheGator,”Icallovermyshoulder,pickingupmypacetoajogasEvelynstumblestoherkneesandthencollapsestoherside.Ilosesightofherinthetallgrassandmyheartseizes,anumbfeelingcreepingupovermylegs.WhenIwastwelve-years-old,IbetanotherboyinmyclassIcouldclearoneofthefencesattheproducefarmwithasinglejump.Irememberrunningatthelopsidedthingfull-tilt,thebramblesfromthebushesscrapingatmybarelegs.Iremembertheweightlessfeelingofpropellingmybodyupandthentheclipofmyshoeagainstthefence.Ismackedintothegroundwithasickeningthud,thewindknockedcleanoutofme.Istayedthereflatonmybackandtrieddesperatelytosuckinair,everythingspinningaroundme.
It’slikethatnowasIracetothetopofthehillandfindEvelyncurleduponhersideinthegrass.Herwethairisplasteredtoherface,herclothessoakedandclingingtoherskin.Whateverjacketshewaswearinghaslongbeendiscardedandherbodytuckstighter,kneestoherchest,asshetriestoconserveanywarmthshehasleft.
Fuck,it’sbarelyabovefreezingouthereandshe’ssoakingwet.
“Evie,”Ibreathe,handshoveringoverherbeforeIturnheronherback.Sheblinksupatmewithdazedeyes,teethclenchedtightaroundtheshiversrackingherbody.Icurlmypalmaroundthenapeofherneckandthesoundshemakessplintersrightthroughmychest
“Hey,”shesays,hervoicearasp.Shetriestosmilebutallshemanagesisagrimaceinstead.“If-f-f-fellintothep-p-pond.”
“Whatthefuckwereyoudoing?”Iask,awarethatI’myellingfornoreason.ButIcan’tstopmyself,notwhenherskinisfadedtoadullbrownishgrayandshecanbarelykeephereyesopen.
IglanceovermyshoulderasIcupmyhandsaboveherelbows,herskinsogoddamnedcoldIcurseundermybreath.Islipmyfingersawayandfumblewithmyjacket,rippingitoffmyarmsandtuckingitaroundher.Notthatit’lldohermuchgoodwithherclothessoakingwet.Butsheclutchesittoherchestlikealifelineandburieshernoseinthecollar.
“Comehere,”Itellher,handsshaking.Ituckonebeneathhershouldersandtheotherunderherkneesandliftheragainstme.WaterslipsdownmyarmsandIadjustmyjackettighteraroundher.ShegroansthesecondhercheekpressesagainstmyneckandIsuckinasharpbreaththroughmyteeth.
She’sfreezing.
“W-w-wasfindingso-somehap-p-p-y,”shewhispersintomyneck,handsdrapedlooselyovermyshoulders.Islipmypalmunderherwetshirtuntilthematerialbunchesatmywrist,rubbinghardatthesmallofherback.Iwanttoripthesunrightoutoftheskyandurgeitbackintoherskin,smoothmypalmsovereveryinchofheruntilshe’sglowingwithitagain.
“How’dthatworkoutforyou?”Ibreatheagainstherforehead,watchingasBarneyfinallyappearsontheGator.He’sdrivingthethinglikeamadman,takingtheturnaroundthefencelikeabatoutofhell.Istarttoheadinhisdirection,carefultokeepEvelynclose.
Shesnortsalaughintomyskinthatsoundslikeawhimper,hernosepressedtighttomythroat.“C-c-couldhavebeenbet-t-t-er.Thanks.”
Barneyhitsthebreaksandacloudofdustrisesaroundus,eyeswideinhistanface.HetakesonelookatEvelyninmyarmsandhismouthflattensintoathinline.
“Howlonghasitbeen?”
IclamberintothefrontseatwithEvelynandwrapmyselfaroundher.OvermydeadbodyamIlayingherinthebackseat.“Don’tknow,”Itellhim.Inoseintoherwethairandtracemypalmoverherstomach,tryingtopourallofmyheatintoher.Herhandcurlsaroundmywristandsheholdsmethere,squeezingonce.
“W-walkedfromthep-pond,”sheanswerswithanotherrollingshiverasBarneytakesoffwitharumble,headingtowardsmycabin.Iplantmybootagainstthefloorofthesmalltruckandholdon.Thepondiseasilyhalfamilefromwherewearenowandwhoknowshowlongittookherwalkinglikethis.“Myph-phonewasinmypo-po-pocket.”
“Yousaidyouweretakingabreak,right?Youdon’tneedit.”Ican’tbelieveshe’sthinkingaboutherphonewhenshecanbarelystringtwowordstogether.Ahotflareoffrustrationknocksbehindmyeyesfollowedbybone-deeppanic.
She’stoodamncold.
“W-w-whyIdidn’tc-c-callyou,”sheexplains,tiltingherheadbacktonarrowhereyesatme.Herhandsqueezesmywristagain.“G-grumpy.”
DamnrightI’mgrumpy.I’malsoterrified.Fuckingfuriouswithmyself.
BarneycomestoascreechinghaltinfrontofmycabinandIimmediatelyclimbout,myhandprotectivelycuppingEvelyn’shead,herfacestilltuckedinthecrookofmyneck.Everybrushofherice-coldskinagainstmineislikeawarningdrum,beatinginsidemyskull.Getherinside.Getherwarm.
“Nohotwater,”Barneycalls,hisfacelinedwithworry.“Ifyougetherintheshowerortub,itmightwarmheruptooquick.”Hetapsonceoverhischest.Overhisheart.“Blankets.Loadsof‘em.”
Atmyquestioningglance,heshrugs.“FellintothebayinDecemberhelpingmybrothertieupcrabpots.Whenthecoastguardfishedmeout,that’swhattheysaid.”HeputstheGatorintogearandeasesoffthebreak.“I’mgonnaheadtowardsthemainoffice.LetStellaknowandgeteverythingsorted.I’llgiveGusaringandhavehimcomeoverassoonashecan.”Hegivesmeasternlook.“Takecareofourgirl.”
Ourgirl.Anotherpieceofmebreaksoff,somethingforEvelyntoholdinthepalmofherprettyhand.
HegoesrumblingbacktowardsthefarmandItakethestepstwoatatime,burstingthroughthefrontdoor.Evelynshiversviolentlyagainstmyfront,herbreathinsmallpuffsagainstmyneck.ThecatsscramblearoundmyfeetasImovedownthehallway,headingstraightforthefireplace.Isetherdowncarefullyontheoversizedarmchairinfrontofit,draggingitcloserwithmyhandsbracedonbothsides.
ShefrownsatmeasIbackaway,stumblingtothestackoffirewoodonthemantle.IfeellikeI’mallthumbs,mymovementsuncoordinatedandclumsy.I’vebeenlightingfiressinceIwasakidbutIttakesmethreetriestolightthedamnmatch,myhandsshakingthewholetime.Itosstheflamebehindthegrateandbreatheoutslowlyasitcatchesandspreads,woodcurlingattheedges.Iseehertrytostandupoutofthecornerofmyeyeandmyteethclenchinanaudiblesnap.
“Sitthefuckdown.”
“B-b-utthecouch.I’mallwet.”
“Evie,Isweartogod.Idon’tgiveashitaboutthecouch.”Iriponeoftheblanketsofftheotherandthrowitonthehardwoodatherfeet,thefirebeginningtosnapbehindme.Mygazedragsupherhuddledbodyontheveryedgeofthearmchair,fromherwaterloggedbootstoherdrippingsweater.
“Takeoffyourclothes,”Ibark,beforestompingmywaythroughthecabintomybedroom.
IwishIcouldbesofter,morecomforting,butmybodyfeelspulledtight,everythingasecondawayfromcollapse.Ican’tstopreplayingthemomentsheappearedoverthehill,thewayherbodyswayedandthenfelloutofview.Likeaflowerwiltingonthevine.Ican’tstopseeingthewayshepulledintoherselfasIturnedherover,handsgraspingatnothing.
Iballupthecomforterfrommybedandstalktowardsthelivingroom.Evelynisstandingagain,herbacktomeasshefumbleswithherclothesinfrontofthefireplace.Allshe’smanagedtodoiskickoffhershoes,hershakinghandsattemptingtoloosenthebuttononhersoakingwetjeans.
Shelooksatmeoverhershoulder,afaintlypleadinglookthatevaporatesallofmyangerandreplacesitwithatenderache.“Beck,Ic-c-can’t–“
“It’salright.”Itossthecomforterwiththeotherblanketandcurlmyselfaroundherback,gentlymovingherhandstohersides.HerwetsweatersoaksmyshirtasIslipthebuttonofherjeansfree,thebacksofmyknucklesbrushingagainstthesoftskinofherstomachasIworkatthezipper.Ijerktheheavymaterialoverherhipsandshemakesasmallnoise,athinexhalefromhernose.GoosebumpsappearonherskinasIworkthewetjeansdownandoffherlegs.
“Sorry,”Imutter,myhandaroundthebackofherkneeasItrytohelpherstepoutofthem.Mythumbtracesabsentlyoverdelicateskin.She’sstillsocold.
Somethingthatsoundslikealaughgarblesoutofher,herhandscuppingherelbowsandherchinpressedtoherchest.“Nothingyouh-haven’tseenbe-f-fore.”
Iclenchmyjaw.“Doesn’tmeanit’sanopeninvitation,”Itellher,myvoicegruffwithfrustration.I’mtoofocusedonthecirclesbeneathhereyesandthepalebluetintofherlipstonoticeanythingelse—thestickycoldthatherskiniscoatedwith,herclothesstiffandunyielding.Igetbacktomyfeetandliftthehemofhershirt,guidingitoverherhead.I’mcarefulnottotangleherhairwhenherwholebodygivesatremendousshake,theshirtthrowntothefloorwithaheavyplop.Ismoothmypalmsdownhersidesinavigorousrubandherwholebodyshivers.
She’snothingbutthincottonandbareskininfrontofme,hershoulderbladescurvedlikefoldedwingsasshehunchesforward.Ireachforthecomforterandwrapitaroundherfront,hesitatingforhalfasecondbeforegrabbingmysweatshirtandpullingitoff.Itugatmyt-shirttoo,leavingmychestandtorsobare.Evelynlooksbackatme,darkeyesheavyandexhausted.
“That’sn-n-nice,”shemurmursaroundanotherferocioustremble,herchinandthecurveofherlipsbarelyvisibleaboveherblanketcocoon.ItwouldbecuteifIwasn’tsodamnworried,herdarkhairstillawetclumpagainstherforehead.
Iduckintothecomforterwithher,myarmsslippingaroundherstomachandguidingheragainstmeuntilherbarebackrestssnugagainstmychest.Isuckinasharpbreathwheneveryfrozeninchofherpressesagainstme,herhandsmovingfromtheblankettoclutchatmyarmsinstead.
Ineedseventeenmoreblankets.Oneofthosehotwaterbottlethingsmymomusedtoputinourbedswhenwewerekids.
“W-warm.”Herexhaleisasighofrelief.It’sthreeshufflingstepstothecouchthatisn’tcoveredinsoakingwetclothes.WhenIcollapsebackintoit,ImakesuretokeepEvelynagainstme,guidingherbodyabovemineuntilshe’ssittingsideways,herlegstuckedovermylap.Iwrapmyhandaroundherankleandsqueeze,mythumbrubbingatthejutofherbone.
Wesitinsilence,thefiregrowinginthehearthuntiltheroomisglowingwithit—thecrackleoftheflamesurgingmetosettle.IcanfeeltheheatlickingatmyshinsandIangleherbodyuntilshe’sascloseasshecanbe,tuckedrightagainstme.
“Youcalledm-meEvie,”shesayssomewhereintomyneck,herpalmslidingfrommywristtomyelbow.Shenuzzlescloser,greedyforwarmth.
“That’syourname,isn’tit?”Igiveintotheurgetobrushmylipsagainsttheshellofherear,usingmyfingersatherbacktogentlycombthroughtheendsofherhair.It’sstilldrippingandIwraptheedgeofthecomforteraroundit,tryingtosqueezeoutsomeoftheextrawater.Ishouldhavebroughtheratowel.Madeherteainthekitchen
“Youhav–haven’tcalledmethatinawhile,isall,”shereplies,lazyandslow.Hershakinghasslowed,herjawfinallyrelaxingfromthetightclenchofherteeth.IstaredownatwhatIcanseeofherface,herdarkeyelashesfannedagainsttheriseofhercheek
“Ili–likeit,”shetellsme—astatement.Shepausesandbreathesoutaheavy,waterysigh.“Imissedit,”sheadds—asecret.
Imovemyhandtoherback,slowingmytouchuntilmypalmrestsalongthecenterofherspine.Ispreadmyfingerswideandlistentothesoundofherbreathing.Imatchminetohers.
“Imissedit,too,”Iconfess.
ThechillstartstoleaveherskinasIcontinuetoholdher,asoftlightfromthefireplacefillingtheroom.Oneofthekittensappearsattheedgeofthecouch,hertinyfaceturnedupinconcern.Evelyn’sbodyrelaxesagainstmineandIadjustmygrip,nudgingatheroncewithmynose.“Hey.Idon’tthinkyoushouldsleep.Talktomeforafewminutes.”
Shegrumblessomethingunderherbreath,shiftingaroundinmylapuntilherarmislowaroundmybackandherkneeishuggingmyside.She’susingmeasahumanpillowandthethoughtmakesmesmile,someofthetensionfinallyslippingfrommyshoulders.
“Aboutwhat?”sheasks.
“Idon’tknow.Whatdoweusuallytalkabout?”
“Iusuallyaskyouabunchofquestionsandyoug-gruntatme.”Shelaughsintothebouquetofdaisiesonmyshoulder,thedelicatepetalsfanningoutovermychest.Shetracesoveritgently—thelongstems,thethinribboninkedbetweenthem.Herthumbtrailstothehollowofmythroatandsheleavesitthere,noseatmycollarbone.Iadjustherinmylap.
Ican’tthinkwhenallherskinispressedtomine.Icanhardlybreathe.
WhenIdon’tofferanythinginthewayofconversation,shesighs.“Tellmesomethingaboutthesky.”
Itiltmyheadbackagainstthecouchandconsider,stretchingmylegsoutbeneaththecoffeetable.“There’sameteorshowerattheendofApril,”Istart.HerlegsshiftandI’mdistractedbytheweightofheragainstme,herbottomlipdraggingagainstmyskin.Ibreatheinslowly.
“Iknow,”shetellsme.“Isawitonyourf-fridge.”
IforgotIputthemapthere.UsuallyoneofthecatscollectsitfortheirnestandIhavetoextractitfrombetweenstolenshirtsandanecktieI’veworntwice.
Evelyn’sweightbecomesheavieragainstme,herforeheadnudgingatmychin.Ijostleherslightly,myhandslidingacrossherskin.“Comeon,honey.Stayawakewithme.”
Shewhinesanditsendsaboltofheatrocketingthroughmyblood.Iclearmythroatandgrappleforsomethingtofillthelimitedspacebetweenus.
“Ireadonlinethatit’sconsideredacommonshower.”That’swhatthearticlesaid.Common.Likeabunchofdust,rock,andiceleftoverfromthecreationofthesolarsystemisn’tsomethingincredible.Whendidwestopmarvelingattheworldaroundus?Whendidwestoplookingatthestars?
“Meteorscomefromcomets?”Shemumblesitintomyneck,lazyandslow.
Inod.“Yeah.”Islipmyhanddowntoherhipandsqueezeonce.“Bitsofcomet,Isuppose.Whentheremnantsstarttofallthroughouratmosphere,theycatchonfire.”
“Whenyoup-putitlikethat,”shelaughs,aslightcatchinthesound.“Itsoundsbeautiful.”
Ismileagainsthertemple.“Itis,though.Itiswhenyouthinkaboutit.Thesethingsarecirclingtheskyfor—godknowshowlong,really.Andthenweknockintotheirwayandtheystarttofall,lightinguptheskyastheygo.Thinkabouteverykidthatlooksuptotheskyandseesthatflashoflight.That’smagic,isn’tit?”Eightyearsoldandstandinginmyparents’backyard,cornstalksuptomykneesandmypajamasasizetoobig,thehemofmypantsdragging.Aflashoflightandmyheartinmythroat.Awishmadeonastar.“Whatinthehelliscommonaboutthat?”
“Itoldyou,I’mnotgoing.”
IpeeroutofthekitchentothelivingroomwhereEvelyniswrappedupinfourblanketsonthecouch,amugofteacuppedgentlybetweenherhands.Thecatshaveallburrowedinvariousspotsinhercocoon.IcanseeVixenbyhershoulder,hertailcurledgentlyoverthebackofEvelyn’sneck.Withapurelyselfishimpulse,IbroughtheroneofmyflannelstowearandIcanmakeouttherolledsleeveasshebringsthemugtoherlips,thecollarstretchedwideoverbareskin.
Gusstoppedbynottoolongago,theambulancebarrelingintomydriveway.Evelynhadbeenmortified,handscurledtighttoherchest,quietlyaskingifbringingthebehemothwasreallynecessary.Gushadchuckledandunloadedhisbag,gentlycheckingherover.
“It’smyworkwhip,”hetoldher,twofingerspressedtothedelicateskinonherwristashetookherpulse.“NexttimeI’llrentalimousine.”
Ihadmadeasoundatthat.Therewon’tbeanexttime.Wewon’teverbere-visitingthislittletriptothepondagain.ThenexttimeEvelyngoesthere,it’llbeone-hundred-and-twoandsunny.I’llputherononeofthosebackpackleashes.Nowthatthefearisgone,I’mleftwithnothingbutabuzzoffrustration.Ihavetoholdmyselfbackfromsittingclosetoher,scoopingherupagainstme.Iwanttofeeltheheatthrummingbeneathherskin.Iwanttowrapherinsevenmoreblanketsandlockherinthishouse.
Islamtheboxofteabagsshutandtossthemetalcontainerinthecabinet,makingenoughnoisetowakethedead.Isomehowmanagetonotdislodgethephonecradledagainstmyshoulder.
“Oh,nowyou’retellingmethings,”Novasnipsontheotherendoftheline.Icanimagineherpinchedface,thewayherhandsclenchintofistswhenshe’spissedaboutsomething.“You’vegotawoman—ahighprofilesocialmediastarlet,mindyou—stayingwithyouforweeks,andyoudon’tsayanythingtoanyone.Butnowyou’retellingme.Okay.”
“Didn’twanttomakeitathing,”Iexplain.Ialsodidn’twantallofmysistersshowinguponmydoorstep.Iwatchasthesocialmediastarletshiftsonthecouch,herhandpettingatoneofthecats.It’stheirownfaultiftheyhaven’tbeenpayingattentiontothephonetree.
“Youcouldhavementionedsomethingatdinnerthisweek.”
EvelynhadbeenatStella’splacewhenIattendedfamilydinneronTuesdaynight.IbroughtherhomeaTupperwarecontainerofpotatosaladandsheateitforbreakfast,threedaysinarow.
“Therewasnothingtomention.”
Novasnorts.
“Ihavenoideahowlongshe’sstayingandyouguysget…weird.”
Theygetinvasive.AlloftheroomsinthishousewouldhavesuddenlyfoundthemselvesoccupiedbythesistersPorterifIsomuchasmentionedEvelyn’sname.
“Wedon’tgetweird.”
Ikeepmythoughtstomyself.It’snotworththeargument.
Novacirclesbacktoheroriginalpoint.“Youhavetogo.”
“Iabsolutelydonothavetogo.”Evelyn’sblankexpressionmorphsintocuriosity,aquestiononherbrowwhensheglancesovertome.Irollmyeyes.“IfixedtheCarterthing.Harpercanbeonyourteamagain.”
“Harperdoesn’tknowanythingaboutbotany.”
“Sheknowssomethings.”Likeplantsneedsunlightandwatertolive,butthat’sprobablyit.
“Doyounotcareifwewin?”
“Nova.”Istirsomehoneyintomymug.“PleasebelievemewhenIsaythatIcouldnotcareanylessaboutyourchancesatwinning.”
Shesucksinadeepbreathandpauses.Icanhearherdeviouslittlemindplottingontheotherendofthephone.“Alright,well,”shesighs,agustofbreath.She’sprobablysittingcross-leggedinhertattoostudio,asketchpadopenonherlap.“I’msureitwillbefine.Momwillbedisappointedyouaren’tthere,butyoucanalwaysvisitheranothertime.”
Ipinchthebridgeofmynose.“Wentrightforthekill-shot,didn’tyou?”
Shesnickers.“Iplaytowinthegame,bigbrother.”
“I’mhangingupnow.”
“TellEvelynIsayhi.”
Itossmyphoneonthecounterwithaclatterandshufflebackintothelivingroom,kettleinhand.ItopoffEvelyn’smugandcollapsebackagainstthecouchwithasigh,herfeetautomaticallydiggingundermythigh.They’restillcoldandIconsidergettingbackupforathickpairofmysocks.MaybetheonesshestolethreedaysagothatshethinksIdon’tknowabout.
Shewatchesmeoverthetopofhermug,blowinggentlyonthesteam.Cometletsoutacontentpurrandjumpsontomylap,twitchinghertailatmyhipbeforesettlingintoafurrylittleheapacrossmyknees.
“Whatareyouavoiding?”
“Hm?”Ican’tthinkwhenshelookslikethat,myflanneloveroneshoulderandherbottomlipattheedgeofthemug.
“Yousaidyou’renotgoing.Whatwon’tyoubeattending?”
Idropmyeyesandbusymyselfwithafrayededgeoftheblanket.“Trivianightatthebar.”
“DidCarterbanyouorsomething?”
Isnort.I’dliketoseehimtry.“No.”
“Itsoundslikefun,”shesaysasshetakesasipfromhermug,browneyesfixedonme.Hervoicehasmoreofarasptoitthanusual,ahuskinessthathasmeshiftinginmyseatandrememberingwhatitwasliketohearthatvoiceinbed.NowthatshehascolorbackinhercheeksandI’mlessfranticwithworry,Ifindmyselfconsideringthestretchofsmoothbrownskinofhershoulder.Howsoftshefeltwithmyarmsaroundher.Hernoseinmyneckandherhandscurledaroundme.
Sheholdsmystareandwaits.Ipackthosethoughtsaway.
“Idon’t—”Ibreakoffandconsidernotfinishingmysentence.ButsheprodsmewithhertoesandIsigh.“Idon’tlikegoingintotown.”
“I’vegatheredthat.”Anothersip.“Yougogroceryshoppinginthemiddleofthenight.”
Notthe…middleofthenight.Iusuallywaituntilhalfanhourbeforetheshopcloses,whenIknowthey’verestockedthestrawberryjamandthefudgecookies.ThestoreisalmostalwaysemptyandIdon’thavetotalktoanyoneovercansofsoup.
Socialanxiety.Soundsensitivity.Fancytermsformygeneraldiscomfortaroundotherpeople.MyparentssentmetoatherapistwhenIwastenyearsold,overwhelmedbyallthenoisearoundme.Theworstofitwasinschool,whenIcouldn’tgetthedamnnoiseto…stop.Allthechatteraroundmefeltliketheworstsortofbuzzundermyskin,settlingintoadeepachethatpoundedlikeametronomethrougheveryinchofmybody.
Icouldn’tfocus.Icouldbarelyspeak.Itwasmiserable.
“Beckett?”
Evelyntouchesthetopofmykneelightly,guidingmyattentionbackfromthetabletoheropenandeagerface.It’sthepartIlikebestabouther,Ithink,hercuriosityandkindness.Herdesiretohelpwhereshecan,howevershecan.
Whenshesayssomething,shereallymeansit.
ShefrownsatmeandIwishIcouldswipeatitwithmythumb.Makeeverythingalittlebiteasierforher.Behalfasgoodatthisassheis.AshiverslidesdownthesmoothlineofherneckandIreachforwardtoadjusttheblankethigher.IthinkI’vegotaheatedblanketaroundheresomewhere.Anextraquiltortwoinmyroom.
Myknucklesbrushherthroatandsheshiversagain,alittleshimmyofhershouldersandaclenchofherjaw.
“Stillcold?”
Sheshakesherhead,adazedsmilekickingupthecornerofhermouth.Ifeelhergazelikeatouchonmyskin,dancingdownmycheekandcuppingatmyjaw.“I’mokay,”shefinallysays.Shewigglesdownfurtherinherblankets.“Isitpeople?”
Ihum,distractedagainbyherhandsaroundthemug.Hernailsareapalepink.Thesamecolorassandonabeach.Aperfectlyripepeach,sittingprettyonatreebranch.“What?”
“You’renotexactlyatalker,Beck,”shegrinsatme.“Caseinpoint.”
Ihuffalaughandtucktheedgesoftheblanketstighteraroundher.“Idon’tknowhowtoexplainit,”Itellherslowly.“I’vealwayshadtroubletalkingtopeople.ItrytoavoidlargegroupsifIcan.”
I’mmostcomfortablewithpeopleIknow.Outside,ifIcanbe.Somethingaboutseeingtheskyabovemeloosenssomethingdeepinmychestandmakeseverything…easier.Idon’tthinksohardaboutwhatIhavetosay.Idon’ttripovermyownthoughts.
“Thefirsttimewemet,”shebegins,hereyessquintedinthought,remembering.“YoucamerightuptomeandaskedmewhatIwasdrinking.”
Thefirsttimeever,Ithink,thatIapproachedawomanatabarinsteadoflettingsomeonecometome.IthadfeltnecessarythatItalktoher.Atug,apull—whateveryouwanttocallit.IsawhersittingthereandIwantedtobesittingrightnexttoher.
“Thebarwemetinwasempty.Doyouremember?”
Shenods.“TherewasabaseballgameontheTVinthecorner.IstoppedinbecauseIsmelledthefrenchfriesfromthestreet.”Shegrins.“Theonesthatyoustolehalfof.”
Ididstealhalfofthem,afterIwastwoshotsoftequiladeepandherhandfoundmythighunderthetable.“Ichosethatbarbecauseitwastheleastcrowdedplaceonthestreet.”ThenIsawEvelynandIdidn’twanttogoanywhereelse.“Plus,everythinggetsquietwhenIlookatyou.”
Shegivesmeoneslowblink,lashesfluttering.Hereyesdancebetweenmine,bottomlipcaughtbyherteeth.“Wouldithelp?”
Irubtheedgeoftheblanketagain,thewornbluegraymaterialsoftundermytouch.“Wouldwhathelp?”
Shetiltsherheadtothesideandreachesovermetosethermugonthesidetable.HerhairbrushesmyforearmandI’mtheoneshivering.
“IfIcamewithyou,”shesays.Iswallowhardandbecomefascinatedwiththelegsofthecoffeetable.“Wouldithelptohaveafriendwithyou?Attrivia?”
Idon’twanttobeherfriend.Iwanttobetheexactopposite.Iwanttobethepeoplewewerewhenwewereawayfromeveryoneelse.Ialmostsayit,bitingdownontheinsideofmycheektokeepthethoughttomyself.
“Idon’tknow,”Ianswerslowly.Probablynot.I’mmostcomfortablewithmyfamilyandeventhen,it’sachallengeformetositsomewherewithsomuchsoundaroundme.Trivianightisan…event.ItalmostalwaysendswithDanecartingpeopletothedrunktankatthestation.Lasttime,hehadtoputBeckyGardenerinthebackofhiscruiserforlaunchingaplateofchickentendersacrosstheroom.
“I’llgowithyou,”shesays,justasslowly.“Ifyouwantedtotry.”CHAPTERTWELVEEVELYN
IgruntasIreachforthehandleofthebakehousedoor,seventeenlayersofclothesthickandwarmaroundme.Becketthadglaredatmeasheforcedasweatshirtovermyheadinthekitchenthismorning—anoldgreen,fadedthingwithagiantbadgeracrossthechest.
“Stayawayfromwatertoday,”heordered,lipstilteddownward.Ihadgonetopullmyhairloosefrommycollarbuthehadgottentherefirst,gatheringitupinhisfist.Hehadpaused,justforasecond,andthenreleaseditdownmyback.
Therehadbeenahandfulofmemoriesinthatsecond.Icouldseeitinthesingleflashofdarknessinthosebrighteyes.Heremembered,sameasIdid.Hishandsinmyhair,tiltingmyheadbackasheguidedmetowardsabedwithtoomanypillows.Stickyhumidityagainstmyskin.Adeep,indulgentmoanfromme.Ashakyexhalepressedrightbetweenmybreastsfromhim.
Theribbonofsilverbellsabovethedoorannouncesmyarrivalandsuccessfullydisruptsmylittledaydream.
LaylaandStellaglanceupfrombehindthecounter,Stella’sfacetwistinginconfusionatmymarshmallowmanlayers.It’snotevencoldtoday.Icanfeelasinglebeadofsweatslippingdownmyspine.
“Cutesweatshirt,”Laylasaysimmediately,aslygrinonherfulllips.Shehasacakeinfrontofher,whitebuttercreamandhuntergreenicing.Atrailofdelicate,paleblueforget-me-notscascadedowntheside,herhandpoisedabove.Sheadjustshergriponthebagandtiltsherheadtotheside.“Ilikeyournewfarmlook.Itsuitsyou.”
Itsuitsmetoo,whenI’mnotsweatinghalftodeath.Iputterovertothecountertopandpickupabrokencookie,Layla’sstackofimperfectdiscardsonatrayforanyonetograb.
I’msupposedtobehelpingherwithherweekendorders,butmaybeI’lleatallherscrapsandcallitaday.IfeellikeI’veearnedthat.
“Isawtheambulancepullinyesterday.”Stellawipesherhandsoffonatowelandstepsaroundthecounter.“IwasgoingtostopbyifIdidn’tseeyoutoday.Everythingokay?”
Theambulance.God.IhadneverfeltlikemoreofaninconveniencethanwhenGuscamerumblingintoBeckett’sdrivewaywithhisredandwhitebehemoth.Atleasthedidn’thavethelightsandsirensgoing.I’mprettysureIwouldhavecrawledunderthebedinthespareroomandnevercomeout.
“I’mokay.Becketttookgoodcareofme.”Withtheblanketsandhiswarmskinpressedtomine,hisarmstightaroundme,hischinonmyshoulder.Ifeelanotherflushofheatthathasnothingtodowithmylayers.Hehadn’thesitatedatall,instantlyscoopingmeupandholdingmeclose.
Laylasnickersdownathercake,apracticedflickofherwristasshepipesatiny,perfectleafonthecorner.“I’msurehedid.”
Igiveheralookaroundamouthfulofoatmealchocolatechipcookie.“Verymatureofyou.”
Ifinishmycookieandtuckmyelbowsintomychest,anattempttopullmyarmsfromthesleevesofmytoptwolayers.ThethickmaterialbunchesaroundmybicepsandImakeahelplesssoundasIattempttotwistout.
Stellatakesmercyonmeandgripsthehem.“I’mgladyouwereabletogettoBeckett.It’salongwalkfromthepondtothefields.”
Evenlongerwhenyou’resoakingwetandshiveringsobadlyyoucanhardlybreathe.Ilostmycoatsomewhereontheway,thethingsoheavywithwateritfeltlikeseventy-fiveextrapoundsofweight.I’llhavetogograbitatsomepoint.
StellatugsthesweatshirtupandovermyheadandIbreatheoutasighofrelief.Movement.Oxygen.Sweet,sweetfreedom.Shedrapesthejumbleofcottonoverachair.“Whatwereyoudoingoutatthepondanyway?Wereallyonlyeveruseitinthesummer.”
“Trying.”Iofferinanexplanationthatmakesabsolutelynosenseatall.ButStellaalwaysseemstoreadbetweenthelines.Theconfusiononherfacesettlesintoasoftunderstanding,herhandsqueezingatmyarmonce.
“Everythingokay?”
Inod,shrug,andthenshakemyhead.“Idon’tknow.”Ituckmyhandsintothecuffsofmyshirtandglanceatthepicturehangingjustbehindthecounter—Beckett,LaylaandStellatogetherwithagiantpairofscissors,cuttingabigredbowinfrontofthebakehouse.“Doyoueverfeellike—doyoueverwanttoslowdown?Notberesponsibleforeverything,allofthetime?”
Shebreaksoffapieceofmycookieassheconsidersheranswer.“Aboutsixmonthsintoowningthefarm,Istartedsleepwalking.Mostofthetime,I’dwakeupsomewhereinthehouse.Goingthroughdrawersinthekitchen.Inexplicablytakingallmyclothesoutofthedresser.Rearranginghouseplants.OthertimesI’dwakeupinmyoffice,sittingbehindmydesk.”Shehuffsalaugh.“OnceIwokeupinthemiddleoftypinganemailtoasupplier,askingforfourtimestheamountofeverything.Beckettwouldhavehadenoughtopsoilforyears.”
“Theofficeisprettyfarfromyourhouse.”Atleastinthemiddleofthenight,itis.Whenoneispresumablyasleep.
Stellanods.“Yeah.OnenightIfellinthemiddleofthefield.Sprainedmyankle.Ihadtohopmywayhomeinmypajamas.”Sheshakesherhead.“Iwascoveredindirt,sittinginmykitchen,withmylegproppeduponthecounter.”
Itakeanothernibbleofcookie.“WasLukamad?”
Shenods.“Furious.HewasupsetthatInevertoldhimaboutthesleepwalking.ThatithadbeenhappeningforawhileandIneverthoughttomentionit,orslowdown.”
Sheglancesoutthewindowtothetreesbeyond,ahalf-smiletuggingatherlips.“I’mnotgreatatlisteningtomyself.SomedaysIpushmyselftoohard.Somedayswedon’tgetasinglecustomerandIpanicaboutlosingeverything.SomedaysImakeupanelaboratestorywithmybestfriendandpretendwe’reinarelationshipsoasocialmediainfluencerlikesusmore.”Shegivesmearuefulgrin.“SomedaysI’msotiredIcanhardlyremembermyname.Andthat’swhat’sexpected,right?Whenyouownabusiness.Ithink—Ithinkwe’retoldthatweshouldembracethegrind.Thework.Thateverythingwillbeworthitintheend.Butsometimesweneedrestmorethanweneedanotherthingonourlist.Andthat’sokay.I’mlearningthat’sreallyokay.”
Iblowoutanoisybreath.That’swhatI’mlookingfor,Ithink.Alittlerest.Somethingslower.I’msotiredofeverythingelse.
Stellawatchesmecarefully.“It’sokaytowantdifferentthings,”shesays.“Peoplechange.You’reallowedtochange.Doinglessdoesn’tmakeyouless.”
Seasonschangeandsodowe.IwonderifStellamadethebannerthathangsinthecenteroftown.
“Niceshirt,”Laylacalls,alaughhiddeninhervoice.Ilookdownattheoversizedflanneltiedinaknotatmywaistandpluckatoneofthebuttons
“It’scomfortable,”Isay.
“Mmhmm.”
“It’sreallysoft.”
“I’msureitis.”
NotassoftasthelookonBeckett’sface,though,whenhehelpedmeslipthematerialovermyshoulders,hisknucklesgrazingtheinsideofmyarmandthenmycollarbone.Mine,thatlookhadsaid,possessioninthenimbleworkofhisfingersagainstthebuttons.Butthenhehadclearedhisthroatandlookedaway,staringathismugoftealikeitheldthemeaningtolife.
Ihavenoideawhathewantsfromme,ifheevenwantsanythingfrommeatall.
Stellastudiesmewithaknowinglook.“Haveyoutalkedtohim?”
“HeknowsIhavehisshirt.”
“Thatisn’twhatImeantandyouknowit.”
Ihaven’t.WhatcouldIpossiblysay?ThatnightinMainewasoneofthebestnightsofmylife.Iwanttokeepsittingonyourbackporch.
Everydaywespendtogether,Ionlylikeyoumore.
Ican’t.There’sstilltoomuchtofigureout.I’mconfusedaboutworkandthatconfusionisbleedingout,jumblinguptherestofme.
Specificallymyfeelingsforaveryhandsomeandverystoicfarmer.
Ourconversationisinterruptedbyaknockagainstthethickglassofthefrontdoor.CalebAlvarezedgesthedooropenandpokeshisheadthrough,therestofhislongbodylingeringonthesmallporch.Darkhair,bashfulgrin.EyesonlyforLayla.
“Youopenforbusinessyet?”
Laylawaveshiminfrombehindthecounter,tonguebetweenherteethasshefinishespipingherflowers.“Alwaysforyou,Deputy.”
Calebstraightensandslipsthroughthedoor,apleasedblushhighonhistannedcheeks.Hegivesusawaveandasheepishsmilethatcausestwindimplestoblinktolifeinhischeeks.StellaandIsighinunison.“ToldyoutocallmeCaleb,”hecallstoLayla.
“Yourcakewillbereadyinasec,”Laylaoffers.“Helpyourselftoacoffeewhileyouwait.”
CalebducksbehindthecountertothecoffeepotandStellaleansclosertome,hidinghermouthwiththebackofherhand.“Thisisthethirdcustomcakehe’sorderedthismonth,”shewhispers.“Ithinkhe’sgainedfifteenpounds.”
Itakeinhistrimbody,legscrossedattheanklesasheleansagainstthecounterandstaresatLaylalikeshe’smadeofsugarplumsandfairy-dust.Maybeallthosecaloriesaregoingrighttohisgiganticheart.Igrin.
“Hasshenoticed?”
ThesmileslipsfromStella’sfaceassheshakesherhead.“She’ssousedtomentreatingherlikegarbage,Idon’tthinksherecognizeswhensomeonehasgenuineinterestinher.”Shesighsandrubsafingertipacrosshereyebrow.“I’vegotfaithinCaleb,though.”
SodoI,ifLayla’slaughisanyindication.Itburstsoutofheratsomethinghequietlymurmursoverthecountertop,anansweringgrinbloomingonhishandsomeface.
Inarrowmyeyes.“Doesthatmeanyou’vegotmoneyonCaleb?”
ThelasttimeIwashere,Istumbleduponatown-widebettingpoolwithoddsonStellaandLukamakingitofficial;asurprisinglyorganizedandefficientwhiteboardinthebackofthefirehousewithscribblednamesandamounts.
Stellasnickers.“Lukadoes.”
IeatoatmealchocolatechipcookiesuntilIhavetounbuttontheclaspofmyjeans,reclinedinthebackkitchenacrossthreesacksofsugar.ImakeamoaningsoundasLaylawalksbywithatrayofbrownies,asmallsquaredroppedneatlyonmychest.
“You’regonnakillme,”Igroan.
“Deathbychocolate.”Layladropsthetrayonthelargemetalislandinthemiddleoftheroomandwipesherpalmsagainstherapron.“Thereareworsewaystogo.”
Isitupandwatchasshecutsthebrowniesintoperfecttwo-inchsquares,hermovementsgracefulandefficient.ThewholedayI’vewatchedherspinaroundthisbakehouselikeadancer,everysinglemovementastepinanelaboratelychoreographedroutine.
“YoumovedtoInglewildwhenyoufinishedcollege,right?”
Laylahumsandnods,reachingforsomeplasticwrapatherelbow.“ImetStellaourfreshmanyearatSalisbury.Idecidedtomovehereonawhim,really.Notmuchofaplan.”Shepressesthebackofherhandacrossherforehead,fingertipscoveredindarkchocolate.“IlivedwithStellaforawhile.Wesharedatinyapartmentabovetheservicestation.I’mprettysureIsmelledlikeoilandgreaseforsixmonthsstraight.Beatricehatedit.”
“Ms.Beatrice?”
“Ah,yeah.Iworkedatthecafeforawhile.ShetaughtmeeverythingIknowaboutbakedgoods.”
Huh.Ihadnoidea.I’mguessingMs.Beatricekepthershortbreadrecipetoherself.Layla’seyesnarrowinasecretsmile,herpinklipscurledattheedges.“IknowBeckettgetscookiesontheside.Itamusesmetowatchhimsneakaround.”
Herphonebeginstorattleacrossthecountertopandsheglancesatthescreen.“Speakofthedevil,”shemutters.Shereadswhatevermessagepopsupandsnortsalaugh.“Beckettsayshe’srunninglateandyoushouldheadtotriviawithme.Healsosaysweshouldnot,underanycircumstance,walkbythefountainintown.Youmightgocareeningin.”
Irollmyeyes.“HowlongamIgoingtobeteasedaboutthis?”
“Oh,adecadeorso.Isyourphonestillinthepond?”
“Probably,”Isay.Iimagineitsittingatthebottomwiththesiltandthemud,anendlessstreamofsocialmediaalertspinginglikebubbles.Theimageisoddlysatisfying.“What’sthelikelihoodBeckettisavoidingtrivia?”
“Depends,”Laylahangsupheraprononapegbythedoorandrollsoutherneck.Theamountofthingsthiswomancreatesinadayisastounding.Peachtartsandwarmbuttercroissantsanddonutswithfreshvanillacustardinside.SheshouldhaveherownFoodNetworkshow,anentirelineofcookware.“Whodidhepromise?YouorNova?”
“Me.”
Shesmiles.“Thenhe’llbethere.”
Thebariscrowdedwhenwearrive,severallargefoldingtablesfillingthespacethatwasemptyonlyafewdaysago.Therearegroupsclusteredtogetheralongeach,chairspushedtogetherandeveryoneisdressedin—
“Arethosecostumes?”Thereisamanatthefarendwithhiselbowsrestingonthetable,leavesinhishair,hischestwrappedinwhatlookslikebrownpaper.
Laylanodsandwavestosomeonebythebar.“Yup.Oneoftherulesfortriviaisyouhavetodresstothethemeifyou’reonateam.”
Iseeaprettyyoungwomanstandingbehindthemanwiththebutcher’spaperwearingallyellow,toptobottom.Shehasfakevinestwistingupfromhersneakerstoherknees.“Andtonight’sthemeis…”
Laylabendsoveracouplehavingaspiriteddiscussionaboutmozzarellasticksandgrabsaflieroffthetable.Atthetopinbigboldletters,itreadsGARDENPARTY.Iglancebackupatthemanwhomustbeatree,andhispartnerwho,Iguess,isa…sun?
Laylalaughs.“Theinterpretationsarealwayscreative.Ah,there’sBeckett’sfamily.Wecansitwiththembeforeitstarts,butIwanttobeoutofswingingdistancewhenthequestionsgetgoing.”
Ifollowafterherthroughthecrowd,steppingaroundsomeonewithactualfeathersstucktoamajorityoftheirbody.Asparrow?Whoknows.
“Swingingdistance?”
“Itisn’ttrivianightifastooldoesn’talmostgothroughthewindow.”
“What?”Herstatementhasmepausingrightattheedgeofthetablewe’vebeenworkingourwaytowards,fiveheadswithvaryingdegreesofdarkblondehairbentclosetogetherandwhispering.Laylaclearsherthroatandthemanclosesttousshootsupinhisseat,grinalreadypullinghismouthwide.
“Laaaaayla,”hesings,voicetiltingdownanoctaveattheendashedoeshisbestEricClaptonimpersonation.Laylalaughsandbendsatthewaisttokisshimonthecheek.Hiseyesslanttomeandhold,andhisgrinturnsmischievous.HehasthesamefeaturesasBeckett,butlightersomehow.Laughlinesdeepbyhiseyesandaroundhismouth.Idon’tnoticethewheelchairuntilhepullsbackslightlyfromthetable,turningthewheelsinmydirectionwithonesurehand.“YoumustbeEvelyn.Mysonisawfullyevasiveaboutyou.”
“He’sevasiveabouteverything,”thewomanathiselbowmumbles,butshe’ssmilingtoo,familiarblue-greeneyesonherkindface.Everyoneatthetableiswearingadifferentversionofaflowercrown,thickwithseededeucalyptusandmagnolialeaves,perfectbloomsofbrightpurplestaticewovenbetween.Shepatsthespaceacrossfromherwithacat-that-got-the-canarysmile.“Comesitwithus.”
“Trynottosoundlikesuchacreep,Ness.Christ.”Asmallwomangripes,afrenchfryhangingoutofhermouthlikeacigarette.Shegivesmealittlewave.“I’mNova.I’mhisfavorite.”
“Favoriteheadache,maybe.”
“AtleastIdidn’tputmyfootthroughhissparebedroomceiling.”
Nessablanches.“Shutup.Hestilldoesn’tknowaboutthat.”Sheglancesatme.“Doesheknowaboutthat?”
“Ihavenoidea.”
ImakeanotetochecktheceilingintheothertwobedroomswhenIgetbacktoBeckett’sandslipintotheemptyseat.Anolderwomanwithstreaksofgrayinherhoneyblondehairsmilesatme,nudgingapitcherofbeerinmydirection.
“It’sgoodyougothereearly,”shesays.“Nowwecantalkwithoutinterruptions.”
Thereareplentyofinterruptions.AllintheformofBeckett’sfamilyeagerlyaskingquestionsoveroneanother
“Whichofhistattoosisyourfavorite?”Novaasks.
I’veonlyconsumedaquarterofmybeer,butansweredclosetoone-hundred-and-sevenquestions.ApparentlyBecketthassharednothingwiththemattheirweeklydinners,andthey’rerabidforinformation.I’mhappyenoughtoindulge,delightedbythewaytheybanterwithoneanother,loveineverysinglesmileandsnapandspilleddrink.Theyremindmeofnightswithmyparentsandauntiesandallofmycousins.
Thisquestionfeelslikeatrick,though.
“Didyoudoanyofthem?”IrememberMs.Beatricementionedthatshe’sanartist.
Novanodsproudly.“Allofthem—myfirstwhenIwassixteen.”ShetapstheinsideofherwristwhereIknowBecketthasasmallleaf.“IwashavingtroublefindingclientsandBeckettvolunteered.Hekeptvolunteering,”shelaughs.
Ithinkabouttheartthatcoverseverysquareinchofhisarms,fromthebacksofhishandstothestronglineofhisshoulders.IpictureamuchyoungerBeckettsittingwithhisarmoutstretched,allowinghislittlesistertocarvehermarkonhisskinandmyheartswellsinmychest.
“Thegalaxyone,”Ianswerherquestionandrubmyfingeralongmytricep.“Theonerighthere.Thecoloringisgorgeous.”
Ithidesunderhist-shirtmostofthetime,abrightbluestreakpokingthroughwhenhissleevesareslightlyrolledorwhenhe’sreachingforsomethingabovehishead.Arichcobaltwithstreaksofpurple,theinksosmoothit’slikesomeonepressedtheirthumbanddraggeditacrosshisskin.Tiny,delicatestarsoutlinedincrispwhite.
Novabeams,pleased.“Igavehimthatforhisbirthdayacoupleofyearsago.It’smyfavorite,too.”
“What’syourfavorite?”Beckett’sdeepvoicerumblesagainstmybackasabighandappearsovermyshoulderandliftsthebeeroutofmygrip.Itiltmyheadbackandwatchashetakesalongpull,thestrongcolumnofhisthroatworking.
“Hi.”
Iwanttoleanmyheadbackuntilitrestsagainsthiship.IwanttotellhimI’vebeenthinkingabouthimallday.
Helookstired,alittlefrustrated.Butasmallsmilequirkshislipswhenheglancesdownatmewitharaisedeyebrow.“Hey.Mysistersgettingyoudrunk?”
“Notyet,”hismomsmilessoftlyandacceptsthekissheleansovertopresstohercheek.“Butwe’vegottime.Nowsitdownandputyourflowercrownon.Triviastartsinthreeminutes.”
Beckettdropsintotheseatnexttomeanddutifullyputsonhisflowercrownwithoutcomplaint.ItdipsoveroneeyeandIpushitbackonhisheaduntilthebloomsarerestinginhishair.HelookslikesomethingoutofGreekmythology,unfairlybeautiful.
“Damn,”Harperpouts.“Iwashopingyou’dlookridiculous.”
Beckett’seyesslanttowardsher,sittingcrossleggedattheendofthetablewithapi?acoladainfrontofher.“Gladtoseeyoucouldmakeit.”
Sheshrugs.“Can’tparticipate,”shegesturestowardsherfairblondehair,twistedbackinabraid,unadornedwithaflowercrown.“Didn’tdressup.”
Beckettreachesfortheleavesonhishead.“Youcanhave—“
“Oh,heyJenny!Holdonasec,I’llberight—”
Shestandsupwithoutfinishinghersentence,disappearingintothecrowdthatsurroundsthebar.Beckettreleasesadefeatedsighandfinishestherestofmybeer.
“Youokay?”Iask.
“It’sloud,”hesayswithawince.HereachesforthepitcherinthecenterofthetableandalmosttopplesitwhenGusclimbsuponthebartopwithamegaphone,announcingthestartofthegames.Heshakeshisheadslightly,ashort,reactionarymovementlikehe’sflickingoffaflyorshakingwateroutofhisear.Hesecuresthepitcherandpourshimselfanotherglass.“It’llbefine.”CHAPTERTHIRTEENEVELYN
Itisnotfine.
Hebarelyfinisheshisbeerbeforeadramaticriseofmusicbeginstopumpthroughthebar.ItsoundslikesomethingfromHarryPotterormaybe…BattlestarGalactica?Ihavenoidea.Whateveritis,Gusslowlyrisestothebeatfromhiscrouchedpositionontopofthebar,megaphoneinhand.
“LET’SGETREADYTOTRIVIA,”heshoutsintohisspeaker,draggingoutthelastworduntilhecan’tbreathe.Thecrowderuptsintoraucouscheers.
“JesusChrist,”Beckettsighsnexttome.
“Alright,everyone.Youknowtherules.Eachteamhasonerunner.You’llwritedownyouranswersandattheendofeachround,yourrunnerwillbringyoursubmissionstoMonty.”HepointsdownatthebarwhereMontysitswithanofficiallookinghatandawidegrin.“Thesheriffwouldalsolikemetoremindeveryonethatthetermrunnerdoesnotmeanyouhavetorun,andifanyonestartstacklingagain,that’sanimmediateendtothenight.”Gusnarrowshiseyesandsearchesthecrowd.“YouhearthatMabel,baby?Noviolencetonight.”
“I’veneverseentrivialikethisbefore,”Isayinthegeneraldirectionofthetable.
Novaslapsdownasheetofpaperthatlookslikeit’sembossedatthebottom,asharpiebetweenherteeth.“Andyouneverwillagain.Let’skillthesemotherfuckers.”
Beckettdragshisentirehanddownhisface.
“Thefirstcategory—”Guspausesdramatically.Theentirebarwaitswithbatedbreath.“—isbotany.”
“Notfair!”Someoneshoutsfromtheback.“ThePorterfamilyhasgenerationsofagriculturalknowledgeontheirteam!”
NessashootsupfromherseatnexttoNova.“NoonequestionedyoulastmonthabouthowyouknowsomuchabouttheSpiceGirls,Sam.Sitdown.”
There’sagrumblefromtheoppositeendoftheroom.Nooneelsesaysaword.
“Firstquestion.Whattypeofvascularplantpossessesneitherseedsnorflowers?”
“Fern,”Beckett,hisdadandIallanswerthequestionatexactlythesamemoment.Beckettlooksatme,bewildered.
“Howdoyouknowthat?”
Ishrugandsipatmybeer.“Iknowthings.”
HeopenshismouthtosaysomethingelsebutGuscutsinwiththatdamnedmegaphone.“Secondquestion!Whichpartoftherhubarbplantisedible?”
“Stalks.”Again,BeckettandIanswerthequestionatthesametime.HenarrowshiseyesatmeasNovafuriouslywritesdowntheanswers.
“Howdidyouknowthat?”
“Itoldyou,Iknowthings.”Itracemypointerfingeraroundtherimofmyglass.Beckett’sgazeflickstoitandhiseyessharpen,hisjawflexing.
“Itdoesn’tmatterhowsheknowsitbecauseshe’snotregisteredandshecan’tparticipatewithanswers,”Nessasuppliesfromtheotherendofthetable.Shegivesmeashrugandaregretfulgrin.“Sorry.Youcangivemoralsupportthough.”
“Weshouldhaveregisteredherontheteam,”Novasays.
“Nexttime,”Nessaagrees.
Awarmglowsettlesinmychest.Ididn’trealizehowmuchIwashopingthey’dlikemeuntiljustnow.NessasnapsherfingersinfrontofBeckett’sface.Hehasn’tlookedawayfromme.“Headinthegame.”
Mydesignationasteammoralsupportisneededbecausetworoundslater,Beckettismiserable,sotensenexttomethatI’mprettysureIcouldbreakabottleoverhisheadandhewouldn’tnotice.Heparticipatesonlywhenhe’sasked,offeringonewordanswersandclenchinghishandsintofistsduringthebreaks.Heguzzlesdownhisbeerlikeit’lldisappearifhedoesn’tdowneachglassinthreegulps.Atonepoint,Novaleansforwardwithaconcernedlookandquietlyaskshimifheneedshisearmuffs.
“No,”hesays,barelyaudibleoverthesoundsofthebar.Hischeekspinkasheglancesatmequicklybeforeblinkingaway.“M’fine.”
ItrytoengagehimwhenIcan,buthe’sstiffandunyieldingnexttome,retreatingfurtherandfurtherintohimself.Hedoesn’tspeakunlessspokentoandflatoutignoresmemorethanonce.Isighandglanceovermyshouldertothefarendoftheroomwherethebathroomsare.IcuffBeckett’swristlooselywithmyhandandattempttogethisattentionfromwherehe’sstaringblanklyatthetabletop.Hetiltshisheadslightly,flowercrowntippingtotheside.Awhitedaisybrushesagainsthisforehead.
“I’llberightback.”
Foraseconditlookslikehemighttrytostopme.Heopenshismouthandhiseyestripovertheplanesofmyface,considering.Butwhateveritis,hebottlesitrightbackup.Hisjawsnapsshut.Aquick,sharpnod.
Isqueezehiswristagain.
Imakemywaythroughtheraucouscrowd,agroupofpeopledressedasbirdshavingaheatedargumentwithladiesinlong,pasteldressesandsunhats.Laylawasn’tjokingwhenshesaidtrivianightisseriousbusinessinInglewild.BothCalebandDaneareinattendance,sittingatthefarendofthebarwithabasketofjalape?opoppersbetweenthem.Danehasalongsufferinglookonhisseriousface.Caleblookslikehe’sholdinghimselfbackfromparticipating.
IgetsidetrackedbyJeremyandhisfriendsasItravelthroughthetables,theirheadsbentovertheircellphonesandapitcherofsodainthemiddleofthetable.TheyaskforselfiesandtipsonlightingandthenI’mshown17videodraftsthatthey’rethinkingaboutposting.It’slikeasocialmediaversionofAmericanIdol,andIslipawaywithpromisesofmoretomorrow,iftheycomebythebakeryinthemorning.
GusandMontycornermenext,proudlyshowingmethenumbersontheirdancevideo.WhenIaskthemhowtheyplantofollowupsuchastunningdebut,Gusgetsatwinkleinhiseyeandstandsfromhisstool,scoopingmeinhisbigarmsandspinningmearoundthesmallsquareoffloorspace.Ilaughloudlyandholdmyselfsteadyonhisshoulders,myheartsolightitfeelslikeIcouldfloataway.
ThisiswhatIwasmissing.Foundation.Belonging.Peopleandstoriesandmynametossedoutingreetingoverhalf-eatenbasketsofgreasyfrenchfries.Allofmytrips—Ihaven’tstayedinaplacelongenoughforanyonetoknowme.Ihaven’thadCalebwavingatmefromacrossthebarwithajalape?opopperheldbetweenthumbandforefinger.Ms.Beatricescreaminginsomeone’sfaceabouttheofficialnameofNewYork’sSixthAvenuewhilewearingasunhatandholdingacroquetmallet,awinktossedoverhershoulder.AchorusofwhistleswhenIwavetotheladiesfromthesalon.
Stella’swordsdriftbacktome.Peoplechange.MaybethisiswhatIneednow.
I’mstillsmiling,breathless,whenIfinallymakeittothebathroom.Istopandstareatmyselfinthemirror—myflushedcheeksandagrinthatmakesmyfacealmostunrecognizable.It’sbeensolongsinceI’vefeltlikethis.Itouchmyfingerstomycheeksandtrytomemorizeit.
“You’redoingokay,”Itellmyselfquietly.MysmilesoftensintosomethinglastingandIletmyselffeelgoodabouteverythingthat’sbroughtmetoexactlythismoment.Noguilt.Nohesitation.Justabubblingwarmthrightinthecenterofme.“You’redoingthebestyoucan.”
That’senough.
Iwashmyhandsinthesinkandedgemywayoutofthedoor,awallofsoundslammingintome.Musichassomehowjoinedthemix,shrieksandlaughterandsomeoneyellingovertopofitallaboutaquesadilla.It’schaotic,butlovely.Asoundtrackofcommunityandlove.
IbarelymanagetwostepsdownthedarkhallwaybeforeIseehim.Hisbigbodytippedupagainstthewall,oneshoulderandhisheadpressedtoit.Hisarmsarecrossedandhisfaceisshadowed,butI’drecognizetheanglesofhisbodyanywhere—inthedark,especially
“Beckett?”
Helookslikehe’sinpain.Shouldershunched.AdeepfrownonhishandsomefaceasIgetcloser.Ireachouttohimandmyhandhoversovertheslopeofhisshoulder,notsureifhewantstobetouchedrightnowornot.
Hemakesthedecisionforme,liftinghisheadandblinkingatmeblearily.Hecurlshishandaroundmywristandtugs,aquietoofslippingfrommylipsasIstumbleintohim.
Hisusualsmellistuckedunderlayersofalcoholandfriedfood,buthisskiniswarmwheremynosefindshisneck.Hewrapshisarmsaroundmybackandholdsontight,clingingtomeinthenarrowhallwayatthebackofthebar.MyhandsslipoverhisshouldersandIholdonjustastight,confusedandconcerned.
“Youokay?”
Ifeelashudderworkitswayuphisspine,athintremorinhishands.Herockshisforeheadagainstmyshoulderandgrunts,mumblingsomethingunderhisbreath.HeswaysslightlyandItightenmygrip.
“S’loud,”hefinallymumbles,lowandroughinmyear.“Neededabreak.”
Idragmyhandsupanddownhisbackinasoothingrhythm.Hemakesagratefulsighagainstme.
“That’salright.WhatcanIdo?”
“Thisisgood,”hesayswithanothersqueeze.“Justwannalistentoyoubreatheforasecond.”
Imakesuretotakeanoisy,obnoxiousbreathonmynextinhaleandhesoftensfurther,thegripofhisarmsrelaxingslightlybuthisbodybecomingheavieragainstmine.IshufflebackuntilI’mleaningagainstthewall,Beckettpressedrightupagainstme.
Itisloudinhere.IhearGusclamberbackonthebartopwithhismegaphone,ashortsirenwailthathasBeckettflinchingagainstme.Ismoothmyfingersthroughhishairandheletsoutadeep,rattlingbreath.Gusannounceslastcallandlastround,andthecrowdgivesabelligerentgroaninresponse.
“Whydidyoucome?”Iaskhimquietly,nailsscratchinglightly.Heleansharderagainstme.“Youcouldhavesaidno.”
“Novaasked,”Beckettsuppliesquietly.“Didn’twanttodisappointanyone.”
Iasked,too.IwonderhowmuchpressureBeckettputsonhimselftobewhateveryoneneeds,allofthetime.
“Notrightback,”Beckettgrumblesintomyshirt.
“What?”
“Yousaidyou’dberightback,”heaccuses,leaningbackuntilIcanseethelinesofhisfaceinthelightfromthebar.Hefrownsdownatme.“Youdidn’tcomerightback.”
“Igotcaughtup.Everyonewanted—“
“Youwerelaughing,”hecutsoffabruptly.“Dancing.”Heswallowshard.“Youaren’tlikethatwithme.”
Hishandsflexatmyhipsandhetakesastepback,leavingmeproppedupagainstthewall.Ifeelthetwoinchesofspacebetweenuslikeashovetothechest.
“Ismile,”Istarttosay.“Beckett,Ilaughwithyouallthetime—“
Heshakeshishead.“It’snotthesame.NotlikewhenwewereinMaine.”
HemusthavehadmoretodrinkthanIthought.Iglanceoutatthecrowdedbarandcanbarelymakeoutthetableweweresittingat—awidecollectionofglasseshaphazardlystackednexttoemptyfoodbaskets.
“Sorry,”hesnips,notsoundingsorryintheslightest.Hisvoiceisgritandgravelandshadesofpossession,eyesheatedtomatch.Hetakesastepforwardandpropshishandbymyside.Iamflatagainstthewallagain,Becketteverywherearoundme.“Iforgotwedon’ttalkaboutit.IforgotI’msupposedtopretendlikeIdon’tknowexactlywhatyoutastelike.”
Theimagethatblinkstolifeisimmediate.Beckettonhiskneesattheedgeofthebed,handsplayedlowagainstmybellytoholdmestill.Hisnoseatmyhipandmythighspressingathisears,myfootdrummingbetweenhisshoulderblades.
Myentirebodyshivers,aforcefulpulsepoundingoncerightatthebaseofmythroat.
“Beckett,”Isay,alittlebitdazed.Hisnamelingersinthespacebetweenus.Wedon’ttalkaboutit,he’sright,butIthoughtthatwaswhathewanted.“Howmuchhaveyouhadtodrink?”
“Notenough,”hesays,hiseyesintentonmyface.“CauseIstillthinkaboutkissingyouallthedamntime.”
Iletthatconfessionpressagainstme,thewordsringinginmyearsdespitetheloudnoiseofthebar.Iholdhisgazeandblinkashestaresrightback.Hepushesoffthewallwithasigh,hishandthroughhishair.
“Ineedabeer,”hetellsme.
Iloopmyfingersaroundhiswrist.“Ithinkyou’vehadenough.”IglancetowardstheendofthehallandthedoorwithEXITmarkedinblinkingredlettersabove.“I’mgonnadriveushome.Youwanttosaybyetoyourfamily?”
Heshakeshishead,mutteringsomethingabouttextingthemlater.Hetwistshisarmoutofmygripandstraightenswithastumble.Islipmyarmaroundhiswaistandhishandfindsmyshoulder,headtippinguntilhisflowercrownbrushesmyforehead.
“Sorry,”hesays,hisbottomlipagainsttheshellofmyear.HisvoiceisstillthatroughscratchthatIlikewaytoomuch.“IknowI’mbeinganasshole.”
Ipathisbackthroughthethickmaterialofhisflannel.“Let’sjustgohome.”
Assoonaswestepoutsidethedoorintothestillnessandsilenceofamostlyabandonedstreet,Beckettletsoutaheaving,gustingsigh.Hesoundslikehejustfinishedarun,lungsburningandlegstwitching.Aching,blissfulrelief.
Ikeepmyarmaroundhiswaist,guidingustohistruckparkedtwoblocksover,rightbehindthecafe.He’salreadygothisboxofshortbreadcookiesinthepassengerseatandhe’scarefultoplacethemonhislapwhenheslipsintothecar.
Ittakesmeasecondtoorientmyselfinthedriver’sseat,everythingfeelingalittletoobig.Beckettsnickersasmyhandshoveroverthesteeringwheel,tryingtofindapositionintheseatthatdoesn’tfeellikeI’moperatingafloatintheMacy’sThanksgivingDayparade.
“What?”Iask.Ilikehimlikethis.Messyhair.Flowercrown.Agrinthatcurveshisbottomlipbeautifully.
“Youmakeacutefacewhenyou’refrustrated,”hetellsme,lettinghisheaddropbackagainsttheseat.“Nosescrunches.”
Ilookoverathiminthepassengerseat,splayedoutasmuchashecanbeinthecabofthetruck.Hiskneeistuckedupagainstthewindowandhisarmsareloose,facerelaxed.Iputthetruckintodriveandeaseusoutofthespace,rumblingdowntheroadthatwilltakeusbacktothefarm.
It’snothingbutthegrowloftheengineandthewindlickingatthewindowsasweheadback,Beckett’sgentleandeasybreathing.Idon’tknowwhattosaytohim,noideahowtorespondtothethingshesaidinthebar.
CauseIstillthinkaboutkissingyouallthedamntime.
Ihadnoidea.Isneakanotherglanceathimfromthecornerofmyeye,myhandsflexingonthewheel.
“Idon’tlikenoise,”Beckettannouncesaswemaneuverourwayoutoftown.“Itwasloudtonight.Atthebar.”
“Iknow.”
Beckettdoesn’thaveatelevisioninhishouse,doesn’tlistentomusicwhileheputtersawayinhisgreenhouse.Heflincheswhenheentersaroomandpeoplearetalkingtooloud,hisheadtiltingslightlytotheside.It’slikehe’stryingtomufflethesoundwithoutbeingobviousaboutit.Heshiftsinhisseatuntilhisshoulderispressedtothebackofit,hiselbowonthecenterconsoleandhischininhishand.
“Ihaveearmuffs,”hetellsme,anearnestexpressiononhisface.Iglanceathimandthenbacktotheroad.Iwantthisversionofhiminmymemoryalways.Cornfieldsflashingbythewindows,magnolialeavesinhishair.Eyeshoodedbutglowing,hisknucklesrestingunderhischin.
Handingmehissecretslikehewantsmetoholdthemforhim.
Nova’squestionatthetablemakessensenow.“Okay.”
Wedriftintosilenceagain.Herearrangeshimselfuntilhe’sstaringoutthewindow.
“You’renotaskingmequestions,”hemumblesafterafewminutes,alittlebitpetulant,hisfistonhisknee.
“Ithoughtyoudidn’tlikemyquestions.”Iswipeattheturnsignalwiththesideofmyhandeventhoughthereisn’tanothersoulformiles.“Plus,you’vebeendrinking.That’sanunfairadvantage.”
Hehuffs,agrumbleunderhisbreathIdon’tquitecatch.Thepausedragsonandthenhequietlysays,“Ilikeyourquestions.”
Ibitemylipagainstmysmile.“Okay.”
“Iknowyouknowmorewordsthanthat.”
Ido.Idoknowmorewordsthanthat.Butthetruthis,I’mstrugglingtorestrainmyself.Thisadorable,openversionhe’sshowingmerightnowis—it’salotformetohandle.Iwanttopulloverontotheshoulderoftheroadandthrowthetruckintopark.Iwanttoclimbovertheconsoleandslipontohislap.Iwanttofistmyhandsinhisflannelandguidehismouthtomine,kisshimuntilhe’sbreathlessandthendrivehimhomeandtuckhimintobed.
Allthistimehe’sbeenwantingme,I’vebeenwantinghim,too.
“We’lltalktomorrowmorning,onceyousleepthisoff.”
“AboutwhatIsaidatthebar?”
Inod.“Yeah,aboutwhatyousaidatthebar.”
CauseIstillthinkaboutkissingyouallthedamntime.
Ifhestillfeelsthatwayinthemorning,we’llhaveafewotherthingstotalkabout.Ifollowthelanternsthatleadtohiscabin.
“Imeantit,”hesays.
ItakeafortifyingbreathasIpullthetrucktoastop,yankingwithwhatfeelslikemyentirebodyweighttothrowitintopark.Iturnofftheignitionandtherumblecutsout,thecabofthetruckfilledwiththesoundsofmufflednightlingeringoutsidethewindow.Thechirpofthecricketsthathideinhisgutters.Thecreakoftheweathervaneatthepeakofhisroof.Alooseshutter,tappinglightlyatthesiding.
Beckettdoesn’tlookawayfromme,thelightfromthemooncastinghisfaceinshadow.Likethis,heisonlystronganglesandsmoothlines.Hisnose.Hisjaw.Theslantofhisseriousbrow.Hishandshiftsagainstthetopoftheconsole,hisfingertipsbarelybrushingatmyknuckles.
“Evie,”hebreathes,hisdeepvoiceevendeeperthanusual.Idon’tthinkI’veeverlikedthesoundofmynamesomuch.“Ireallydidmeanit.”
“Iknowyoudid,”Iwhisper.Beckettisn’tcapableofsayingsomethinghedoesn’tmean.It’soneofthethingsIlikebestabouthim.Iknowhe’salwaystellingmethetruth.
“Ilikeyou,”hewhispers.Hisgazeslipsdowntomylipsandholds.“Ilikeyousomuch.”
Ineedtogetoutofthistruck.
HefollowsmeasIstumblefromthetruck,mykneehittingthebanisterattheedgeofhisporchasIclambermywayup.AllofasuddenitfeelslikeIwastheonedowningbeersatthebartonight,myhandsclumsyasIfumbletofindtherightkey.
“Ithoughtaboutyouallthetime,”Beckettsaysfromrightbehindme,hischestbrushingagainstmyback.Asinglefingertiptracesthetopedgeofmyshirtwhereitsitsagainstmyneck.Idropthekeystotheporch.
“Ithinkaboutyouallthetime,”hecontinues.WhenItiltmyheadbacktolookathim,hishandsareclenchedinfistsathisside.Thatridiculousflowercrownisstillinhishair.“Doyouthinkaboutme?”
“Beckett.”
“Doyou?”
Iscoopthekeysfromtheweatheredwoodenplanksandshouldermywaythroughthefrontdoor,Becketttrailingaftermewithslow,carefulsteps—asighhedoeshisbesttohideashetoesoffhisshoesandslipsthecrownfromhishead.Iwatchasheplacesitcarefullyonahook,hisfingertracingapalepurplepetal.He’sanintrospectivedrinker,Itellmyself.That’sallthisis.Ourbestbetistocallitanightandretiretothetwoveryoppositeendsofthehouse.Maybewecan—maybewecantrythisconversationagaininthemorning.
Idoubtverymuchhe’llsayanythingaboutit.He’llprobablypourhiscoffeeandmumbleaboutmakinganeggscrambleforbreakfast.Complainaboutthequalityofstoreboughtspinachandscrapethewoodenspoonagainstthebottomofthepanwithquick,agitatedmovements.
Ijust—wecan’thavethisconversationrightnow.Notwhenalcoholhasmadehimhonest.Iwanthimtowanttobehonest.
Ipouraglassofwaterandsetitonthecounter,pressuponmytoestorootaroundthecabinetabovethefridge.Astrongarmappearsaboveme,thesmoothskinontheinsideofBeckett’sarmcloseenoughformetodragmynoseagainst.Iseetheedgeofbrightblue—agalaxypeekingoutfromthebeneaththesleeveofhisshirt.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Hisvoiceislowbehindme,hiswarmbreathflutteringmyhair.
“Gettingyousomeibuprofen,”IsaytothethinlinedrawingofOrionabovehiselbow,ashieldheldlooseinhisfist.Insteadofaclubabovehishead,he’sholdingaclusterofflowers—poppiesandposiesandabig,stunningsunflower.It’ssobeautifullyBeckett,itmakesmychesthurt.
“Evelyn.”
“OfcourseIthinkaboutyou,”Isayinarush.Somesecretpartofmeunlocks,unravels,unspools.I’vebeenthinkingaboutBeckettPortersinceIlefthiminatinycoastaltownallthosemonthsago.Iswallowandcurlmyfingersaroundthesmallbottleofpills,pullitdownandholditclosetomychest.
WhenIturn,he’sstandingclose,bothhandsanchoringonthecountertopatmysides.I’mtuckedbetweenhisarms,closeenoughtobrushmylipsagainsttheclusterofflowersonhisbicep.MykneesknockintohisandIliftmychinup.
Hiseyesdartbackandforthbetweenmine,knucklesgrazingatmyhipwherehishandsflexandhold.“Ilikehavingyouhere,”hesaysroughly.Anotherconfession.
Itrytoeasethetensionthathasusstumblingclosertogether.“You’renottiredofmeyet?”
“Ifyou’rewaitingformetobetiredofyou,Evie,”heraiseshishandandcatchesastrandofmyhair,curlsitaroundhisfingerandtugsonce.There’sanansweringpulselowinmybelly.“You’regonnabewaitingalongtime.”
Isearchhiseyestomeasurehowseriousheis.“You’reverygoodathidingallofthis.”
“Really?”Helookssurprised.“Doesn’tfeellikeit.Ifeelcrackedwideopenaroundyou.”
Iknowthefeeling.Iletoutashakybreath.“Weshouldgotobed.”
“Weshould.”
Beckettdoesn’tmoveaninch.Histonesuggestsweshouldgotobed,butmaybeweshoulddoittogether.Isqueezethebottleinmyhandslikeit’stheonlythingkeepingmepressedupagainstthiscounter.Thisclose,Icansmelltheoutsideonhisskin.Springwind,acrispcleanbite.Itwouldbesoeasytoleanupandtasteitoffhiscollarbone.Ialreadyknowthesoundhewouldmake.Thewayhishandswouldmoldtomyhips,hispinkyfingerslippingdownintothewaistofmyjeans.
“Wecan—”Iclosemyeyestoresistthetemptation.Childish?Probably.ButI’mwaytooclosetotakingadvantageofatipsyBeckettinhiskitchen.“Wecantalkaboutitinthemorning.”
Ifeelhisnoseagainstmytemplerightbeforehepushesoffthecounterandtakesastepback.Ikeepmyeyesclosedandthrustoutthebottleofmedicine.Roughfingertipsbrushoverthebackofmyhandbeforehegrabsit.
“G’night,Evie.”Itsoundslikehe’ssmiling,butIrefusetolook.
“Night,Beckett.”
Ihearfootstepsdownthehallwayandthequietclickofadoor.
Ibreatheoutslowly.
“Ilikeyou,too,”Iwhispertothedarkkitchen.“Somuch.”CHAPTERFOURTEENBECKETT
IglanceattheclosedbedroomdoorattheendofthehallforthefifteenthtimesinceIstumbledoutofmine,aheadachepoundingatthebaseofmyskull.Lessfromthedrinking,Ithink,andmorefromthewanting.
IhadbeensoclosetokissingEvelynlastnight.Atthebar,withhersunshinesmileasGusspunheraroundonthedancefloor.Inthetruck,withherhandcurledaroundthegearshifterandherhairfallingaroundherface.Inthekitchen,withmyhipsaninchawayfromhers,pinklightinguphercheeks.
Iwantedtodomorethankissherinthekitchen.
“Shit.”Ipullmyhandawayfromtheskilletandpopmythumbintomymouth,anangryredweltblossomingonthepad.IturnofftheburnerandglareatherdoorlikeIcanknockthedamnthingdownwiththeforceofmythoughts.
Weneedtotalkaboutlastnight.
Shesaidshethoughtaboutme,too.Butthatcouldmeanamilliondifferentthings.AllIknowisIcan’tdealwiththisfeelingthatsitslikeastoneinmychesteverytimeshewalksintoaroom.Ican’tseeherinmyflannelshirt—thebottomtwobuttonsundoneandthehemtiedatherhip—andnotfeelsomethingaboutit.We’lltalkaboutit,andwe’llcleartheair.
MaybethenI’llbeabletobreathewithoutwantinghersodamnmuch.
Iseetheshuffleoffeetinthecrackbeneathherdoor.
“Evie!”Ibark,impatient.I’mmakingascramble,goddamnit.Shedoesn’tneedtohideinherroomallmorning.We’vealreadydonetheawkwardshittogether.Wedon’tneedtodoitagain.“Imadebreakfast!”
Thedoorswingsopenandsheappears,ascowlscrunchinghernose.Mygazesweepsdownfromhershoulderstoherlong,longlegsandmyentirebodytightens.She’swearingthedamnkneesocksagain,acreamywhiteagainstherdarkskin.
“Youdon’tneedtoyellaboutit.”
Andshedoesn’tneedtobetemptationincarnate,butwearewhereweare.
Iturnwithagruntandpushtheeggsaroundinthepaninanefforttokeepmyhandsoccupied.ShemakesmefeelthingsIhavenobusinessfeeling.Outofcontrol,halfthetime.Outofmymind,theotherhalf.Iwanttodoathousanddifferentthings,startingwithmyhandsinherhairandmymouthonherneck—everythingIthoughtaboutdoinglastnight,whenitwasjustusandthemoonlight.
I’mclingingtotheropeofmyrestraintandIcanfeeltheendsstartingtofray.Everylook,everytouch,everysmileshegivesme—itunravelsabitmore.
“Wouldyoulikesomebreakfast?”Itryagain,aconsciousefforttosoftenmyvoiceintosomethinggentle.Itstillsoundslikeademandinsteadofanofferthough,andEvelynsnortsalaugh
“Didyoumeanwhatyousaidlastnight?”Righttothepoint,then.
Icontinuetopokelistlesslyattheeggs.Theedgesarestartingtobrown.Iflickoffthestovetopandrestthewoodenspoonacrossthepan.
Ilikeyousomuch.
“Idid.”
I’vethoughtabouthereverydaysincethatmorningIwokeupalone,astormthunderinginfromtheeast,thickgraycloudshanginglowoverthewater.I’vethoughtabouttheexactsoundshemakeswhenmybodyisoverhers,thewayherbreathhitchesandthenreleases,abreathysigharoundmyname.I’vethoughtaboutherlaughandhersmile—prettierthanallthewildflowersinthemeadowandeverystarinthesky.
Ifeeladeepexhaleagainstthecottonofmyt-shirt,Evelynstandingatmyback.“Areyoustilldrunk?”
Ihuffalaughandshakemyhead.“No.”
Iwasn’tthatdrunktobeginwith.Justlooseenoughforsomeofthedesirerattlingaroundinsidemetoslipthrough.Standinginthiskitchenlastnight,IhadswayedrightintoherspacelikeI’vebeenwantingto.Myarmsoneithersideofherhips,mynoseatherneck.Iwantedtokisshermorethananything.Almostdid,too.
“Wasitthealcohol?”
“That’snothowthatshitworks.”Alcoholdoesn’tmakethingsup,itjustpriesthemloose.
Iglanceatherovermyarm.She’sstandingclose,herfeetnudgingthebackofmine.IcoulddropmyheadandpressakisstohertempleifIwanted,propheruponthecountertopandmaketherestofthisbreakfastwithherwrappedaroundme.It’satemptingthought
Sheconsidersmewithcuriouseyes.Igettheimpressionshe’slookingrightinsidetotheheartofme.“Wereyouteasingme?”
“Teasingyouaboutwhat?”Iwatchherhandasshecatchesthebottomedgeofmyt-shirtwithtwofingers.Sherubsthematerial,considering.
“Ilikeyoutoo,Beckett.”ShepullsonmyshirtuntilI’mfacingher,herhandsatmysides.Sherapsherknucklesagainstmyribsandmywholebodyjolts.“Youhaven’tnoticed?”
“Toobusylikingyoubacktonotice,Iguess,”Ireplyfaintly,watchingtheshapeofherbottomlipcurveintoasmile.AlloftheversionsofEvelynI’vegottentoknowflickerthroughmymindliketheframesofafilmstrip.Sittingatthebarwithherhandonmythigh.Tangledupinbed,bareskinanddarkeyes.Laughingacrossthebakehousewithaplatebetweenus.Curledupinthechaironmybackporch,herchinonherknee.Outinthefields,makingeveryonearoundherglow.
Standingherelikethis,withherfacetippedtowardsmine.
Ilikeeveryversionalittlebitmore.
Herhandsfindmyarms,fingerstracingoverink.Shelingersoverasinglewhiteblossom,asensitivespotontheinsideofmyelbow.
“Okay,”shesayswithadecisivenod.
“Okay,what?”
Sheignoresmyquestion.Instead,shecurlsherhandaroundthebackofmyneck,tugsmedown,andkissesme.
ThefirsttimeIkissedEviewasunderabrokenlightinadingybar,thedullorangeglowflickeringonandoffandonagain.Icouldseeitbehindmyeyesasourmouthsmovedtogether,adrumbeatofdesireIkeptpacewith.IfeellikeI’veunpackedthememoryofthatkissenoughoverthelastcouplemonthsfortheedgestorunsmooth,likestonesatthebottomofariverbed.It’snothingbuthazyflashesofsensation.Fingertipsundermyear.Hercheekbrushingmine.Theslow,wetslideofheatasIurgedherchindownandkissedherdeeper.
Now,here—inthebrightlightofmykitchenwiththewindowcrackedhalfaninchandcoffeebrewinginthepot—Ifeelthatmemorycrackrightdownthemiddle.
There’snothinghazyaboutthiskiss.
Nosweetintroduction.Nogentlerelearning.Eviescratcheshernailsupintomyhairandtugs,ademandinthewayhermouthworksatmine.Shekissesmelikeshe’shungryforit,likeshe’sbeendreamingofmethesamewayI’vebeendreamingabouther.Ismoothbothofmyhandsoverherhipsandgriptight.
“Thereyouare,”shebreathesintomymouth.Isqueezeagainandsheletsoutahuskychuckle.
“I’mrighthere,”Itellher.I’vealwaysbeenrighthere.Waiting,itfeelslike,forEvietoshowupandkissmeinthemiddleofmykitchen.Ourkisstiltsintosomethinghotter—wetter,slower—inthespanofasinglestutteredheartbeat.Evie’shandsturndemandingastheygripthefrontofmyshirt,strongfistfulsofsoftmaterialbetweenherfingersasshepushesmeupagainsttherefrigerator.Theapplianceatmybackshudderswiththeimpact,butI’mtoooccupiedwiththeslideofhertongueagainstmine,toofocusedonfeelingthesoftskinofherbackbeneathmypalms.
IdigmythumbintooneofthedimplesjustaboveherassasIlickintohermouthandshemakesmyfavoritesound—athroatywhimper.Ipressharderandshepullshermouthfrommine,dropsherheadagainstmycollarboneandpressesthatsoundintomyskin.
Imovemyhandsupherback,impatientasImapthearchofherspine.Idragmyhandbackandforthoverthebandofherbraandslipmyfingersbeneath,snappingitonceasIreleasetheelasticagainstherskin.Shenipsatmyjawinretribution.
“Benice,”shetellsme.
“Icanbenice.”Asamatteroffact,IcanthinkofseveralnicethingsIwanttodorightthissecond.HershirtgathersagainstmywristsasItuckmyfingersunderthestrapsofherbraagain,followingthelineoverhershoulders.Icurlmyhandsthereandtug,watchingherswayfurtherintome.
“Oh?”Evie’seyesaredarkwithdesire,hermouthkiss-bitten.“Wouldyouliketoshowme?”
It’slikeourbodiesarefrantictomakeupforlosttime,ourmouthsdivingbacktogetherasIdragmyknucklesacrosshercollarbones,downovertheswellofherbreasts.Ilingerthereinthespaceabove,herchestheaving,mythumbstracingwhereskinmeetsfabric.
“Stillatease,”shesayswithaniptomybottomlip.Hernailsdighalfmoonsintomychestovermyshirt.
“Stillimpatient,”Ireply,caughtbetweenwantingtolaughandfalltomyknees.Reacquaintmyselfwitheverysquareinchofher.
“Isweartogod,ifyoudon’ttouchme,I’ll—”
Shedoesn’tfinishhersentence.Icupherinmyhandsandsqueeze,mythumbsdraggingslowandsureagainstthecottonofherbra.Ifeelitwhenherbreathstutters,aquickriseandfallbeneathmytouch.Iwantbareskin.Iwantmoreofthosesounds.Igripthecenterofherbraandyankthematerialdownuntilit’stwistedbeneathherbreasts,watchingmyhandsgripandsmoothandpluckbeneathhershirt.
“You’llwhat?”Iask.
“I’llbe—”hereyelashesflutter,ahalf-smilecurlingherlips.“I’llbesomad.”
“Hm.”
Sheturnsherfaceandcatchesmymouthagain,myhandsworkingunderhershirt.IrubmythumbsacrosshernipplesuntilshemakesthepantingsoundIlikebest,herhandsgrippingatmyjawinsilentdemand.Iwraponearmlowaroundherwaistandhitchhercloser.Iwantherbodyagainstmine,hersoftnesseverywhereI’mhard.HernailsscratchintomybeardandIstumbleforward,backingherintothetable.Ivaguelynoticemycoffeemugtipovertheedgeandlandontherugwithamutedthunk.I’lllookatthatstaineverydayandrememberexactlythis.Evelyngaspingagainstmylips,herkneehitchinghighagainstmyhip.
Idropmyforeheadtohershoulderandbrushakissthere,myhandslippingfromherbreasttoherhip.Isqueezeonceandtrytogetmyselfundercontrol.“Weshouldstop,”Imumble.“Talk.”
Thishasalwaysbeentheeasypart—lettingthesparksbetweenuscatchandburn.It’severythingelseweneedtosortout.Ilikeherbody,butIlikeeverythingelsemore.AndIdon’twanthertothinkthisisallIwant.
Shenods,handsslippingbeneathmyshirttoscratchatmyback.Iarchintoherandtrapherhipswithmine,flatteninghertothetable.“Yeah.”
InoseatthecollarofhershirtuntilIcanreachtheskinwherehershouldermeetsherneckandsuckalingeringkissthere.She’ssweetwithatouchofsaltIknowwillstayonmytonguefordays.IdragmyfacedownherchestuntilIcancatchhernipplebetweenmyteeththroughthefabricofhershirt
Ican’tstoptouchingher,tastingher.
“Excellenttalking,”Evelynbreathesaroundalaugh,herhandatthebackofmyheadholdingmetoher.“VerybesttalkI’veeverhad.”
Idropmyforeheadbetweenherbreastsandpressakissthere.“Iwanttotakeyouout.”
“Okay,”shepants,pullingonthehemofmyshirtuntilIrelentandtugitovermyhead.Iimmediatelycatchherlipsinakissagain,myhandsatherthighs.Iurgeherupuntilshe’ssittingonthetabletop,legswide,herfootcurlingaroundthebackofmyknee.MyfingersfindtheendsofthosedamnsocksandItracethethickcotton,agroaninthebackofmythroat.
“We’llgetdinner,”Isayagainsthermouth.HerhandssqueezemyassandIthrustagainstheronce.Herheaddropsback,longdarkhairglidingoverthetabletoplikespilledink.Christ,butshemakesmecrazy.ScramblesallmyplansuntilI’mmindlesswithher.Irollmyhipsagainstheranddropmyheadtowatchthewaywemovetogether.“I’llbringyouflowers.”
“Flowers,huh?”
Shechasesmytouch,herhipscirclingjustright.Ihumandnod.
“Prettyones.It’llbeadate.”
Herhandslosetheirgriponmybodyandshedropsbacktothetabletopwithahappysigh.Theheatbetweenusshiftsandsettlesintosomethingsofter.Iletmyfingersplayattheoutsideofherthighs,tracethethinwhitescarIhaven’tforgotten.Shekicksherfeetbackandforthandcocksherheadtotheside,lookingatmethroughhalf-liddedeyes.Shesmilessomethingsweetwithherrubyredlips—alittlebitofbeardburnonherchinandneck.
“Ilikeyou,Evie,”Istraightenhershirtanddropasingle,chastekisstothetipofhernose.Myheartbeginsagallopinmychest.“Ilikeyoualot.”
Hersmilelightsupeverydamncornerofthisroom.Theshadowedpartsofme,too,andallthepiecesIkeeptomyself.
“Ilikeyou,too,”shetellsme.Shekicksmelightlyandchewsonherbottomlip.“Nowputyourshirtonorwe’llhavesexonthistable.”
Icollapseovertopofherwithagroan.Shecardsherfingersthroughmyhairwithalaugh,tuggingonceattheends.
“Yousaythatlikeit’sabadthing,”Igrumble.Icanalreadypictureit.Thewaythelegsofthetablewouldcreakandgroan.Ourclothesmovedjustenoughforfrictionandheatandblissfulrelief.Itrytoadjustmyselfasdelicatelyaspossible,butIstillhearhersnicker.
“Iwantthatdate,”shetellsme,voicesoft.Alittlebitdreamy.“Maybethisisourdo-over.Achancetodothingsdifferently.”
There’ssimplehonestythere,athinthreadofhopefromherhearttomine.Ireachforherhandandtangleourfingerstogether.I’mprettysureI’ddothingsanywhichwaywithEvelyn,aslongasweendeduplikethis.Mychinrestingonherchestandasmileonherprettyface.
“Yeah?”
Shenods.“Yeah.”CHAPTERFIFTEENEVELYN
Notmuchchangesafterourfuriousmake-outinthekitchen.
DespiteslamminghisbodyagainstakitchenapplianceandkissinghimlikeI’vebeenthinkingaboutnothingelse,wecontinuetoactasifnothinghaschanged.Wehavedinnertogetherontheporcheverynight.Heleavesmenotesonthekitchencounter.Istealhissocks.Weexchangelong,heatedstaresovertherimsofourcoffeemugsinthemorning,aperfectlypolitethreefeetofdistancebetweenus.
Itisbothwonderfulandexceedinglyannoying.
IlikeBeckett.Ilikehishalf-smilesandthewayhisvoicedeepensandscratchesearlyinthemorning,thegentlebrushofhisfingertipsacrossmyshoulderasIslippasthiminthekitchen.Ilikethecalendarhekeepstapedtothesideofhisfridge,hisfamily’simportantdatesscribbleddowninred.Ilikethathe’salwaystakingcareofeveryonearoundhim,fromthecatstohissisterstothepastriesBarneydemandsfromatopthetractor.
IlikethewayhelooksatmewhenhethinksI’mnotpayingattention.Thesoftnesshetriestohide.
I’mlookingforwardtoourdate,wheneverhedecidestofollowthroughonthatparticularpromise.
I’malsolookingforwardtothrowinghimdownonthenearestflatsurfaceandhavingmywaywithhim.
I’vecaughthimstaringatthekitchentableacoupleoftimessincethatmorning,histhumbathisbottomlipandalookofdeepconcentrationonhisseriousface.I’vecaughtmyselfstaringatit,too.
Myrestraintishangingonbyathread,bolsteredonlybyBeckett’sextendedtimeinthegreenhouse.Hedisappearsthereeveryfreemomenthehas,mumblingsomethingaboutmakingspaceandclearingclutter.Springcleaning,hesays.
Nothingtodowithaduck.
ButI’veseenfourpackagesarrivethisweekandIknowthemanisn’tbuyingduckfoodforhimself.Thesmallestboxcontainedatinylittlegolfer’shatwithabrightredpoofontopthatBeckettsnatchedawayassoonashesawmewithit,hischeeksafuriousshadeofpink.
ByWednesday,I’matangledupmessoftension.Isitatthekitchentablewithmylegsfoldedbeneathme,mylaptopopenbutmygazefixedfirmlyoutthebackwindow.Icatchaglimpseofhimeverynowandagainthroughthefoggedglassofthegreenhouse,histallformbowedoversomething,hishandbracedflatagainstthewindow,fingersspreadwide.Ihavetoturnawayandbusymyselfwithemails,losemyselfinworkinanefforttoforgethowthathandfeltagainstmyskin.Howthesunlitupeverysinglelineandridgeofhisbody,hisshirtthrowntosomecornerofthekitchen.Thecutofhishipsandthetrailofhairbelowhisbellybutton,thethickpressofhimagainstthefrontofhisflannelpants.
Iputmyheaddownbrieflyovermycomputerandtapittheretwice.
Beckettisacomplicationinmyplan.Mywishy-washyplanthatdoesn’thaveatimelineoraclearendpoint.ItwouldbeeasierifallIwantedwashisbody—tofallintobedwithhimandburymyconfusionwiththethingshemakesmefeel.ButIdon’t.Iwantlatenightsonhisbackporchandstoriesaboutthestars.Iwantdirtonmyhandsandthatsmileonhisface,thequietonethatinchesupinfractions.
Lastnighthefoundmeonthebackporch,tuckedinmychairwithablanketwrappedaroundmyshoulders.Ihadbeeninafoulmood,annoyedwithmyselfandmyinabilitytojust—figurethisout.Getittogether.Bebetter.Hehadwatchedmequietlywithhisshoulderproppedagainstthedoorandasked:
“Didyoufindyourhappytoday?”
Igroundmyteethandshookmyhead.Aquickjerk.“No.”
Hehadhummedonce,headtiltingtolookoutoverthefields.“Youwantahug?”
Andthathadbeenitsownsortofmagic,hadn’tit?Hehadn’ttriedtofixit.Just…askedifhecouldholdmethroughit.
Inoddedandhewordlesslycollapsedintheseatnexttome,pattinghisthighonce.Ishuffledovertohimandcurledupinhisarms,myheadnestledunderhischin,hispalmaheavyweightagainstmyback,sweepingfrommyshoulderstomyhip.Agentlepressure.Aquietaffirmation.
MyjobmeansItravelallthetime.ThistriptoInglewildisthelongestI’vestayedinoneplacesinceIturnedtwenty.I’vealwayshadanitchundermyskintoexplore.Itstillflarestolifenowandagain,butthesedaysit’stingedwithexhaustion.Moremusclememorythananysortofcompulsionpropellingmeforward.Idon’twanttogo
Iwanttostay.
IdirectmyattentionbacktomylaptopandscanmyemailforthenotefromJosie.ShesentovertheinformationforTheoyesterday,theguyfromthesmallbusinessgroupthat’sbeenreachingout.Itapoutaquickmessagetohimaboutconnectingandhitsend,thebackdoorcreakingopenasIfinish.
IglanceupatBeckett,dirtcoveringhishandsandinasmudgeabovehislefteyebrow.
“Howaretheplantstoday?”
“They’refine.”Heglancesdownathisdirtyhandsandthenbacktome.There’sconsiderationthere,liketheonlythingkeepinghimfromthrowingmeagainstthetableI’msittingatisthetopsoilonhispalms.Icurlmineintofists.“Canyoubereadytogoinanhour?”
“Readytogo?”
Henods.“Yeah.Readytogoout.”
Istareathimandwaitforanexplanation.Hedoesn’tgivemeone.
“Outwhere,Beckett?”
“Onourdate,”hetellsme.Asmilestartsinhiseyes.“Youstillwantto?”
Inod.Iabsolutelywantto.Iwasstartingtothinkheforgotaboutit.Thatmaybeitwasjustsomethinghesaidintheheatofthemoment.
Ipushbackfromthekitchentableandstand.“Wherearewegoing?”
Hissmilespreadsuntilhe’sbitinghisbottomlipagainsttheforceofit.“Notveryfar.”
“Areyouwarmenough?”
Ihuffandpuffmywayupthehill,thesecondsweatshirtBeckettpulledovermyheadbeforeweleftthehousemakingitdifficulttomove.Igivehist-shirtapointedlook,mylipspressedinathinline.
“Yes,I’mwarmenough.”I’mtoowarm,buteverytimeItrytotakethisdamnsweatshirtoff,Beckettlookslikehewantstowrestlemerightbackintoit.Whichcouldbefun,butI’dmuchratherhimwrestlemeoutofit.
Hehadappearedatmybedroomdooratsixonthedotwithalarge,greasypaperbagclutchedinhishandandabackpackslungoverhisshoulder.Asingle,perfectwhitepeonyheldbetweenthumbandforefinger.
“ToldyouI’dbringyouflowers,”hesaid.
Itoywiththestemofitnowaswewanderourwaythroughthefields,thebranchesofthepinetreescatchingonmysleeves.It’swarmertonight,thefirstrealspringeveningwe’vehadsinceIarrived.Thedarkskyblinkstolifeaboveus,themoonbeginningtoriseoverthetrees.Icanseetheglowofit,starsscatteredbehind.
“Notmuchfurther,”Becketttellsme.
Itbetternotbe.I’mbeingtorturedbythewayhelooksinthosejeans.Thecrispwhiteofhist-shirtagainsthistannedskin.
Ibumphisshoulderwithmine.
“Doyoutakealltheprettygirlsoutinthefieldslateatnight?”
“Nah,”heshakeshisheadandbumpsmeback.“Justyou.”
Aflickerofwarmthlightsinmychestasheslowstoastopattheedgeofafield.Aclearingrollsoutfrombeneathourbootstotheedgeofthewoods.Helooksatmefromthecornerofhiseyeandslipsthebackpackfromhisshoulder.
“Doyouknowwhereweare?”
Ispinonmyheelslowly,tryingtoremember.Twogiantoaktreesoverlookoverbothsidesoftheentrancetotheclearing,toweringlikeguardstotheforestbeyond.Ihaveahazymemoryofstandingbetweenthemlastfallwithmyarmsoutstretched,tryingtotouchbothatthesametime.Big,rustedorangeleaves—almostthesizeofmyhand—driftingdownaroundme.
“Thetrees,”Isay.“Irememberthem.”
Henodsandpullsablanketfromhisbackpack,lettingtheedgesflyoutwithoneflickofhiswrist.Itsettlesagainstthegrasswithaquietswish.Abottleofwinecomesnext,anchoringthecorner.Twoglasses,oneofthemmyjamjar.Theother,achippedcoffeemug.
“Thisisveryimpressive,”Isay.HegivesmeaskepticalglancebutImeanit.ThelastdateIwasonwasclosetoayearagoandtheguytookmetoashootingrangewherehisexstillworked.Needlesstosay,therewasn’taseconddate.
“Youhaven’tevenseenthebestpartyet.”
“I’vealreadyseenyourdick,Beckett.”
Hebarksoutasurprisedlaugh,shakinghishead.Inthelightofthemoon,Icanbarelymakeoutthelittlelinesthatappearnexttohiseyeswithhisgrin.Hegrabsthegreasybagbyhisfeetandholdsitouttome,lettingmepeekinside.Cheeseburgersfromthecafe,twooverflowingcupsofcrispyfrenchfriesthataresomehowstillhot.Imoanandreachforone,buthesnapsthebagshutbeforeIcan,placingitbyhisfeet.
“Holdonasecond.”
“But…frenchfries.”
“They’llstillbetherewhenwegetback.”Hestartswalkingbackwards,closertotheedgeofthewoodswherethetwintreesstand.“C’mere.”
Ilaugh.“C’mere,what?”ButstillIfollowafterhim.Themoonlightsuptheconstellationstattooedonhisskin,theskydippingdowntotwistaroundhisarms.
“Youhaven’thadyourhappytoday,”hetellsme,handsalreadyreaching,starsonhisskinandinhiseyesandintheskyabove.
Myheartflip-flopsinmychest.“Andyou’regonnagiveittome,huh?”
“Yeah,”hesmiles,asfullandbrightasthatdamnmoon.“I’mgonnagiveittoyou.”
He’swrongthough.Ihavehadmyhappytoday.I’mpracticallydrowninginit—insimple,quietjoy.Thewarmcomfortofaperfectmomentwithagoodman.
Istoprightinfrontofhimandhestaresdownatme.ItracethelinesofhisfaceandIfeellikeoneofthosemeteorshelovessomuch.Tearingthroughtheatmosphere,agiantballoflight.
“Thelasttimeyouwerehere—”Hecupsmyfacewithbothofhishandsandpressesagentlekisstothetipofmynose,thespacebetweenmyeyes.Everythinginmeshiversandmelts,andmyhandsgraspathiselbows.“Thelasttimeyouwerehere,Iwantedtokissyouunderthistree.”
“Youhiditwell,”ImurmurasIfollowhisretreat,silentlybeggingformore.
“Nah,”hesays,hisvoicearasp.“Youjustweren’tlookingcloseenough.”
Andthenhekissesme.
AndheshowsmeeverythingImissed.
“Andthatone?”
Ipointatabrightclusterofstarswithmyfrenchfry,mybootknockingagainsthisontheblanket.Ishiftmyheadagainsthisshoulderandhefollowsthedirectionofmyhand,nosebrushingbrieflyagainstmyhairasheanglestogetalook.
“Cetus,”hesaysaroundamouthfulofburger.Heswallowsandtossesthewrappertowardshisbag,settlingbackonhiselbowswithahappysigh.Ifollowafterhimwhenhetugsonceatmybeltloop,mybackagainsthischest.“TheSeaMonster.PoseidonsenthimtoravagesomecoastaltownwhenCassiopeiasaidshewasmorebeautifulthantheseanymphs.”
“Thatsoundspetty.”
Hehumsinagreementandcurlshishandaroundmywrist.Heguidesmyhandslightlytotherightsowe’rebothpointingatanotherclusterofstars.“Ariesisrightthere.”
Histhumbdragsalingeringhalf-circleagainstmypulsepointandIfeelitlikeatouchbetweenmylegs.Ishiftontheblanketandwigglecloser,myheadunderhischin.“Andthatone?”
“That’sanairplane,honey.”
AlaughslipsoutofmeandIpeekupathim.Relaxed,hisfacetiltedtowardsthesky,asmilecurlingattheveryedgesofhismouth.He’slooseouthereinthefieldsinawayheisn’tanywhereelse.
“Thisisagooddate,”Itellhimquietly.ThebestI’veeverhad.“Thanksforbringingmeouthere.”
“Thanksforcomingouthere.”Helooksdownatmeandplucksatthecuffofmysweatshirt.“Properlydressed.”
Iglancedownatthedoubledupmaterialstretchedawkwardlyacrossmychest.“Overlydressed,Ithink.”
Hemakesasoundagainstme,adeeprumblelowinhischestthatIfeelagainstmyback.Hishandslipsfrommywristtomyelbow,upovermyshoulder.Twofingerstuckintothecollarandtracealongmybarecollarbone.Mywholebodyshivers.
“Yeah?”
HecatchestheedgeofmyearbetweenhisteethandIgrin.Hisfirstconcessiontotheheatbankedbetweenus.Irememberhowmuchhelikedthatthelasttimeweweretogether—histeethagainstmyskin,praisewhisperedwitheveryroughscratch.
Inod.“Mmhmm.”
IshiftandshimmyuntilIcantuckmyarmsthroughthesleeves,themovementclumsy.Ilaughasthematerialgetscaughtaroundmyhead,twobighandsgrabbingandpullinguntilIcanseethefieldandtheskyandthetreesagain.BeckettlookingatmelikeIhungthedamnmoonmyself.
It’ssodifferentfromthelasttimeweweretogether.Different,butexactlythesame.Hestilllooksatmewithaferociousheat—carefuleyesmappingoutexactlywhathewantstodoandwhere.Whattouchtogivemefirst.Butthere’swonder,too.Likehecan’tquitebelieveI’mherewithhim,inthisplace.Affectionandamusementandabubblingwarmth,deepinmychest.
Heblowsoutabreathandscrubshispalmagainstthebackofhishead,watchingasIleanbackandpropmyselfuponbothhands.Idon’tthinkhemeantitasagrandseduction,butitfeelslikeonenow,thosesweatshirtssittinginaclumpbyhiship.I’mleftinnothingbutthethreadbaret-shirtIpulledonbeforeweleftthehouse,thewidecollarslippingoveroneshoulder.Hecatalogsthebareskinitrevealswithheavyeyes,histonguesweepingacrosshisbottomlipwhenIshiftslightlyanditdroopsalittlemore.
“Iwantyou,”Itellhim,finallyvoicingthethoughtthathasbeenrunningcirclesinmyheadsinceIfirstsawhimstepoffthecurbinthemiddleoftown.SinceIsawhimstepthroughthedoorofadivebar.Idon’tthinkI’veeverstoppedwantingBeckett,notreally.Itiptoemyfingersupthedelicateinkonhiswristandcurlmyhandaroundhisforearm.Pullonce.“AndIthinkyouwantme,too.”
Hiseyessnapupfromwheretheywereburningapathacrossmybrastrapandhegivesmethathalfsmileagain,somehowbetterthanthefullgrinthatspillsoutofhimlikestarlight.Thissmilefeelslikemineandminealone.Hegivesintomytuggingandshiftsuponhisknees.
“OfcourseIdo,”hesays,sureanddirect,impossiblyBeckett.Hesaysitlikeit’ssomethinghe’sbeenthinkingabout,too.Maybesincehesawmestandingwithmyhipagainstarentalcar.Maybesincehesawmesittingatabartopwithaglassoftequilainfrontofme.“Wantingyouhasneverbeenaquestion.”
Hemaneuversinfrontofmeuntilhecangripmyankle,caressingitoncewithhisthumbasheopensmylegwide,makingenoughspaceforhimtomoveinbetween.We’reonlytouchingatthatoneplace,hishandagainstmyleg,andalreadyIfeeliteverywhere.Inthesmallofmybackandthetipsofmybreasts,thearchofmyneckandthespacebetweenmylegs.
Hishandsqueezesmegentlyandhispalmmovesup.Thecallusesonhishandscatchontheroughmaterialofmyjeans,astiltedmovementthat’sbetterinitshonesty.Anothersqueezeatmythigh,thumbdraggingalongtheinseamabovemyknee.Hehesitatestherebriefly,considering,andthenreachesformyhip.
“Ifwedothisagain,Evie,there’snorunning.”Hiseyesareserious,hisbodyheldperfectlystillbetweenmyopenlegs.“Idon’twanttowakeupalone.”
Igriphisshirtinmyfists,regretslicingacrossmychest.ForthewayIlefthimallthosemonthsagoandforthewaysI’velefthimsince.Ileanupandbrushakissacrosshisbottomlip.Anapology,butapromise,too.“Youwon’t.”
“Alright,”hesays,andhiseyesflashdarker,histongueappearingbrieflyatthecornerofhismouth.Hishandsflexatmysides,fingertipspressingandguiding.“Laybackthen.”CHAPTERSIXTEENEVELYN
Ishakemyheadandurgehimbackuntilhefallswithagrunt,mykneesclamberingupandovertohughiships.Icuphisjawinmyhandsashegazesupatmeandtraceonceovertheroughofhisstubble
“Iwantyoutoseethestars,”Itellhim.Somethingbehindhiseyesflaresandburnsbright.Brighterthananythinginthesky.Myownprivatesupernova.
Heguidesmefurtherintohimwithhishandatthesmallofmybackandtrailssmall,bitingkissesupthelineofmyneck.Hesuckshardataspotjustbeneathmyjawandthenleansback,lingeringtherewithhislipsbarelybrushingmine.
“I’llonlybelookingatyou.”
Hismouthonminesendsshiverscascadingdownmyarms,bothtwinedtightaroundhisneckasourlipsmeetandpress.Weleanbackinthesamebreathandreadjust.Somethingdeeper,hotter.Hekissesmelikehe’stellingmeathousandsecrets,eachonesomethingdifferent.Imissedyou,hisfirstkisssays—softandlingeringagainstmybottomlip.You’resopretty,saysthenext—asweet,teasingbrush.Iwantyou,saysthelastone—ahungry,graspingthingashelicksintomymouthandholdsmyfaceagainsthis.Sofuckingbad—hisfingertipssinkingintomyhair.
Hishandfistsandpulls,aslighthintofroughnessthatearnsadesperatesoundlowinmythroat.Idon’tthinkI’veeverwantedsomeonesomuch.Notevenatthebarthatfirsttime.Irollmyhipsdownontohisandhepullshismouthawaytosuckinalungfulofair.Ilikethathehasn’tstoppedme—thathehasn’taskedifthisissomethingIwant.Hecanfeelitvibratingthroughme,sameashim.Perfectlyintune.Icirclemyhipsagainandheexhalesashakylaugh.
“YoufeelbetterthanIremember,”hesays.
Igrin.“Youhaven’tevenseenthebestpartyet.”
Hesmilesupatme,hisgrinalittlewild.ItakebackwhatIthoughtabouthishalf-smiles.ThisistheoneIwanttokeep.“I’vealreadyseenyourtits,Evie.”
Alaughburstsoutofme,muffledbyaroughkissagainstmylips.It’sclumsy,thebothofussmilingintoit.Iwanthimtoaskmehere,likethis.Thatsamequestionheaskseveryeveningwhilewesitonhisbackporch,thesundippinglowinfrontofus.
Didyoufindyourhappytoday?
Yes,Iwouldtellhim.Ifounditrighthere.Withyou.Likethis.
IreachforthehemofmyshirtandIpullitovermyhead.Hishandsimmediatelyslipupmybelly,thumbsrubbinginafirmsweepbelowmybreasts.Iletmyheaddrop,myhairticklingatthesmallofmyback.Itfeelssogoodeverywherehetouches.Ionlywantmore.
“Youcold?”
Ishakemyheadandreachfortheclaspofmybra.“Notwithyourhandsonme.”
Hiseyesflare.Helikesthatanswer.ThematerialofmybrafallsawayandI’mbareskininthemoonlight.IfeelBeckett’sdeepexhalebrushthevalleyofmybreasts,thetipofhisnosefollowingafter.Bighandsbracketmyhipsandslideupmyback—adeliciouspressureonbothsidesofmyspine.Hecurlshishandsaroundmyribsandtugsmecloser.
“Whataboutmymouth?”
Icardmyfingersthroughhishairandtwist,urginghimforward.Hechucklesatmywordlessresponseandnuzzlesintome,pressingdeep,suckingkissesbelowmycollarboneandatthetopofmyribs.Hishandssqueezeandheurgesmefurtherback,holdingmesuspendedatexactlytherightangleforhiskisses.Hebarelygrazesmychestandinsteadskipstomyshoulder,thelineofmyneck.EverywherebutwhereIwantthemmost.Iarchmyback,tuggingathishairimpatiently.
“Beckett,”Isayonagasp,hisstubbleperfectlyroughagainstmychest.HedragshisjawagainstmeandIgrindmyhipsdown.Onehandleavesmybacktocupmybreast,fingerspinchingroughlyatmynipple.Imakeanincoherentsoundandpullathishairagain,demandingrelief.
“Justwantedyoutogetbossyagain,”heteases,mouthbusyatmythroat.Hedipshistonguethereashisfingerspinchagainandmywholebodyshivers
“Youcouldhavejustasked.”
“Thisisbetter.”
HefinallyputshismouthtomybreastandIsighhisname,myhandsheldtighttothebackofhishead.Hefeelssogood.Warmandwetandjusttherightamountofrough.Henipswithhisteethandthestarsshakeinthesky.
IhatethatIdecidedtowearjeanstonight.Icanfeelhimthickandhardagainstme,butthefrictionisdulledbyourlayers,everyrollofourbodiesagainsteachotherurgingmyfrustrationhigher.Iwanttofeelhisbareskinbeneathme,satisfytheachelowinmybelly.Ifeelitchywithneed,thrummingwithit.
Hesmoothshispalmdownmybareback.“Relax,”hewhispersundermyear.“I’mgonnatakecareofyou.”
“Yourelax,”Igrumbleback,frustratedbyhishalf-touches.I’mtookeyedupforadrawnouttease.Ifeellikeit’sbeenweeksofforeplaybetweenus.Ifeeleverylingeringglance,everyrestrainedtouch.IwanthimhardandfastandfillingupeveryinchofmeuntilIcanbarelybreathewiththepressureofit.Hegentlylaysmebackagainsttheblanketandmyhairspreadsaroundme,mykneesstillhugginghishipsasIfallflat.Itugonhisbeltloopswithafrown.Hethumbsattheedgeofmylipswithasmile.
“What’sthisfacefor?”
“You’reteasingme.”
“I’mnot,”heshakeshisheadandrollshishipsagainstme,adeep,dirtygrindthathashiseyelashesflutteringagainsthischeeks.AlockofhairfallsoverhisforeheadandIpressitbackwiththepalmofmyhand.Amanlosinghisgrip,finally.“I’mtryingtogoslow,”hegritsout.
“Alsodefinedasteasing.”
Hehuffsalaughandleansdownuntilhecanlickahotstripebetweenmybreasts.Hemoveshisheadtotheleftandcatchesthetipbetweenhisteeth,followsitwithadeepsuckingpullthathasmearchingupofftheblanket.
“I’mjusttryingtoholdmyselftogether,”hesaysintomyskin,hishandsbattingmineawayfromhisjeans.Hequicklyfindsthebuttonofmineinstead,slippingitfreeandtuggingatthezipper,hismovementsquickandagitated.Hejerksthestubbornmaterialdownmylegswithagrunt—onlyhalfwaydownbeforehegivesupcompletely,distractedbythesightofplainwhitecotton.Hegroansandtightenshisgriponmythighs.
“Ihadaplan,”hesays,eyesstillfixedonthelineofunimpressivecottonatmyhips.Iwiggleunderhisstare.
“Oh?Feelfreetoshareit.”
“Iwasgoingtomakeyoucomeandthentakeyouhome,”hesaysinalowvoice,hiseyesblazingapathupmybody.Hefixesmewithahungrylookandflexeshishandsagain.“ButIdon’tthinkIcan.”
“Youcan’tmakemecome?”
Hereleasesmythightosmacklightlyatmyass.Goosebumpseruptoneverysquareinchofmybody.
“YouknowIcan,honey.”
Ifeelasharppulllowinmybelly—astringbetweenhiswordsandthedesirerunninghotthroughmyblood.“Didyoucomeupwithanewplan?”
Heconsiders,gazelingeringonthetwoinchesofsoft,smoothskinbetweenmybellybuttonandtheedgeofmyunderwear.I’vehadhismouththerebefore,whileIwasproppedupagainsttheedgeofadresserwithmyhandsinhishair.Iwantthatagain.Iwantamillionotherthings,too.
“Up,”hecommands,tappingonceatmybarehip.WhenIlevermybodyup,hecurlshishandsinmyjeansandtugs,pullingthemoffwiththreeroughjerks.I’minnothingbutasensiblepairofwhitecottonbriefswhilehe’sstillfullydressed,outinthemiddleofagroveoftreesinthedarkofnight.Ithasmeshiveringbeneathhim,handsclenchinginhisshirt.
Iclutchatit.“Off.”
Hereachesbetweenhisshoulderbladeswithonehandandpullsitoverhishead,bicepsflexingashethrowsittotheblanket.Hecollapsesbackontopofme,hismouthonmine,hisbodyadelicious,warmpressuretuckingmedown,down,downintotheground.Icurlmylegsaroundhishipsandlockmyanklesatthesmallofhisback,denimroughagainsttheinsideofmythighs.HiszipperbitesintomyskinandIflexmylegshigher,hischestpressedtighttomybreastsandhisinkedarmsholdingmetight.Ifocusentirelyonhim—theheatofhisbodyandthehollowachebetweenmylegs.
“Tellmeyoubroughtacondom,”Ipleadintohismouth,histhumbpluckingatmynipple.Heshakeshisheadwithamuffledsoundoffrustration,pushinguponhisarmstomeetmygaze.Hestrainsthereforasecond,distracted,beforehedipsbackdowntobrushakissagainstmylips.Helingersandgroans,anotherstolenkisswhenIsqueezehishipstighter.
“No,”hesays,regretetchedintoeverylineofhisface.Iletmyhandsmapthestronglineofhisshoulders,hisbroadchest,themusclestackeddownhisabdomen.Hisbodyisformedbywork,coloredbythesunandtheearth.I’vealreadyseeneverypieceofhim,butIfindnewthingstodiscover.Theclusteroffrecklesatthetopofhisribs.Thethinlineofcontrastwheretannedskinmeetspale,creamywhite.Thetrailofhairthatleadsdownhisstomach,underthehemofthejeansridinglowonhiships.
“Okay,that’sokay,”Ibabble.Wedon’tneedacondom.Thereareplentyofotherthingswecando.Mymindunrollsalistamilelong,andtheachewithinmepullsdeeper.Sharper.
Iscratchmynailsagainsthishipsandreachforthebuttonofhisjeans,slidingmyhandbeneathwhenitgives.MyknucklesbrushagainstwarmskinandIwrapmyhandaroundthehardlengthofhim.Hecloseshiseyes,teethclenched.“Ididn’tthink—”Helooksdownatme,bewilderedandenraptured.Disheveledanddelighted.Allofmyfavoritethings.“Iwasn’texpectingthis.”
“Youliterallyjusttoldmeyouhadaplan.”Ipumpmyhandonceandhemakesabitten-offgroaningsound.Iimmediatelywanttohearitagain.“Youweren’texpectingmenakedonthisblanket?”
Heshakeshisheadandrollshishipsintomytouch.
“Doyourememberthenightwemet?”
Istrokehimagainandhethrustsintomygripharder,fuckingintomyhandwithanotherpained,desperatesoundfrombetweenhisteeth.IlikethatsoundsomuchIdoitagain.Andthenagain,mythumbswipingatwhatIcanreach.
“Youalmostfuckedmeinthebackhallofthebar,Beckett.”Ihadwantedhimto.Practicallybeggedhimforexactlythat,ifIremembercorrectly.
Hishandcatchesmywristandheholdsmestill,eyesblazing.“Youfirst,”hesays.Hisfingersgrazethecurveofmyhip,slideunderthewaistbandofmyunderwearandsqueezeatthebareskinofmyass.
Ishakemyheadandsmileathim,myhandstilltrappedinhispants.IneedhimsobadlyIalmosthurtwithit.AllofmyideasscatterandIknowwhatIwant.Iwantus,together.“I’mtestedregularly,”Itellhim.“Onbirthcontrol.Ifyouwanted—”
Hismouthdropstomineinakiss,softerthanitshouldbewithmybodybarebeneathhimandaninvitationonthetable.Hegripsmychinandlicksintomymouthwithagentlecaress,histhumbtracingmyjawtothetenderskinbelowmyear.Herubsthereonce,aslowswipe.
“Iwastestedlastmonth,”hemanageswhenhepullsaway,hispalmflatagainstmyneck.Heslipsitdownslightlyuntilit’spressedrightinthecenterofmychest.Iloopmyhandaroundhiswristandsqueeze.“Therehasn’tbeenanyonesinceyou.”
Myheartthumpsanunevenbeatbeneaththepalmofhishand.“Sameforme,”Iconfess.Iofferhimalittlebitmore.“Ihaven’twantedanyoneelse.”
Notevenclose.Noteventempted.JustthememoryofBecketthadbeenmorethanenough.Theghostofhishandsonmyskin.
“Isthisokay?”Iask,myfingertipstracingbackandforthacrosshisskin.
Henods,eyesbright,andhishandslipsdownmybodytojointheother,toyingwiththesidesofmyunderwear.Heslipshisthumbsbeneathandsnapsthefabriconce,enoughtohavemyhipsjumpbeneathhim.Hegritsoutalaugh,andIsqueezewithmyhandstillinhispants.
Hestopslaughingrealquick.
Handsgrabandpull,arushtogetthereliefwe’rebothcraving.HefumbleswithhisjeanswhileItrytohelp,anattempttokickthemoffwithoutmovingfromovertopme.
“Ifyoujust—”Ipullhardatthematerial.
“IfIwhat?”Heshimmieshishipsanditpresseshiscockrightagainstme.Igaspandedgemylegswider.“You’renothelping.You’remakingitharder.”
Isnicker.“I’mmakingsomethingharder.”
“Evie,”hegrunts,stilltryingtopullhisjeansoverhiships,distractedasIrollminebeneathhim.Hepinsmedowntotheblanketwithhishandatmyhip,palmsqueezingtight.“Begood.”
Ireleaseaslowbreath,asmilestillonmylips.I’mhavingtroublekeepingstill.Ipressmyfingertipsoverhisjawandrubmypalmdownhisneck.Hisskiniswarmbeneathmytouch,flushedpinkinthelowlight.“IfeellikeI’vebeenwaitingforyouforever,”Iconfess.
Hisfacesoftens.
“Iknow,honey.”
Ignoringthejeansstilltrappedaroundhisthighs,hishandslipslower,twofingersglidingrightwhereIneedhimthemost.Afteralltheteasing,hisfirmtouchhasmehalfwaytherealready.HecirclesthemonceandIchokeouthisname.Heshiftshishand,pressesagain,andmynailsdighalf-moonsintohisback.
“Fuck,youfeelgood,”hegrindsout.Iforgothowdeephisvoicegetswhenwe’redoingthis.Howdesperatehesounds.
Inodandgrabathisarms,palmssmackinglightlyattheinkonhisskin,tryingtourgehimcloser.HisthumbslipsbeneathcottonandwebothgroanwhenhefeelshowwetIam.
“Now,”Idemand.“Rightnow,please.”
Hedoesn’tbotherslippingmyunderwearfrommyhips,justtwistshisthumbinthematerialandpullsittotheside,lininghimselfupwithhisotherhandandpushingdeep.Oneheavythrust,allthewayin.Mylegsscrambleathishipsandhedropshisforeheadtomyneck,agroanslippingfromhischesttomine.Ifeeldeliciouslyfull,overwhelmedinthebestpossibleway.
Mymemoryisnothingcomparedtotherealityofhim.Handsflexingatmythighs,foreheadrockingagainstmyneck,stubblescrapingatmyskin.Hepullsback,rollshiships,andpushesinside.Asmooth,easyrhythmthatImatch.Heurgeshisbodyagainstme,againandagain,pushingmeuptheblanketwitheverythrustuntilmyshoulderbladesbrushcoldgrass.
“Evelyn,”hesaysintomyneck.“Evie.Fuck.”
“S’good,”Isluronalaugh,champagnebubblesinmychest.Heleansuponhiskneesandtucksapalmtothesmallofmyback,guidingmyhipstighteragainsthim.EverythinggrindsjustrightandI’mrightattheveryedgealready,teetering.
“I’vethoughtaboutthis,”hesays,abreathlessconfession.Hishandscurlaroundmyhipsandholdtight,liftingmeupanotherinchagainsthim.Helooksbeautifullikethis.Alittlebitwild,abeadofsweatworkingitswaydownhisneck.Hisgazebrushesalltheplaceswe’retouchingandsomeoftheplaceswe’renot—mythighs,myhips,thebounceofmybarebreastsandthecurveofmycheek.“Everysingleday,I’vethoughtaboutthis.You.”
MyheartfluttersandIfeellikeI’vegotstarlightslippingundermyskin,hearinghe’sthoughtaboutmejustasmuchasI’vethoughtabouthim.
“Comeon,”hesays,eyeslockingonmine.Iwatchhisfaceashedragshishandovertheswellofmyhipandspreadshisfingerswide.Histhumbtracesdownmybellyandthenhepressesitbetweenmylegs.Heholdsitthere—asimple,heavypressure.Everythinginmepullstighter.Ahiccupingbreathslipsoutofmeandacockygrinhitchesupthesideofhismouth.“Giveittome.”
Igrinbackathimandchasehistouch,placingmyhandoverhistomovehimjustthewayIlike.“Earnit.”
Hislaughisaroughthing,breathlesswiththewayhe’sstillmovingagainstme.Hecollapsesononearmandtangleshisfreehandinmyhair.Herollshishipsharder,stayingdeep.
“I’lltakewhateveryou’vegot,”hetellsme.Hisfingerscurlintoafistinmyhairandhekissesmelikehedoesn’twanttodoanythingelse,everagain.
Justthis.
Meandhim.
Itsneaksuponme,thebrightburstofrollingpleasure.ItlicksupmyspineandIarchbeneathhim,alaughcaughtinthebackofmythroat.I’veneverfeltlikethis.Notever.Stardust,itfeelslike,rightinthecenterofmychest.
Hekeepsmovingthroughit—franticandwithouthissmoothcontrol—andI’mtoooccupiedwiththefuzzylightnessinmylimbstodoanythingbutholdonashechaseshispleasure.Heshuddersandfreezesagainstme,handsgrasping,mouthworkingsoundlesslyagainstmyneck.Everythingsettlesinsoftwavesofpulsingwarmth,mybodyperfectly,deliciouslywornout.
Iblinkupattheskyaboveme,thetreebranchesdancinginthelightbreeze.Ismoothmypalmdownhisback.Beckettdropshisforeheadagainstmineandbreathesoutmyname.
“Ihopeyourplanincludescarryingmebacktothehouse,”Iyawn,thebackofmyhandpressedagainstmymouth.Everybitofmefeelsstretchedandsated.Lazy.“BecauseIdon’tplanonmoving.”
Hepressesuponhiselbows.Hiseyesaresoft,histouchevensofter.Hebrushesakisstothetipofmynose.
“I’mnotcarryinganything.”Hecollapsesatmyside,eyesheavyandsmileloose.“Let’sjustlayhere.Onemoreminute.”
“Alright,”Iyawnagain,ashiverracingdownmyarms.Hechasesitawaywithhispalmagainstmyskin,urgingmecloser.“Onemoreminute.”
Welaytheremuchlongerthanaminute.
Eventually,Beckettbundlesmeupinmysweatshirtandcarriesmeonhisbackonourtrekbacktothehouse,hishandshookedundermykneesandhispalmsrubbingatmythighs.Withmyarmsloopedoverhisshoulders,hemakesquickworkofit,pointingoutdifferentconstellationsaswego.Andromedaandherchains.Taurusandhismightyhorns.Amillionstarsandamillionstories.Iburymynoseinhisneckanddrifttothesoundofhisrumblingvoice.
Istartleoutofmylullwithhisbootsagainstthestepsoftheporch,hishandsadjustinghisgriptodiginhispocketforhiskeys.Ibegintoslipsidewaysandheletsoutamuffledcurse,placingmecarefullyonmyfeet.Iyawnanddigmyfistsintomyeyesasheunlocksthedoor,draggingmyfingersthroughmyhair.Isnortwhenseveraltwigsandsomebladesofgrassfalltotheporch,remnantsfromourtimeinthefield.
Maybethisiswhathappyissupposedtobe.Aperson,aplace.Asinglemomentintime.Beckettinthehallwayhelpingmeuntanglethesweatshirtsfromaroundmyshoulders.Afamilyofcatsjostlingforourattentionaswetripintothekitchen.Teainthekettleonthestovetopandtwomugssittingsidebysiderightnexttoit.
Icollapseontooneofthestoolslinedupagainstthecountertopandwatchhimmovearoundthekitchen,settlingintothewarmthexpandinginmychest.
“What’reyouthinkingabout?”heasks,handsbusywithatinoftea.HehandsmethehoneybeforeIcanaskandthereitisagain,thatflutterrightbeneathmyribs.
Ishakemyheadandreachforaspoon.“Nothing,”Isay.“Justwatchingyou.”
Hehumslikehedoesn’tbelieveme,asmilehiddenbehindthelipofhismug.Wesitthereatthecounteranddrinkinthecalmquietofthehouse.WewatchthecatsbataroundaballofstringandIrestmyforeheadagainsthisshoulder,hishandfindingmythigh,fingersdrumming.
AyawncreaksmyjawandBeckettnosesatmyhair,curlinghisfingersaroundmymugbeforeIcandropit.Heplacesitinthesinkandcomesbacktome,bracinghimselfwithhisarmsonthecountertop.Ifindthegalaxyontheinsideofhisbicepandtracethecolor.
“Cometobedwithme,”hesays,hisvoicearoughwhisper.Ileanintohimuntilmychinisonhisshoulderandthewholetophalfofmybodyisrestingonhis.Icouldfallasleep,justlikethis.Itwouldprobablybethebestsleepofmylife.
“Idon’tthinkIhaveanotherroundinme.”
Beckettshakeshisheadandguidesmeoffthestool,directingmetowardshisroomwithagentlepatonmyass.
“NeitherdoI,”heagrees.Hedropsakisstothebackofmyheadandwalksusforward,kneesbumpingagainstthebackofmine.“Iwanttofeelyounexttome.Justsleep.”
I’mtootiredtopretendthat’snotexactlywhatIwant,too.Itwistmyfingersthroughhisandnod.“Justsleepsoundsreallynice.”CHAPTERSEVENTEENBECKETT
IwaketoEvelynsprawledacrossme,herthightossedovermyhipsandhernoseatmyshoulder.Ismoothmyhanddownherbarebackandwatchassheshiftscloser,asinglebeamofmorninglightdancingdownherskin.Ichasethelightwithmytouch,mythumbeasingoverbrownskinandhernosescrunches,ahuffinhersleepassherollsandsettlesagain
Ilovehowshelooksbeneathmysheets—thegentlecurveofherhipandthedipatherwaist.Thegracefullineofherarmacrossherbarebreasts.Shelookslikeapieceofart.Paintedwithoilsandpressedintocanvaswithroughfingertips.Boldstrokesofburnishedgoldandrichplumanddeep,forestgreen.
Despitemyinsistencethatallwe’ddoissleep,Iwokeupbeforedawntosoftfingersgrazingagainstmystomach,searchingkissesinthedark.Ihadpulledherovermeandtouchedheruntilshewasbreathless,handstuggingatmyclothes.AlickofheatcurlsagainstthebaseofmyspineasIrememberthesoundshemadeasIsunkintoherthatsecondtime.Alowmoan.Pure,unadulteratedrelief.
DesirepulseshotandIdigthepalmsofmyhandsagainstmyeyesuntilIseespots.IneedtogetoutofthisbedifIhaveanyhopeofgettinganythingdonetoday.Istillfeeldesperateforher,needyforhersoundsandtouchesandbody.
Forthewayshelooksatme.Forherlaughandsmileandcarefulattention.
Iflipbacktheblanketsandslipfromthebed,Evieimmediatelyrollingintomyspace.Idropakissbetweenhershoulderblades.
Herhandtanglesbrieflyinmyhair,agentletugandthenasoothingrubwiththepadsofherfingersagainstmyscalp.Adeep,satisfiedsoundrumbleslowinmychest.Eviegrinsintothepillow.
“Likeacat,”shemumbles.
Inudgemyheadfurtherintoherhandplayfullyandshepushesmeaway.“Pancakes,”shesayswithasigh.“Bacon.”Shestillhasn’tbotheredwithopeninghereyes.
“Alright,”Itracetheswellofhercheekwithmythumb.Iwanttobottleupthismoment,herbodysoftandsweetbeneathmysheets,thesoundsofthehousesettlingaroundus.Treebranchesscratchingatthewindowsandfloorboardsyawninginthehallway.“Let’sstartwithcoffeeandgofromthere.”
I’dmakeherpancakesandbaconandafuckingall-you-can-eatbuffet—anythingshewantedifshetoldmeshewantedtostay.ButIpushthatthoughtawayasquicklyasitentersmymind.Buryitdeep.It’swishfulthinkingintheworstofways.EvieistoobigtobecontainedbyaplacelikeLovelight.Fartoobrighttobetuckedawayonasmall-townfarm.Iwon’thaveherlosehershinebecause—becauseIcan’tstandtoseehergo.
Iglanceathersmiletuckedintomypillow,herfingertipstracingmindlesslinesagainstmytattoos.
“Meetyouinthekitchen,”shetellsme,alreadyhalfwaybacktosleep,foottwitchingoutfrombeneaththeflannelblankets.Ipullthecurtainsclosedonmywayoutthedoorandscoopmydiscardedpantsfromthefloor,steppingintothemasIwanderdownthehall.Thecatsignoremecompletely,contentwiththeirplaceinthesunbeneaththewindow.
“Nicetoseeyou,too.”
Cometrollsontoherback,hertinypawwavingbrieflyintheair.
Ibusymyselfwithstartingthecoffeeandsettingouttheingredientsforpancakes,adeepsorenessbetweenmyshoulderbladesandinthebackofmythighs.Ihavetwotwinscratchmarksatthecurveofmyribs—asouvenirfromthesecondtime,whenIpressedmythumbbetweenherlegsandherhandscurledintofistsagainstmysides.
SleepingwithEvelynlastnightprobablywasn’tthebestidea.I’monlyfallingdeeperintothisthingbetweenus.I’mafraidthatwhensheleavesthistime,she’sgoingtobetakingalloftheimportantpartsofmewithher.
ButI’mtiredofholdingmyselfback.TiredofpretendingIdon’twantherineverypossibleway.Onmyporchandatmytableandinmybed.I’veneverbeensogreedyforawomaninmyentirelife.
It’sEvie.
Ineverstoodachance.
Iwanttotalktoheraboutherdayandthenfuckhersenselessupagainstthewall.Iwanttomakehergrilledcheeseandtomatosoupandthenspreadheroutonmytable.
Alight,musicalringinterruptsmythoughtsandIglanceovermyshoulderatthetable.Evelyn’slaptopisproppedopenatthecorner,aspiralnotebookjustbeneath.Myeyesshiftdownthehallandbackagain,theringcuttingoffabruptly.
Itbeginsagainamomentlater.
Iknowshedoesn’thaveherphone.It’sstillatthebottomofthepond,likelymakingafinehomewithoneoftheboatoarsLukadroppedintwosummersago.Itakeastepcloserandsquintatthescreen.AtinyboxinthecornertellsmeJosieiscalling.I’veheardhernamebeforefromEvelyn,afriendlyaffectioninhervoice.
MyhandhoversoverthetrackpadandItapanswerbeforeIcantalkmyselfoutofit.I’lltakeamessage,hangup,andmakeussomedamnpancakes.
Awoman’sfaceinstantlyappearsonthescreen.Shortblackhair.AMetallicasweatshirt.Widebrowneyesthatblinkandthengrowwider.
“Holyshit,”saysatinnyvoicefromthespeaker.
Myreflectionappearsinthetopleftsideofthescreen,armbracedagainsttheedgeofthetableandhandstillhoveringoverthekeyboard.Iam…notwearingashirt.PrettysureyoucanseeEvie’sscratchmarksacrossmychest.Ipushupoffthetableandstandtherelikeanidiot,hesitantlywavingthespatulaingreeting.
Didnotknowthiswasavideocall.
“Um,hello.”
Sockedfeetshuffledownthehallway.Evieappearsintheentrancetothekitchenwearingoneofmyflannels,half-buttonedandbarelyskimmingherthighs.Shehasherknit—Iexhaleashakybreathandgrabthebackofthechair—shehashercableknitsockspulledtoherknees.I’mtornbetweenthedesiretoburnthosefuckingthingsandhaveherwearnothingbutthose,herkneeshuggingmyearsandherhandsinmyhair.
“Hey,”shemumbles,scootingherwayovertomeandbrushingabriefkisstotheundersideofmyjaw.Herarmscurlaroundmywaistandshehugsmetight.It’sthesortofeasyaffectionI’vebeencravingfromher,andIcan’tappreciateitbecauseI’mfrozeninfrontofthecamera,staringlikeadeerinheadlightsoverEvie’shead.Ifthekitchenfloorcouldswallowmewhole,thatwouldbegreat.
IknewIshouldn’thaveansweredthefuckingcall.
“My,my,my.Lookwhatwehavehere.”
Eviejumps,facesnappingtowardsthecomputer.Myhandsgripherhipsinsilentapology.
“Ididn’tknowitwasavideocall,”Iwhisper,justforher.
Evelynblinks.Thewomanonthescreenstareswordlesslyatusbothandthensteeplesherfingerstogether.Shetapsthemlightly,lookinglikeamovievillain.Aslowgrinstartsattheedgeofhermouthuntilherwholefacelooksfittoburstwithunrestrainedglee.
It’sterrifying.
“Somanythingsarebeginningtomakesense,”shesayswithaweirdaristocraticaccent.Eviesighsandpatsonceatmychest,tippingherheadbacktolookupatme.Shehasafaintblushonhercheeks,butshehasasmile,too.Hereyestraildownmytorsoandlandonthethinscratchesonmyside.Theflushonhercheekstripsashadedarker
“Whydon’tyougoputashirton?”
“Noneedtoonmyaccount,”comesthevoicefromthescreen.
“I’mgonnagoputashirton,”Iagree.Iplacethespatulaonthetableandmakeaquickexit,retreatingtothesafetyofmybedroom.
Oncethedoorclicksshutbehindme,Ipullaflannelfromthetopdrawerwithoutbotheringtolookatit,takingmytimetodoupthebuttons.It’sforthebestthatI’mnotstandingawkwardlybehindEvieduringaphonecallwithherfriend.I’mnottryingtomakeanythingdifficultforher.Idon’twanthertofeelanypressure,frommeoranyoneelse.Sheputsenoughonherself.
Irubthepalmofmyhandagainstthebackofmyneck,frustrated.Withthesituationbutmostlywithmyself,atmyinabilitytojust—saywhatIwant.
IknowwhatIwant.
Iglanceatthebed—thetwistedsheetsandthefaintindentinthepillownexttomine.
ButIknowit’sselfishtowantit.
ThedoorcracksopenandEviepokesherheadaroundthecorner,herhairatangledmessandfallingoverhershoulders.Shesmilesgentlyatmewhensheseesmestandinginthemiddleoftheroomandopensthedoorfurther.Sheplacesacoffeemugontheedgeofthedresserlikewedothiseveryday.
Iwishwedid.
Iclearmythroat.“Everythingokay?”
Shenodsandcrossesherarmsoverherchestassheleansupagainstthedoorframe,aneasysmileonherface.AllIcandoisstareatthebuttonsoftheshirtshestole,thesidesbarelycoveringtheswellofherbreasts.Itwouldbesoeasytohookmyfingerthere,pullhertomeandforgetthemessinmyhead.
Howlongisshestaying?Whatwillhappenwhenshegoes?
HowfargoneamIanddoIevencare?
Itwouldalldisappearwithmymouthonhers.
Halfofmeexpectshertopushtheconversation,demandthatwetalkthrougheverythingwecrackedwideopenlastnight.Butshekeepshereyesonme,gazewarmandhonestandkind.There’safadedlinepressedfromthecornerofhereyetothecurveofherjaw,acreasefrommypillowimprintedagainsthercheek.
Iwantherlikethiseverysinglemorning.
“Youleftyourphoneonthecounter,”shetellsme,uncrossingherarmsandedgingfurtherintheroom.“Mabelcalledandsaidyou’relate.”
Igroan.IforgotIvolunteeredtohelphertoday.Springweddingseasonischaoticatthegreenery,andshe’stooshorttodothearchesbyherself.IglancedownthelonglineofEvie’sbodyproppedupagainstthedresserandgroanagain.
Ihadplansthismorning.Pancakesandsyrupwiththedoorstotheporchthrownopenwide.Thesunonherskinandthetemptinglineofherthroat.Irubatmychestandignorethelowflareofdisappointment.
Shegrinsandturns,bendingatthewaistforthethirddrawerdown.Imakeahelplesssoundastheswellofherhipsandthecurveofherassareputondisplayandshegivesmealittleshimmy,legsrockingbackandforth.
“I’llgowithyou,”shetellsmeoverhershoulder,pullingoutapairofjeansandtossingtheminmydirection.“I’vegottodropoffwebsitestuffforheranyway.”
“You’restilldoingthatstuffaroundtown?”Socialmedia,amajorityofit.ButhelpingAlexstockbooksonthebackshelves,too.Takingaturnonthecashregisteratthehardwarestore.Christopherhadbeenbesidehimself,tellinganyonewhowouldlistenaboutthecelebritywhowantedtoworkathisstore.
She’sbeensharinghersunshinewithanyonewhoneedssomelight,evenasshestrugglesherself.She’sopenandwarmandkindandit’ssoeasytopictureherhere.Towanthertostay
Shehumsinaffirmation,aballeduppairofsockssoaringthroughtheairandnarrowlymissingmyhead.Ireachbackandgrabthemoffthebed.
Sherocketsbackuponherfeetandsetsherhandsonherhips.Bossy,ineverylineofherbody.Gorgeous,too.“Butifwe’reskippingbreakfasthere,I’mgonnawantbaconontheway.”
Ieaseandsettle.We’llfigureeverythingoutintime,forbetterorworse.Worryingaboutitisn’tgoingtogetmeanywhere.
“Wecandothat.”
Thebackparkinglotofthegreeneryisfullwhenwearrive,aspikeofanxietymakingmefidgetinmyseat.ThisisnothowIwantedtospendmymorningwithEvelyn.Infact,thisisnothowIwanttospendanymorning—ever.Iwanttogobackintimeandpunchmyselfinthefaceforvolunteering.
IcanfeelEvie’seyesonme,watchingmecarefullyasImaneuverthetruckintooneofthebackalleyways.Ireluctantlyputitintoparkandsheslipsapieceofbaconoutofthestyrofoamcontaineronherlap,offeringmehalf.
“Theylikeseeingyou,youknow.”
Ibiteintothebacon,keepingmygazefirmlylockedonthelargefloralwreathoverthedoor.Itusuallytakesmebetweenfiveandsevenminutestoconvincemyselftogetoutofthecar.“Whodoes?”
“Everyone.Thetown.”
Igrunt.
“Ijust—”Iturntolookather,thebrightmorninglightmakingherskinglow.Shehaspinkonherneckfromwheremystubblebrushedagainsther,theedgeofahickeypeekingoutfrombeneathhershirt.Igiveintotemptationandreachover,thumbingonceatthemarkbeforepullinghercollaroverit.Sheturnsherheadandbrushesakissagainsttheconstellationonthebackofmyhand.ArgoNavis.Themightyship.
“Idon’twantyoutobelonely,”sheconfesses.“Sittingbyyourselfinthatbighouse.Ihatethinkingofyoulonely.”
Shemeanswhensheleaves.Islipmyhandoutofhergripandrubmypalmagainstmythigh.She’sbusyplanningforherexitwhileI’mstilloutinthefieldswithher,myhandsonherbareskinandmyheartinmythroat.
Disappointmentpunchesmeinthegut,acheapshotthatstealstheairoutofmylungs.AllmorningI’vebeentryingtothinkoftherightwordstotellherIwantheraroundandshe’sthinkingaboutwhereshe’llgonext.Iletoutaslowbreathandreachforthehandleofthedoor.
“Alright,”Iscratchatmynoseandpusheverythingbackintoplace.Shouldersback,chinup,crumblingwallsheldupbytoothpicks.“Let’sgointhen.”
Shestopsmewithherhandonmywrist,thestyrofoamboxesplacedneatlyinthebackseat.Herthumbrubsonceagainstmyskinandshesmilesgentlyatme.There’sasecretthere,inthesetofhermouth.Comfortandalittlebitofcoercion,too.AllthebestthingsaboutEvie.
Sherummagesaroundinherbagandemergeswithherhandwrappedtightaroundsomething,shufflinguponherkneestoleanoverthecenterconsole.Shecupsmyjawinonehandandreachesformytemplewiththeother,asmallfoamearplugheldcarefullybetweenthumbandforefinger.Shegentlyfitsitintoplaceagainstmyear,thumbsmoothingalongmyjawasthesoundmufflesaroundme.It’slikeslippingunderwaterinthebath,warmwaterrushingoverhead.
Sheguidesmyheadtotheleftandfitstheotherintoplace.Sheholdsmyfacewhenshe’sdone,thumbsbrushingundermyeyes.Sheleansforwardanddragsagentlekissacrossmymouth.Letmetakecareofyou,herkisssays.
Iwantherto.Morethananything,Iwantherto.
“Forthesound,”sheexplains,hervoicemuffledbutstillthere.“Tomakeiteasier.”
Iswallowaroundthewordsthatburnunfamiliarinthebackofmythroatandsettleforsqueezingherhandinmine.ButIwonderifsheknows.Ifshecanreaditonmyface.
Ididn’trealizefallinginlovecouldbesosimple.Baconinatakeoutcontainerandearplugsinthebottomofahandbag.
Imakeadecisionsittinginthefrontseatofmytruck,mythumbacrossherknuckles.Idon’tknowwhatwe’redoing,howlongit’lllast,whenshe’llleaveagain.ButI’lltakeallherpieceswhileIhaveher.
I’lltakewhatevershecangiveme,foraslongasshecan.
Theearplugshelp,butEvelynhelpsmore.
Shekeepshertoucheslightandreassuringagainstthebackofmyarmaswetwistflowersandvinesaroundthesturdylegsofanarch.HalfoftheentiretowniscrammedintoMabel’sgreenhousespace,bundlesoffreshflowersandrollsofchickenwireanddensegreenfoamoneveryflatsurface.Loudconversationandbodiesbrushingclose.I’veseenglimpsesofMabel,hurryingbetweenstations,aflurryofactivityasshearrangesandrearrangesandsendspeopleoutthedoor.
“Thesearebeautiful,”Evelynfluffssomebaby’sbreathnearthetopofthearchanddragsafingertipoverthepetalofapalepinkpeony,thebloomstillclusteredtight.Standingonthestepstool,herassisrightabovemyface.IcouldbiteatthetopofherthighifIwantedto.Sheturnsandlooksdownatme,aslysmilecurvingherlipsup.Idon’tbotherlookingawayfromherass.
Ireachoutahandandhelpherdown.“Theyare.”
Mabelisincredibleatwhatshedoes.Herfloralbusinesshasbeenslowlyexpandingoverthepastcoupleofyearsandthismightbeherbiggestweddingyet.Ilookatallthearrangementsspreadoutoverthegreenhouse,Gusstandingbythedoorwithwhatlookslikefivebouquetsbalancedinhismassivehands,apatientlookonhiskindfaceasMabeltalksanimatedlyinfrontofhim.Henodsandjerkshisheadoutfronttowheretheambulanceiswaiting,backdoorsproppedopen.
“IthinkGusistryingtodropoffflowersataweddinginanambulance.”
Evelynhopsoffthelaststepofthestoolbutdoesn’tdropmyhand.Isqueezeherfingerswithmine,atiny,whitebloomstucktoherpinky.
“Hemightneedtheambulanceinasecond.”
IlaughandEvelynglancesupatme,awidesmileonherprettyface.Iforgetthatwe’reinthemiddleoftowninacrowdedgreenhouse.IforgetthatCindyCroswellisstandingthreefeetbehindus,sneakingapeekthroughabundleofeucalyptus.
AllIknowisthatIwanttokissEvelynwhileshehasjasminecaughtinherhairandI’vegotthisfeelinginmychest.Likesomeonekickedmeoutofanairplane.Totalfreefall.Noparachute.
SoIdo.
Icupmyhandaroundthebackofherneckandtugherintome,asoftohpressedagainstmymouthandherhandsflatagainstmychest.Ikeepitchasteandeasy,agentlebrushbackandforth.Aquicknipatherbottomlip.Herhandscurlintofistsassheswaysintome,alightadmonishmentwiththerapofherknucklesagainstmycollarbone.
“Everyonecansee,”shewhispersagainstmymouth,notmovinganinch.Thesoundismutedbythefoaminmyears,butIcanhearherallthesame.IcanalsohearCindyCroswelldropeverythingshe’sholdingrightbehindusandgorushingtowardsthesupplyclosetwhereBeckyGardenerdisappearedtenminutesago.
Ibumpmynoseagainsthers.“Idon’tcare.”
Hersmilewidensintoagrin,herbrowneyesshining.Thisclose,Icanseeflecksofgoldinthem.Shethumbsatmyjaw.“Thoseearplugsmadeyoubold,farmerboy.”
Ishrugandleanback,cardingmyhandthroughthelengthofherhair.Foronce,Idon’tmindtheattention.I’mnotgoingtoloseamomentwithEvelynjustbecausesomeonemightbewatching.Thoughthereisalotofwhisperinggoingonallofasudden,furtiveglancesinbetweenceramicvasesandrosegoldtwinklelights.
“Ah,”Iseeherpointnow.GusandMabelhaveabandonedtheirargumentonthesidewalkandarestandingwiththeirfacespressedagainstthewindow.Iwince.Everythinginthegreenhousehascometoacomicalstandstill.Thewhispersstartlikeahornet’snestasecondlater.“Alright,well.Can’ttakeitbacknow.”
“Doyouwantto?”Ilookbackdownather,thewayhersmileisslippingfromherlips.“Takeitback?”
Ishakemyhead.Ireallydon’t.Iwanteveryoneinthisnosy-asstowntoknow.I’mhalf-temptedtodigmycelloutofmybackpocketandringupthephonetree.
Relieved,Evietakesmyhandandsqueezes.“Good.BecauseIthinkwejustwenttheInglewildversionofviral.”CHAPTEREIGHTEENEVELYN
MybrandnewphoneringsonthearmofthechairasIsitonthebackporchofBeckett’scabin,amugofteainmyhandsandmyfeetproppedupontherailing.It’sanunfamiliarnumber,butIrecognizetheareacode.
ItapanswerasIwatchBeckettcrossbackandforththroughthethickglasswindowsofhislittlegreenhouse,bendingatthewaistwithawateringcanheldlooselyinhisfist.Idon’tknowhowanyonegotthisnumber.IaskedJosieforanewonewhensheorderedmeareplacementphone.
“Hello?”
“Inglewildphonetreecalling,”avaguelyfamiliarvoicechirpsoutontheotherendofthephone.“BeckettandEvelynwereseenmakingoutinthecornerofMabel’stoday.Prettysurehewouldhavethrownhertothegroundifnoonehadbeenaround.”
Ipullthephoneawayfrommyearandglanceatthescreen.Thatisa—creativeinterpretationofthesweetbutlingeringkissBeckettgavemebeneaththeflowerarch.
“Kelly?Isthatyou?”
I’mprettysureKellywasn’teveninthegreenhouseearliertoday.There’sapauseandthenherloudandboisterouslaughdancesovertheline.IcanalwaystellwhenthesalondoorisopenwhenI’mwalkingthroughtown.IcanhearKelly’slaughfromamileaway.
“Oh,goodness.Whataretheodds?”Herlaughtertapersoff.“Iguessyou’reofficiallyalocalnow…ifyou’vebeenaddedtothephonetree.”
“Iguessso.”Thethoughtmakesmegrin.Istillhavequestionsabouthowtheygotthisnumber,though.Mydaddoesn’tevenhaveityet.“Weweren’tmakingout.”
“Oh,honey.That’sashame.”Shetutsonce.“Youshouldalwaysbemakingoutwiththatman.”
IhangupthephoneandkickmylegsasIstareoutattherollinghills.Iletmyselfimaginewhatthiswouldbelike.Morningsspentintownandafternoonsonthefarm,brilliantcolorspillingoutbehindthehouseastheflowersbegintobloom.CallsfromthephonetreeandcookiesfromMs.Beatriceinthedeadofnight.Beckett’smouthagainstmine.
Istillhaven’tgottenthatitchtomove.Thepulsethatbeatsinmychesttogosomewherenew—chase,discover,find—it’sfainternow.Quiet.Idon’tthinkit’sgone.It’sjust…satisfied,Ithink.
Iglanceatmyphoneandinsteadoffeelingaswellofanxietyrisinglikeatide,Ijustfeel…nothing.Ididn’tbotherreconnectinganyofmysocialaccountswhenIsetupthisnewphone.Didn’tconnectmyemaileither.
I’mstartingtoletsomethingsgo.
IwatchBeckettcrossbehindthewindowsagain—onethingIdon’twanttoletgoof.
WithBeckett,I’mtryingtofigureouttoomuchonmyownwhenthere’sanotherhalftotheequationcurrentlyhidinginthegreenhouse,tendingtohisplants.Doesheevenwantmetostay?Istandfrommyseatandstepdownthebackporch,followingthepathlaidbyoversized,flatstones.CometandVixenrushaheadofme,hoppingfromrocktorocktoslipthroughthecrackinthedoor.
Beckett’sbackistome,hist-shirtstretchedoverhisshouldersasheworksatthetablepressedagainstthelengthofthebackwall.Almostallofthefloorspaceisoccupiedbyvariouspotsandplanters,alongshelfagainsteachfloor-to-ceilingwindowcrowdedwithorchidsandpetuniasandbrightredpoinsettias,theirsilkypetalsopentothesettingsun.IduckmynoseintoaclusterofpinkIdon’trecognize,itsscentlikethefirstbiteofacrispapple.Tangyandsharp.
IleanbackandfindBeckettwatchingme.
“Phonetreecalled,”Itellhim.“We’reofficial.”
Iregretmychoiceofwordsalmostimmediately.Theonlythingofficialaboutwhatwe’redoingisofficiallyavoidingtheconversation.Officiallystupidaboutit.Irollmyeyesuptotheglasspanelsoftheceilingandbackdownagain.“YouknowwhatImean.”
Hewipeshishandsonatowel,hismovementspracticedandsmooth.“We’reofficiallyoneveryone’screepradar?”Hetossesthetoweltotheside.“We’reofficiallygoingtohavetostartcheckingthefrontbushesforneighbors?”
Ilikethatwordsomuch.We
“Idon’tthinkyou’llfindLukaandStellahidinginyourbushes,”IsayasIleanmyhipagainstthetablehe’sbeenworkingat.Threesmallpotsandapacketofseeds.Abrightbluewateringcanandsomepruningshears.Itiltmyheadandglanceathisneathandwritingatthebottomlipofterracotta.Lavender
“Arewegoingtotalkaboutwhat’sgoingon,orareyougoingtosilentlypokearoundmygreenhouseuntilIlosemymind?”
Iblinkupathimandfeelasmiletugatmymouth.Ibitedownontheinsideofmycheekinashowofrestraint.“Thesecondoptionsoundsnice,thankyou.”
Heshakeshisheadandrubshisknucklesagainsthisneck,exasperated.Thispoorman.I’vereallyputhimthroughtheringerthisweek.Thepond,akiss…sexinafield.I’dfeelbadifIdidn’tknowforafacthelovesit.Helovesthechallenge,thefight,thebigteaseofitall.Hedropshishandsandreachesunderthetable,flickingsomehiddenswitch.Alowstringoflightstwinedaroundtheceilingpanelsblinkstolifeandthewholespaceglowswithawarm,hazylight.Icatchareflectionofusintheglasstomyright,nightcreepingacrossthefieldsoutsideandcloakingeverythinginshadow.
I’mcaptivatedbythelookofusreflectedbackinawavydistortion.MestandinginfrontofBeckett,hisbodystrongwherehe’sproppedupagainstthetable.Histattooedarmsspreadwide.Myponytailcurledovermyshoulder.
“Thereareotheroptionstoexplore,Ithink.”Hestepsforwardandcagesmeagainstthetableatmyback,hishandsfindingmyhipsandliftingmecarefullyontop.Hedragsmylegswideandpatsonceattheoutsideofmythighs,steppingbetweenthem.Allofhismovementsaresoeasy,soeffortless.Likehe’sbeenouthereplanningexactlywhathewantstodowithme.
“Sofar,sogood,”Isay.
Asmileflirtswiththecornersofhismouth.Hesettlesthepalmofhishandagainstmyneckandtracesbelowmyear.“Ilikeyou,Evie,”hebreathes,andthehumidairinthegreenhouseturnsthicker,warmer.Hisgazesoftensonmineandeverythinginhiseyeslooksalotmorethanlike.MyheartpoundsinmychestandIknowwhateverhefeels,Ifeelit,too.“Ilikeyoualot.Iwanttoseewherethisgoes.”
“Seewherethisgoes,”Irepeatbacktohimslowly,focusedonthefingersofhisotherhandtoyingwiththehemofmydress.HecouldberecitingtheStar-SpangledBannerandI’dprobablystillhavethesamestupefiedlookonmyface.Hestrokesmylegsagain,thumbcurlingundertheedgeofmyskirt.Iputonadressbeforeweleftthehousethismorning.IlikedthewayBeckettswallowedhardwhenIwalkedintothekitchen,howhiseyeslingeredonwherethehembrushedmythighs.
Hegathersthefabricinhisfistandrollsthematerialuponce.Ishiver.
“Yeah,”hesaysquietly.“Doesthatworkforyou?”
“It’sagoodstart.”Iwantmorefromhimthanthat.Seewherethisgoessoundsalittleambivalentforthebigfeelingsburstingtheseamsofmychest,butit’lldofornow.Heflipstheskirtofmydressupagain,anotherinchofskinvisible.“Ilikeyoutoo,fortherecord.”
Imorethanlikehim.
“I’mgladwetalkedaboutthis,”hetellsthetopsofmyknees,aheavyswallowinthestrongcolumnofhisthroat.Heleansforwardandnudgesundermyjaw.Iobedientlyliftmychinandhepressesasoftkissrightovermypulsepoint.Helikesthatsmallconcession,aroughbreathexhaledovermyskin,fingersdraggingalongtheoutsideofmythighs.Istophishandsattheplacewheremyunderwearrisesovermyhips,myhandscurlingaroundhiswrists.
“I’mgoingtowanttotalkaboutthismore.”
“Alright.”
“Lotsofconversations.”
Hishandsflexatmywaist,fingersslippingunderthebandofmyunderwear.Hetwiststhematerialandtugs.“Asmanyasyouwant,honey.”
“Beckett,”Idragmylipsacrosshisforehead.I’mtallerthanhimlikethis,proppeduponthetable,hisbigbodyoccupyingallthespacebetweenmyspreadlegs.“Thewallsaremadeoutofglass.”
Henodsandtucksanotherkissundermyear.Dragshisteethdownmythroatandgivesmeasharp,bitingkissjustabovemycollarbone.“Theyare.”
“Someonemight—”Icutoffonagaspwhenhismeanderingpathtakesasharpturn,hismouthwetandwarmovermybreastthroughthefabricofmydress.Hebitesonceatmynippleandmyhandsreleasehiswriststofindhishairinstead,threadingthroughthethickstrands.Ijerkhisheadbackroughlyandhemakesasoftpleadingsoundinthebackofhisthroat.
Oh,boy.
“Someonemightsee,”Imanage.“Weshouldgoinside.”
IalreadyknowhowIwanthimwhenwegetthere.Fast.Hard.Againstthedresserinhisbedroom.Bentovertheedgeofhisbed.Maybethecouch,too.IfistmyhandinhishairandguidehimuntilIcancatchhislipswithmine.IlethimknoweverythingI’mthinkingwithmymouthagainsthisandhegroanssomethingdesperateintomybottomlip.Whenhepullsaway,hishandsareclenchingatmylegs,headalreadyshaking.
“Noonewillsee,”hetellsme,voicerustedoverwithneed.“It’sjustushere—youandme.Iwantyoujustlikethis.”
Hisgazeslantstothesideandhecurlshishandundermyjaw,guidingmyfacetofollowuntilI’mlookingatourreflectionsagain.
“CanIhaveyoulikethis?”
Iseeitthen,exactlywhathewants.Beckettpressingmeintothetablewithmydressruckeduparoundmyhips,thelonglineofmylegsastreakofcopperinthewindow.Ican’tseeanythingbeyondtheglassnow.Justthetwoofus,globelightsglowingaboveourheadslikefireflies.Theoneinthecornerflickerson,off,andthenonagain.
“Iwantyoutowatch,”hetellsme
Andthenhedropstohisknees.
It’sstrange,watchinghimintheglass.Everythingisalittlebitoff.IfeelhisbreathagainstmykneebeforeIseehimbrushakissthere.FeelthecallousedpadsofhisfingersbeforeIseehimdragmyunderweardownmylegs,wrapthemaroundhisfistandputtheminhispocket.IwatchmyselfspreadmylegswiderbeforeI’veevenrealizedI’vedoneit,hisheaddisappearingbetweenmythighs,onlythetopofhishairvisibleinourreflection.
“Ilikethis,”Ibreatheout,surprisedbytheheatsurgingthroughmyveins.Hemakesasoundagainstmyinnerthighandhishandssqueezetight,inkedfingersflexing.Onepalmguidesmylegupandoverhisshoulder,mythighpressedtighttohisear.
Hewatchesmyfaceasheputshismouthagainstme,hiseyesdriftingclosedinagonizedreliefwithhisfirstslowkiss.Iwatchhiminourreflectionasherollshistongueagainstme,asteadypulsethathasmescramblingforpurchaseagainstthetabletop.Along,thoroughdrag.Agentlehumofsatisfaction.
Thewateringcangoesclatteringtotheground.Hisgardenshears,too.Thelavenderissparedbutonlybecausemyhandsfindthelowshelfatmyback,Beckett’sgripsteadyingmyhips.Ilookawayfromourreflection,moreinterestedintherealityofitinstead.Hisheadbowedoverme,onearmbandedlowovermystomachtoholdmeinplace.Theotherdisappearingbelowus,theclinkofhisbeltagainstthecementfloorlettingmeknowexactlywhathe’sdoing.
Itpullsandpullsandpulls—thisfeeling—lowinmybellywherehisforearmrestsagainstme,myhipsdesperatelyrollingupandintohim.ChasingthatbeautifulfeelingthatIonlyevergetwithBeckett.HishandsandhislipsandhisdeepgrumblinggroanofreliefagainstmewhenIgasphisnameandarchup,myreleasestealingthebreathfrommylungs.
Hedragshismouthbackandforthagainsttheinsideofmythigh,theprickofhisbeardmakingmylegsjump.Herestshisforeheadtherebriefly.“More?”HishandslipslowovermybellyandhisthumbcurlsdownwhereI’mwetandsensitive.Anotherjumpinmyhipsthathashimgrinningintomyleg.HetapsthereonceandIalmostsliprightoffthetabletothefloor.He’llhavetocollectmypiecesinabasketandcartmebackintothehouse.
WhiletheideaofBeckettgivingmeanotherorgasmonthistablewithhishandsandhismouthistempting,Iwantsomethingbetter.Ishakemyheadandusethehandstillinhishairtourgehimup.It’sawonderhehasanystrandsleftatthispoint.Irubmyfingersagainsthisscalpandhemakesthatrumblingsoundagain,deepinhischest.Likeacatinthesunshine.
“CanIhaveyoulikethis?”Iask,curlingmylegsathiships,theheelofmyfootatthesmallofhisback.Iwanttolookathim,watchthewayhiswholefacerelaxesasheslipsinsideme.Reliefanddesireand…somethingelse,too.Somethingthatpoundsinmychesttothesamebeatashis.Hepalmsatmythigh,handflexing,andswallowshardashegazesdownatme.
“Youcanhavemeanywayyouwantme,honey.”Hishandcupsthesideofmyface,cradlingmycheek.“Youknowthat.”
HedragshisthumbovermybottomlipandIpullitintomymouth.Hemakesanotherdeepsound,aheavyexhaleofbreath.
Islipmyhandsunderhisshirtandscratchmynailsuphischest,backdownagainwhenhisbodyfallsdeeperintomine.Icurlmyhandsinthematerialofhisjeansandpushthemdownoverhiships,thebuttonandflyalreadyundone,thebandofhisbriefspulledlow.Thethoughtofhimtouchinghimselfashetouchedandtastedme,itsendsheatfloodingthroughmybody.Apluckofarousalinalltherightplaces.
“Good,”Isaywithmyteethatthebaseofhisthroat,scrapinguntilheshiversandhishipsjoltforward,hardwhereI’msoft.Themetalofthetablebitesintothebackofmythighs,thesurfacecoldagainstmybareskin.“BecausethistimeIwantyoutowatch.”
Thehandonmycheekslipsintomyhair,tiltingmyheadbackashismouthfindsmine.It’saroughkiss,possessive,andIholdontothesidesofhistorsoashebendsmebackwardsoverthetabletop.Aperfectcurve,hishandsholdingmeup.Hepullsbackanddragshisnoseagainstmyjaw,dipsdownandpressesasingle,lingeringkissonmyshoulder.
Hedoesn’tsayanythingashepressesintome,athickslideofheatthathasmeshiftingmybodyagainstthetable—tryingtotakemore.Tryingtotakeitall.Hewatcheswithhisheadtippeddownbetweenus,alowgroanthatsoundslikemyname.Iclosemyeyesandfeelhimeverywherehe’stuckedagainstme.Onehandinmyhair.Theotheronmythigh,guidingmylegwider.Hisdeep,pantingbreathsagainstthesensitiveskinbehindmyear.Thetinyrestlessmovementofhisbodyagainstminewhenourhipstucktogether,likehewantstomovebutcan’tquiteyet.Likeheneedsamomenttocollecthimself.
Hepullsoutslightlyandpushesbackin,ashortstiltedmovementthatstill,somehow,managestostealmybreath.Hecursesanddoesitagain,amessygrindonhisretreatthatrubsagainstmeinalltherightplaces.Myhandslipsdowntohisjaw,fingerscurlingagainsthisroughstubble.Iguidehisfaceuntilhe’slookingatusontheglasswalltoourleft.
“Watch,”Itellhim.
Welooklikesomethingfromadream.AfilthydreamthatI’vehadamilliontimeswhereIwakeupstilltangledinthesheets.Myheartinmythroatandathinsheenofsweatonmyskin,adrumbeatofwantingbetweenmythighs.
Mylegsarecurledhigharoundhiships,mybackarchedinadelicatebendagainstthetabletop,anchoredwithhishandtwistedthroughmyhair.Hisbody,strongandtallaboveme.Hisjeanscaughthalfwaydownhislegs.Ilookathiminourreflectionandthestormraginginthosegreeneyes.Bankeddesire.Awordlesspromise.
Hepullsoutslowly.Thrustsbackinsohardtheentiretableshakes.AplantergoescrashingtothegroundandIclingtohim.
AndIdon’thideasinglethingfromhimasIfallapart.
“Evie.”
Igrumbleandswatatthewarmpressureatmyback,aheavyhandatmywaistoverthethickquilt.Becketthuffsalaughandhishandsqueezes,rubbingovertheflankofmythighandbackagain.Ihavemarksonmylegsfromthemetalofthetablelastnight,lightbruisesfromwhenBeckettpulledmefromtheedge,turnedmearound,andbentmeatthewaist.There,hesaidwithhismouthatmyear,hishandbetweenmylegs.Nowwecanbothwatch.
IshiverasIremember,andBeckettgivesaknowingchuckleaboveme.
“Whydidyouwakemeup?”Iwhineintothepillow,pullingtheblanketsfurtherovermyshoulderandburrowingdown.Hisbedisperfectlywarm,hisbodymyownpersonalspaceheater.
Excepthisbodyiscurrentlyfullydressedandabovethecovers,abaseballhatpulledbackwardsoverhismessyblondehair.Iblinkathimovermyshoulder,confused.
“Whyareyoudressed?Iseverythingokay?”
Histhumbtracesovermybottomlip,ahalf-smileonhishandsomeface.“Everythingisfine.Kindof.Theydeliveredoursaplingstothewrongfarm.BarneyandIhavetodriveuptoupstateNewYorkandgrabthem.”
“NewYork?”
Hehumsintheaffirmative.
Iblinksomemore.“Rightnow?”
Henods.“Ifwewaitforthemtodoit,it’llbenextweek.Idon’twantthetreestodryout.”
“Can’thavethat,”Imumble,stillhalf-asleep.Hissmilewidens.
“No,wecan’t.”
“Howlongwillyoubegone?”
“Notlong.Weshouldbebacktomorrownight.”
Isituponthebedandrubmyhandsagainstmyeyes.Prancerletsoutaplaintivemeowfromherplaceattheedgeofthebed,upsetbythedisruption.IdropmyhandsandyawninBeckett’sgeneraldirection.“I’llcomewithyou.”
Heshakeshisheadandshiftsforwardtobrushakissagainstmylips.Soft.Perfect.“Stayhere,”hesays.Hehesitatesforasecondandthencurlshishandaroundmyneck,hispalmsweepingagainstsleep-warmskin.“SleepinmybedwhileI’mgone,yeah?I’llseeyouwhenIgetback.”
Icollapsebacktothepillowsandblanketswithagratefulsighandburymyfaceinflannel.“You’resure?”
“Yeah,I’msure.”Themattressdipsatmywaistandwarmlipsdriftacrossmyforehead.“Getsomerest.”
“Havefunwiththetrees,”Imumble.
ThelastthingIhearbeforeIdriftbacktosleepishisroughchuckle,hisfingertipscardingthroughmyhair.
WhenIwakeupagain,I’mcurledonBeckett’ssideofthebed,clingingtothesleeveofaflannelhangingfromthebedpost.Ilaughatmyselfandgiveintoanindulgentstretchbeneaththecomforter.Therehadn’tbeenadiscussionlastnightastowhereIwouldsleep.WestumbledinfromthegreenhousewithourclothesrumpledandIfollowedBeckettintohisbedroom
Hegrumbledaboutmehoggingtheblankets,butIwokeupinthemiddleofthenighttoBeckettholdingmostofthemclosetohischest,hisfaceburiedinmyhair.
Ireachblindlyformyphoneonthenightstand,squintingatthescreen.ThehousesoundstooquietwithoutBecketthere.Imissthesoundofdrawersopeninginthekitchen,metalspoonsandtheclinkofhiscoffeemug.
10:37am
Josie:Textmewhenyou’vegotasecond.I’vegotnews.
Itaphernameandletmyphonerestagainstmychestasitbeginstoring.Istretchoutmylegswithanothergroan.
“Youdon’tneedtosoundsosmug,”Josiesayswhensheanswers,catchingthetailendofmystretchingsounds.Iletmybodyflopbacktothebed,myarmsabovemyhead.MyhandbrushesagainstsomethingsoftandcoolandIwrapmyfingersaroundit.
Alonggreenstem.Aclusterofsmallblueblooms.Meadowsage,Ithinkit’scalled.
Iholditundermynosewithasmile
“What’syournews?”
“Nuh-uh,”Josieadmonishes.“Youwerewaytooshortonourvideocall.IhavethingsIwanttodiscussfirst.”
IsaidmaybetwowordstoJosietheothermorninginthekitchenbeforeIslammedthelaptopshut.LuckilyshehadbeentoogobsmackedbytheappearanceofBeckett’sbaretorsotodoanythingbutgapelikeafish.
Iguessshe’scollectedherself.
“I’dliketostartwiththetattooalonghiscollarboneandworkmywaydown.”
Ilaugh.“No.”
“Itookaquickscreenshot,buthemoved.It’skindofblurry.”
“You…what?”
“I’mgonnaframeitandputitonmywall.”
“No,you’renot.”
“Doeshehaveflowersononearmandthestarsontheother?Becausethat’sprettydevastating.”
Itisdevastating.Lovelyandsentimentalandsexyashell,too.Ihadcurledmyhandaroundtheconstellationonhisforearmlastnightwhenhebracedhispalmonthetablenexttome.Abullwithitshornslowered.Crownsofthick,vibrantgreenerytwistedarounditshead.“I’mnotgoingtoobjectifyhim.”
“Appreciationisnotobjectification.”
IsettheflowerI’vebeentwirlingbetweenmythumbandforefingeronthenightstandandseeapost-itnotestucktohisstackofbooks.Sneakyman.Ipickitupandglanceathisneathandwriting.Muffinsontopoftheoven,itsays.Bebacksoon.
Ascribblebeneath,somethingthatlookslikea…catdozing?Hisdoodlesarehorrendous.
ButIlikeitbetterthananysaccharinethinghecouldhavewritten.OnehundredpercentBeckett.Practicalandsweet—carethroughaction.Breakfastwaitingonthecounterandcoffeeinthepot.
Iplacehisnotenexttotheflower.
“What’syournews?”
“Wewillcirclebacktothis.”
Ilaugh,aquietsnickerthathasoneofthecatspokingherheadupfrombeneathamountainofsheetstolookatme.Sheflopsbackdownandnudgesmeoncewithherpawfortheinconvenience.“Ihavenodoubt.”
“Alright,then.Yournews.”Ihearpaperworkinthebackgroundandimagineherintheofficeinthefrontofherhouse.Thebigbaywindowthatlooksoutoverdensegreenforest,athinlayeroffoginthemorningsthatrollsagainsttheglass.“Theogavemeacallwhenhecouldn’tgetthroughtoyou.”
That’sright.Theheadofthesmallbusinesscoalition.We’vetalkedbrieflyoveremailaboutthepositionandwhatitwouldentail.Smallbusinessadvising,moreorless.HelpingpeoplelikeMs.BeatriceandStellagetupontheirdigitalfeet.IhadgivenhimJosie’snumberinmyemailback,lettinghimknowmyphonewastemporarilyoutofservice.Ididn’tmentionthatitwasatthebottomofapond.“Everythingokay?”
“Yeah,hewasthrilledtohearfromyou.Hesaidyoucanexpectanemailtoday,buthewantedtofollow-upbyphone,too.Hewantsyoutocomeinforaninterview.”
Myheartbeatsalittlebitfasterinmychest.Excited,Ithink.Hopeful,too.Nervousashell,surprisingly.“Yeah?That’sgood,right?”
“I’mprettysurehewouldhaveofferedmethejobonyourbehalf.”Icanhearthesmileinhervoice.“That’showexcitedheisforyoutocomein.”
I’mflustered,smilingsohardmycheekshurtwithit.“Doyouthink—doyouthinkI’mqualifiedforsomethinglikethis?”
“Ofcourseyouare.”Josie’sresponseisquick.Nohesitation.“Youcreatedyourownsocialfollowingfromnothing.Anentirecontentstreamthatattractshundredsofthousandsinadrevenue.You’vehelpedcountlessbusinessesthrive.Developedyourowngrantthathasliterallymadepeople’sdreamscometrue.Frankly,Ithinkyou’reoverqualified.”ShepausesforasecondandIhearthetip-tapofherkeyboard.“MaybethisTheoguyshouldworkforyou,”shemusesasanafter-thought.
Isitupinthebedandstareatthecatscuddleduparoundme,astackofBeckett’sneatlyfoldedsweatersonachairinthecorner.Thejobishalf-remoteofficework,half-travelingtosmallbusinessesaroundthecountry.NotallthatdifferentfromwhatI’mdoingnow.Itwouldmean—IwouldhavesomeflexibilityastowhereIstay.Iwouldhaveoptions.
Inglewild-shapedoptions.
Beckett-shapedoptions.
“JoJo,”Iwhisper.“AmIcrazyforthinkingaboutthis?”
“Thejob?”
“Thejob,yeah.Also—”Igathersomeofmycourage.“Thisplace.Inglewild.IthinkIwanttostay.”
It’sthesecretI’vebeenholdinginmyheartforthelastcoupleofweeks.Nowherehaseverfeltlikesuchaperfectfit.It’snotjustBeckett.It’sthefriendlycallofmynameasIwalkdownthestreet.It’sthesameordereveryWednesdayfromMatty’spizza.It’sknowingtheexactstepstotakedownthesidestreetandthroughtheparktomakeittothecafebeforethemorningrush.
Comfort.
Familiarity.
Ahome.
Shesighsout,longandslow.I’mgratefulshe’sthinkingaboutitandnotblurtingoutmindlessreassurances.Butthenagain,that’sJosie.
“You’vebeenstrugglingforawhilenow.Whatyou’vebeendoingisn’tworkingforyouanymore,andthat’sokay.”Ihaven’ttouchedmysocialaccountssincemylastlittlevideo,ignoringallofthecommentsandtagsandposts.Iam…morethanokaywiththat.“SoIthinkifthisnewpathfeelsgood,thenitisgood.There’snothingwrongwithwantingtostay.When’sthelasttimeyouwantedtostaysomewhere?”
IrackmybrainforthelasttimeIfeltthiscontent.Thissettled.Ican’tthinkofasingletime.
Ipickupmyflowerfromthenightstandandtwirlitbetweenmyfingers.“We’llhavealottodototieuplooseends.”Mymentalto-dolistappears,gatheringitemslikeraindropsinabucket.Ifrown,athoughtoccurring.“Wewouldn’tworktogetheranymore.”
“Likeyoucouldgetridofme,”shesaysquietly.Fondly.“Plus,I’dliketoremindyouthatthemanhasatattoojustbelowhiscollarbone.I’dhavequestionsifyoudidn’twanttostay.”CHAPTERNINETEENBECKETT
“Stopsmilinglikethat,”Barneysnapsfromthepassengersideoftheflatbedtruck,hisarmscrossedoverhischestandabagfullofsnacksfromthelastgasstationrestingonhisknee.ThemanhasconsumedmoreHoneyBunsin48-hoursthananyonehasarightto.“Youlooklikeamaniac.”
“I’mnotevensmiling,”Itellhim.
Barneysinksfurtherinhisseat,hisheadagainstthewindow.Hishandreachesforhisplastic-wrappedheartattack.“Mightaswellbe.”
Thebedofthetruckisfilledwithone-hundred-and-eighty-threeDouglasFirsaplings.IknowthisbecauseBarneyinsistedoncountingthemtwice,loudlyandinfrontofthepeoplewhomistakenlyreceivedourshipment.
“IstillthinkthoseLovebrightpeoplewereuptosomething,”Barneygrouchesaroundamouthfulofprocessedsugar.“Idon’ttrustmaplesyrupfarmers.”
Itapmyfingersonthesteeringwheel.Itwaspurecoincidencethatournamesweresoclose,thoughIdohavequestionsforoursupplier.Igavehimouraddressthreetimes,andit’sprintedontheinvoicewealreadypaid.“Theydidn’tjustharvestmaplesyrup.Theyhadapples,too.”
“Mypointremains.Iwatchedadocumentaryontheundergroundsyruptrade.Apparentlythere’sawholeblackmarket.Gangactivity.”
Iglanceathimoutofthecornerofmyeye.“What’sgottenintoyou?”
Hemumblessomething.
“What?”
Heshiftsinhisseatandgivesmealook,debating.Iraisebotheyebrowsinencouragement.Wehaveanotherthreehoursleftofthisdrive,andI’mnotthrilledabouttheprospectoflisteningtoBarneyhemandhawovertherelikehe’ssittingonaseatmadeoutofmetalspikes.“Ilikeyoubetterwhenyou’reagrumpyass,”hefinallysaysinarush.
ThatwasnotwhatIexpected.“What?”
“You’vebeenhummingforsixhours,”Barneyseethes,bitingoffanothergiantmouthful.“Areyouawareofthat?”
Iwasnotawareofthat.Ihadnoidea,actually.
“Theradiointhisthingisbroken,andyouhavebeenhummingforsix.Hours.Straight.”Heslouchesbackdowninhisseat.“Drivingmeupadamnwall.”
Irubmypalmovermyjawandkeepquiet.I’vehadanoldTomPettysongstuckinmyheadsinceIleftEvietuckedbeneathmyblankets,thekittenscrowdedaroundherandaflowerfromthegreenhousewoveninherhair.Ididn’trealizeI’dbeenhumming.
“Yourdaddoesthesameshit,”Barneycomplains,diggingaroundinhisbagofsnacks.Hepullsoutsomepretzelsandsourwatermelongummies,offeringmethelatter.Ishakemyhead.Thosethingsmakemytonguefeellikeawoolsweater.“Alwayshummingsomething.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmhmm.HeoncedidthewholesoundtracktoGreaseforaweekstraight,onaloop.Hesaiditwasmypunishmentforhavinganopinion.”
“Whatwasyouropinion?”
“Thatheshouldn’tfuckin’sing.”
Imanagetorestrainmyselffortwenty-sevenseconds.MyopeningbartoSummerLovin’isalittleshaky,butBarneyrecognizesitallthesame.Heletsoutaloudbarkoflaughterandpunchesmehard,rightinthethigh.Itightenmygriponthewheel.
“NotwhileI’mdriving,oldman.”
“Oldman,”herepeatstome.“I’dstillkickyourass.”
Isnortalaugh.Heprobablycould.HetaughtNovaeverythingsheknowsaboutself-defense.HeoncepickedherupearlyfromschoolandtookhertoWrestlemaniainBaltimore.Shetriedtosuplexmefromthetopofherbunkbedforclosetothreemonths.
Wesettlebackintosilence,therushofwindatthewindowsandthecreakofthetruckbeneathus.ThecrinkleofplasticasBarneyfishesoutanotherHoneyBun.IfIrememberedmydamncellphone,we’datleasthavesomethingtoplugintotheAVoutlet.ButIleftitsittinginthecenterofmykitchentable,alongwiththethermosofcoffeeIwassupposedtobringandallofourpaperwork.
It’sagoodthingBarneykeepsduplicatesshovedinacoffee-stainedfolderundertheseat.SomethingaboutEvietangledinwornflannel,thecurveofhershoulderbareinthesunlightscrambledmybrainbeforeIevenleftthehouse.
“Youknowwhenhismusicalinclinationswereattheirworst?”
Igruntandmergeoveralane,mymindstillfixedonthewayshestretchedandrolledintome,notevenallthewayawake.Asmileonherfaceandherhandsreachingformelikeshecouldn’tbeartoletmego.“December1994.Whenyoulostsevenpokergamesinarowandyouowedmydad$10,000andaboatyoudon’town?”
“Ican’tbelievehestilltellsthatstory,”Barneysnorts.“No,smartass.Theweekhemetyourmom.Hewasmoon-eyed,workinginthefieldsandbellowingSpringsteenatthetopofhisdamnlungs.”
Ishiftintheseat.Clearmythroattwice.“Soundslikeyou’retryingtomakeapoint.”
BarneytakesanotherbiteofHoneyBun.“Imaginethat.”
BythetimeweunloadthetreesandIreturnthetrucktothelargegarageforservicevehicles,Iamtireddowntomybones.IhaveachesinmusclesIdidn’tevenknowexistedandmyearsareringingfromtheloudrumbleofthetruck.Iwantasandwichthesizeofmyhead,acoldbeer,andEvelyn.
Iwanttokisstheskinbetweenhershoulderandneck,thatlittlespotunderherearthatmakesherhum.Iwanttohearaboutherdayandifshefoundanyhappy.Fallintobedwithherandsleepforthenextsixdaysundersevenlayersofblankets.Iwantbareskinandhuskylaughter.Moresandwiches.
MybootscrunchagainstgravelasIwanderupthewalkwaytothecabin,atwistinmystomachwhenIdon’tseeanylightspillingfromthewindows.IcanusuallyseeEvelynmovingaroundthekitchenfromthepath,loungingonthecouchwithabookandthecats.IlikeseeingremnantsofherspilledoutacrossmyhallwaywhenIfirstwalkinthedoor.Herscarfloopedoverthehookonthewall.Herbootknockedonitssidebymine.
Butthehouseisdarktonight,everythingcastinshadowbeyondthewindow.Istoponthebottomstepoftheporchandbreatheindeepthroughmynose.Thedaffodilsinthegardenhavestartedtopeekthroughthemulch,aglimpseofbrightgreenthatlooksgrayinthedarkness.They’llbeinfullbloomsoon,theotherflowersnotfarbehind.Black-eyedSusansandtulips.Pinkandgoldandyellowsopaleitalmostlookswhite,tumblingoutofthefrontflowerbeds.
Icontinueupthestairsandignoretheanxietysinkinglikeastoneinmygut.I’vehadthisfeelingbefore.Thistwisting,painfulthingthatclaspsagainstmythroatandsqueezes.Maybeshe’sonthebackporchormaybeshe’swithLaylaatthebakehouse.She’sbeenhelpingStelladigitizesomeofherrecords.Maybeshe’sstillattheoffice.
ButIknowassoonasIswingopenthedoor.Iglanceatthedarkhallwayandtheemptyhooknexttominewheresheusuallykeepsherjacket.Thehouseisquiet,still.
Sheisn’there.
I’mnotsurewhereshe’sgoneoffto.
AndI’mnotsureifshe’llbothercomingback.
Iknewthiswouldhappen.It’swhyItoldherIwantedtoseewherethisthinggoeswhenIreallywantedtosay,Stayherewithme.Holdmyhandonthebackporch.I’llholdyours,too.
I’vebeenwaitingfortheothershoetodropsinceshepresseduponhertoesinmykitchenandgrabbedmebythebackofmyneckandkissedmelikeshedamnwellmeantit.
Iclosethedoorbehindme.Iswallowanddropmykeysonthetable.Ipulloffmyjacketandhangitonthehook.Igothroughthemotionsofcominghomewhileathinandtremblingtensioncontinuestotwistinmychest,windingaroundandaround.Likeapianobeingtuned,thestringsvibratingwithpressure.“Evelyn?”
Noanswer.Oneofthecatsappearsontopofthecouch,adiscardedsockdrapedoverherback.Irubhertinyforeheadwithmyknucklesandreachforit,afadedgreenpairthatEviehadstolenfromme.
“Sheisn’there,isshe?”
Vixenoffersmeameowandthenscampersoff,backtothehuddleofkittensattheedgeofthefireplace.IseethatPrancerhasgrownherlittlenest,anoldnecktiebetweenherpawswheresheloungeswiththerestofthem.Ascrapofpaperandakitchentowel.
Iscrubbothhandsthroughmyhairandglancedownthedarkhall,backtothetablewheremycellphoneandcoffeemugsituntouchedinthemiddle.
Icouldgodownthehallwayandcheckherroom,seeifhersuitcaseisgone.Herlaptopandthestackofpapersshekeptonthenightstandunderabook.That’swhatIdidthefirsttimesheleft.Iwanderedaroundthatlittleroomandlookedforanyclueshemighthaveleftbehind.Anote,maybe.Aslipwithherphonenumberscribbleddown.AllIfoundwasapileofloosechangeandareceiptfromthetinybarwewerein.Abuttonandapencap.
Thesecondtime,Iwasinthebakehouse.IsatatthecornertablewithtwocupsofcoffeeandacinnamonrollIhadnointentionofeating.IwaitedwhiletellingmyselfthatIwasn’twaitingatall.Ipickedattheedgeofthatdamncinnamonrolluntilthewholethingwasgone.
IfLaylathoughtitwasoddthatIwassittingatthewindowseatforthedurationofhermorningrushwithtwomugsofcoffee,sheneversaidawordaboutit.TurnsoutEvelynleftthatmorning.Ihadn’tevenwarrantedacasualgoodbyeonherlist.Notext.Nothing.
Thesolution,thistime,isasimpleone.
Iwon’tgodownthehallwaytocheck.Iwon’tlookforsignsorsignalsorwhateverthefuckelse.Ineedtorealizethatsometimesashootingstarisn’tmagicatall.Sometimesit’sjustabunchofspacedustburningthroughtheatmosphere.
Sometimesyoudon’tgetawish.
Evieisalwaysgoingtobeleaving.AndI’malwaysgoingtobetheonestandinghere,wonderingwhereshewent.
Thirdtime’sthefuckingcharm,Iguess.
“Stupid,”Imutter.Mymusclesvibratewiththeurgetothrow,snap,break.Iwanttoflipthetable.Smashtheglassvaseholdingabouquetofwildflowersagainstthewall.IrubmypalmsdownovermyfaceuntilIseespots.
AndthenIgotothefridgeandImakeasandwich.
“Beckett?”
Iignorethecallfromthefarendofthefieldandcontinuedigging.
Push.Dig.Dump.
I’vebeenoutinthefieldsforanhourandthesunstillhasn’tinchedabovethehorizon.Theskyisfilledwiththedullgraylightthatcomesjustbeforedawn,theskydecidinghowitwantstowakeupfortheday.Thickcloudshavehiddenthestarsanditlooksliketheymighthidethesuntoday,too.
Good.
“Whatthehellareyoudoing?”Lukademandsfromhalfwayacrossthefield
Whatthehellareyoudoing,Iwanttosnipeback.Thesearemyfields,after-all.ButI’mnotinthesixthgradeanymoreandLukaisdamnedpersistentwhenhewantstobe,trudginghiswaytowardsmewithamugofcoffeeineachhand.Iignorehimanddrivetheshoveldownagain.
Push.Dig.Dump.
“I’mdigging.”
I’mdiggingbecausethesecondIsatontheedgeofmybedandreachedformysweatpants,Irememberedherfingertipsagainstmyshoulderblades,herbodytwistedinwornflannelandherfaceinmypillow.Igotuptogotothekitchenandheardherlaughterbouncingagainstthecountertops.Picturedherchoppingtomatoeswithherhairtuckedbehindherear.
I’mseeingEvieineverysingleemptyspaceandplantingthesesaplingsfeltlikethelogicalthingtodo.I’vegotahurricaneinsidemychestandthepullandstretchofmymusclesistheonlythingkeepingitcontained.Ibitemyteetharoundit—clenchmyjawsohardithurts.
“Icanseethat,”Lukamutters,eyesfirmlyontheholeatmyfeet.“Butwhyareyoudiggingatfourinthemorning?”
Idon’tsayathing.
Push.Dig.Dump.
“Beck,what’sgoingon?”hesighs
Igrunt.“I’mdiggingahole—”
“Icanseethat.”
“—foryourbody.”
Hesnortsalaughintohiscoffeemug.“That’snice.”
Idrivetheshovelintoafreshpieceofearthandrestmyelbowagainstit,mythumbswipingatmyeyebrow.“How’dyouevenknowIwasouthere?”
“Thecameras,”Lukaoffers.Stellainstalledcamerasoverthewinterwhensomeonewasvandalizingthefarm.Itturnsoutthetownlibrarian,WillHewett,reallywantedanalpacafarmanddecidedthatdestroyingourswasthebestwaytoaccomplishthatparticulargoal.
Idiot.
“Stellagotanotificationaboutamadmanloadingsaplingsintohistruckanddrivingthemoutintothefield.”Hetakesaloud,obnoxioussipofcoffee.“Whichisweirdbecausedigdayisinacoupleofdays.Itisalsonotscheduledforfourinthemorning.”
“Decidedtogetaheadstart,”Isay,ascasuallyasIcanmanage,peeringoverthehandleofmyshovelattheholeI’vebeenworkingon.It’swaytoodeepforasapling,butI’mcommittednow.Iplacetheshoveltothesideandreachforoneofthebundlesfromthewheelbarrow.Iloosenitfromthetravel-safecontainertheyarrivedinandtransferitcarefullytoitsnewhome.
Itdropstothebottom,thetopbranchesnotevenvisible.
Isigh.
“That’squitethehole,”Lukasays.
Ipinchthebridgeofmynose.
“Willit—”hetiltshisheadtothesideandtakesanotherslurpofcoffee.“Willitgrowupoutoftheground,youthink?”Hemimessomecomplicatedgesturewithhishand,likearocketlaunching.“Likeapineappleplant.Haveyouseenoneofthose?”
Ihave.Isincerelydoubtthiswilllookanythinglikethat.
Ireachintotheholeandpullthetreeout,shovelingsomeofthedirtbackinwithmyarm.Lukatapsmyshoulderandholdsacupofcoffeeinfrontofmyface.
“Holdonasecond.Ibroughtyoucoffee.”
“Idon’twantcoffee,”Isay,contradictingmyselfbyimmediatelygrabbingthemugoutofhishands.Luka’smomalwaysmakessureStellahasthegoodstuffstockedforwhensheandallofLuka’sauntsrandomlydescenduponhercottage.Lasttimetheybroughtbiscotti,too.
Icollapsebackonmyassinthedirtandtakeasipoutofthemug.Ithasatinyfoxonit,achiponthehandle.Lukastaresatmewithonehandonhiship.Forthefirsttime,Inoticehe’swearingoneofStella’soldsweatshirts,thesleevestooshortonhislongarms.
“What’sgoingonwithyou?”heasks.
“Whatdoyoumean?”
Hemakesanexasperatedsoundinthebackofhisthroat,thehairontheleftsideofhisheadstickingstraightupinariotofcurls.Stellamusthavekickedhimoutofbedtocomeoutheretocheckonme.Thethoughtliftsmyspirits,oddlyenough.“Oh,mybad.You’reright.Thisistotallynormal.Wealwayshaveconversationsbeforethesunisup.”Herollshiseyesandkicksatmybootwithhis.“Whyareyououthereplantingtrees?WhereisEvelyn?”
Probablyinsomeboutiquehotelinabrightandshinycity,charmingeveryoneshemeets.Glowinglikethefuckingsun.
She’snothere.That’stheonlypartthatmatters.
“Idon’tknow.”
IhatethatIdon’tknow.
Lukaeyebrowsflattenintoalineofconfusion.“Isn’tshestayingwithyou?”
“Shewas,”Isay.“Nowshe’snot.”
IavertmyeyestothelineoftreesI’vemanagedtoplantthismorning—asomewhatchaoticrowofsmallgreenbundles.Infivetosevenyears,thiswholefieldwillbefilledwithwhisperingbranchesandthickevergreen.
IwonderifI’llstillbesittinghere.
“Whatdoyoumeanshe’snot?”
“Imeanherrentalcarisn’tinthedrivewayandherstuffisn’tinmyhouse.”Maybe.Ithink.There’sapartofmethat’srollingmyeyesatmyassumptions,butthemuchbiggerpartofmeisjusttryingtoprotectwhatIcan.“Sheleft.”
Idon’tknowifLukawantsmetodrawhimamaporwhat,butitfeelsprettystraightforward.Icanseeherreasoning.Shewasstayingwithmewhileshefiguredherstuffout.Shefigureditout.Sheleft.
That’sit.
Lukamakesanothersmallsoundunderhisbreath,hiseyessquintedinconcentration.IwanttorollintotheholeIduguntilhedecidestoleavemealone.
“YouknowhowImetStella,right?”
Irollmyeyestotheskyanddrapemyarmsovermyknees.Iguesshe’sstaying.
“IknowhowyoumetStella.”I’veheardthestoryenoughoverthepastcoupleyears.ShefelldownthestepsofahardwarestoreandsmackedrightintoLuka.Theythenproceededtopretendtheyweren’thopelesslyinlovewitheachotherforclosetoadecade.Ifixmygazeonthetreesswayinginthedistanceandclenchmyjaw.“Youcanskipthiswholething.”
“Skipwhat?”
“Whateverhopefulplatitudesareabouttospilloutofyourmouth.”Lukalovesagoodmotivationalspeech.“Idon’twanttohearit.”
Lukahuffsalaughandgoesquiet.Anothergustofwindrollsoverthefieldandallthebranchesliftanddance.It’llbehardernottothinkofEviethistime,butit’llpass.MaybeinamonthortwoIwon’tseeherineverydamncornerofthisplace.Ijustneed—Ineedtorememberhowtobeonmyown,Ithink.Meandthecats.
AndthatdamnduckIsaidIwasn’tgoingtoadopt.
“Ialmosttoldher.”Lukaconsidersthegroundwithafrown,relentingafteralengthypauseandsittinginthedirtacrossfromme.Herummagesaroundinhissweatshirtpocketandemergeswithhisfistclenchedaroundarollofcookies.Heopensitwithhisteethandoffersmeone.“Wayback,”heexplains.“Atthestart.IalmosttoldherhowIfelt.”
Ibegrudginglytakeacookie.AnotherwhenIrealizethey’rechocolatehazelnutandLukaintendstolaunchintohisbestencouragingspeechdespitemyprotest.“Couldhavesavedyourselfaboutsevenyears,Ibet.”
“Couldhave,”Lukaagrees.“Shewasgettingoutofacabinthecity.Iwaswaitingforheronthecurbandshesortof—shegotstuck,Ithink.Gettingoutofthecar.Herbagorsomethingwastwistedaroundtheseatbelt.Shetriedtostepoutofthecabandherbagyankedherrightbackin.Shelaughedsohardshesnorted.”Hesmilesatthememory,hiseyesalittlebitglassy.“ShewassobeautifulIcouldn’tstandit.Myheartfeltlikeitwasrighthere.”Hetapshisthroatandthenbetweenhiseyes.Popsoutacookieandshovesitinhismouth.
“Whydidn’tyou?Sayanything?”I’mannoyedwithmyselfforasking.
Heshrugs.“BecausewehadagoodthinggoingandIdidn’twanttorocktheboatwithadifficultconversation.”Hisbrowneyesnarrowonmeandhebitesintoacookiesoharditsnapsintwo.“Doesthatsoundfamiliar?”heasksaroundamouthful.
Itdoes.I’mnotgoingtoarguewithhimabouttheparticulars.I’veactivelyavoidedhavingaconversationwithEvelyn.Absolutely.Sure,someofithasbeenfear.Butabigpart—thebiggestpart—hasbeen—
“Idon’twanttotieherhere,”Iconfesswithadeep,heavingsigh.“Idon’twanthertofeelobligated.”Tomyfeelings.Tome.
“Youthinkshewould?”AlittlelineappearsbetweenLuka’sbrows.
Maybe.Isighandrubthepalmofmyhandacrossmyforehead.“Whatthehellisthepointofbeinghonestwithherifshe’sjustgoingtoleaveanyway?”That’stheheartofit.Itallcomesdowntomefumblingmywayaroundatinybedandbreakfastinthelatesummerheat,lookingforscrapsofheraffection.WhythehellwouldIcrackmyselfopenjustforhertolookateverythinginsideanddecideit’snotenough?SoIcanfeelthissametwistinmyguteverytimesheleaveswithoutaword?ContinuetolosepiecesofmyselfuntilI’macollectionofraggededges?No,thankyou.“Shealreadyleft.She’sleftthreetimesnow.”
“Phonesexist,youknow.Youcouldcallher.”
Itakeanotherlongdrinkfrommycoffeemug.IfStellaiswatchingusonthecamerasrightnow,she’sprobablywonderingwhythehellherboyfriendandherleadfarmerarehavingapicnicinafieldfullofholes.
At4:18inthemorning.
“Itriedcallingher,”Iexplain.Whilesittingontheedgeofmybedwithawiltingblueflowerinthepalmofmyhand.Idialedhernumberthreetimesandlistenedtoagenericvoicemailmessage.ItypedoutsevendifferenttextmessagesbeforeIsettledonasimpleWheredidyougo?Iwantedtosendanother.Whydidyougo?“Shedidn’tanswer.”
“That’sit?You’regonnagiveup?Relationshipover?”Hesnapshisfingers.“Justlikethat.”
“WhatelseamIsupposedtodo?”
I’marealisticman.IknowwhereIbelong,andwhereIdon’t.Isetmyexpectationsandactaccordingly.GoingaroundwithfancifulideasinmyheadaboutthingsIcan’thavehasneverservedmewell.
ThisthingwithEvie—itisn’tanydifferent.
Myemptyhouseisproofofthat.
“Listen,man,”Iblowoutabreathandsomeofthecoffeefrommymugspillsovertheedgeanddripsovermyknuckles.Iignoreit.“Iappreciatewhatyou’retryingtodoandI—IknowIsaidIdidn’tneedthepeptalk,butitwas—”Itiltmyheadbackandforth.“Itwasfine.”
LukasputtersoutalaughandIpushtostanding,anacheinmybackandinthecenterofmychest.IrubmypalmthereandhandLukamyemptymug,grabthehandleofmyshovelandsquintoutatthefields.Ihaveoverahundredtreeslefttoplant,anditlookslikerain.Theanticipationofithangsheavyinthesky,cloudsthickoverablanketofstars.Itoccurstomethatit’srainedeverytimeEvelynhasleft,anditalmostmakesmelaugh.
Eventheskyissadtoseehergo.Weathertomatchmymood.
Lukastandswithagrumbleanddropsbothmugsintothewheelbarrowwithaclang.Hissleeveofcookies,too.HegrabstheextrashovelIbroughtandstaresatmewithbotheyebrowsraised,adeterminedclenchtohisjaw.“Ihaveonemorethingtosaytoyou.”
“Alright.”Iglancelonginglyatthetoo-deepholeandwonderifI’llfitinside.
Lukasquareshisshoulders.“Idon’tthinkyoushouldgiveup.Notyet.Idon’tknowwheresheis,butI’veseenthetwoofyoutogether.I’veseenthewayshelooksatyou.AndBeckett…Whenhaveyouevergivenuponanything?Youbuilttinytentsoversaplingstoprotectthemfromtherainlastwinter.Youmonitoredsoilsaturationlevelsinthemiddleofahurricane.YoushowedupforStellawhenshefirsthadtheideaforthisplace.”Hisvoicecracksattheedges.“Youwalkedawayfromasecurejobwithgoodpaytohelphergetonherfeethere,withnoguarantee.Youadoptedaduck—”
“—Ididn’tadopttheduck—”
“—youadoptedaduckyoufoundinthebarn.Fourcats,too.Yousmuggleincookiesbecauseyou’reafraidofhurtingLayla’sfeelings.AndIknowyouweretheonewhodrovetwostatesupthecoasttogetherthefancybuttershewantedwhenallthelocalsuppliersweregivingherthecoldshoulder.Youaren’taguywhogivesup,andyouaren’taguywhodoesn’tcare.Sopleasestoppretendingyou’reeitherofthosethings.”
IstareatLuka.Hestaresatme.Iclearmythroat.“Thatwas,uh.Thatwasmorethanonething.”
“Itwas,”hesays,windedandworkedup.Hischeeksarered,hismouthsetinafirmline.Heshiftsonhisfeetandpointsatthemarkedspotsinthefieldwiththebladeoftheshovel.Hestabsattheairwithitonce.“I’mgoingtogodigsomeholesnow.”
“That’sfine.”
Ithinkheexpectedmetofighthimonit.I’mstillalittleshellshockedfromhisspeech.Thosepianostringsinmychestvibrateunderthestrain,allofmynotesoutoftune.
“YourememberwhatyousaidtomewhenIshowedupatyourhouse?AfterthatfightwithStella?”
Rightbeforetheygottogether,Lukaappearedonmydoorstep,hissweatshirtoninsideoutandalookonhisfacelikesomeonestoleallofhiscookiesandhislastsliceofpizza,too.Hesatonmycouchwrappedinthreeblanketsandstaredblanklyintomyfireplaceforclosetofivehours.Ijustneedasecond,hehadsaid.Justafewminutes
“Itoldyoutostopbeinganidiot,”Isay,reluctant.“Tellherhowyoufeel.”
Lukaraisesbotheyebrows.
“Stopbeinganidiot,”hetellsme.Asmiletwistshismouthtotheside.“Tellherhowyoufeel.”
Stellaappearsnottoolonglater,asweatshirtdowntoherkneesandashoveldragginglistlesslybehindher.Shelookslikeshejustwentsevenroundswithhermattressandlosteverysingleone.ShebrushesakisstoLuka’scheek,wrapsherarmsaroundmymiddleinahug,andthentowsherwayovertothefarendofthefieldandproceedstodigtheslowest,sloppiestholesknowntomankind.Lukalaststhreeminutesbeforehetrudgeshiswayovertohelp.
Laylaarrivesjustasafewfatraindropsdecidetofallfromthesky,rubberbootsandabrightblueknitbeanie.Shewalksrightuptomeandsqueezestight,herheadundermychin.Igetamouthfulofpuffball.
“Ididn’thavetimetomakezucchinibread,”shesays.ShesqueezesharderandIletoutawheeze.“I’msorry.”
Iblinkdownatherheadandgiveheragentlesqueezeback.Really,I’mtryingtoencouragehertoletgo.Rollingoutallthosepiecrustshasmadeherscarystrong.“That’salright.”
“I’llmakesomethisafternoon.”
“Okay.”
ShehoiststheshovelIdidn’tseeherbringoverhershoulderandjoinsLukaandStella,herhatbouncingtheentireway.IseeheadlightsflashinthedistanceandIfrown.
“What’sgoingon?”Ishoutovertomytrioofunexpectedassistants.Araindroplandsonmynoseandslidesdown.
StellaisleaningbackagainstLuka’schest,herheadtippedagainsthisshoulder.Hereyesarebarelyopenandforasecond,Ithinkshe’sasleep.“Thephonetree,”sheyellsback,hercallechoingoutovertheemptyfield.“Wemoveddigdayup.”
Anotherpairofheadlightsappearsinthedistance,twobeamsoflightcastdownthedirtroadthatleadstothefarm.Iwatchthemforasecondandswallowhard.Thosepianostringsrelax,justabit.
“Why?”
IcanseethelookStellaisgivingmefromallthewayoverhere.Onedelicatelyraisedeyebrow,herlipsinaflatline.LaylascoffsandLukashakeshishead.
“Ifyou’redigging,we’realldigging,”sheyells.Theheatinherstatementislessenedslightlybyagiantyawn,rightinthemiddle.SheshiversandLukapressesakisstothebackofherhead,hisforearmanchoredacrosshercollarbone.“That’swhatpartnersdo.”CHAPTERTWENTYEVELYN
Ihatethisplace.
Ihatethisplace.Ihatethiscar.AndIhatethisstupidbackroadthatmyGPStoldmewouldbethemorescenicroute.IhatethatIthoughtamorescenicroutesoundednice,andIdidn’tjusttakethehighway.Icouldhavebeenbackbynow.
Or,attheveryleast,Icouldbedrinkingamilkshakeonmywayback.
Onthehighway.
Istareoutatafieldofdeadgrassandkickmyflattire.Thereisnotasinglescenicthingaboutthisstretchofpoorlymaintainedroadandtheabandonedgasstationthirtyfeetaway,afamilyofcrowsstaringblanklyatmefromtheirperchonaboardedupstorefront.I’mgettingfaintHitchcockvibes,andIpresstwofingersbetweenmyeyebrows,silentlywillingsomepositivevibes.ItfeelslikeI’vehadastringofcosmicbadlucksinceIlefttheU.S.SmallBusinessCoalitionofficesinDurham.Itrynottoreadintoit.
Spilledcoffee.Missedturn.Anothermissedturn.Lostsignal.Andnowthis.Aflattire.
Atleasttherentalhasaspare.Ionlyneedto…rememberhowtochangeit.
Mymomhadbeenbigonthisstuffinhighschool.Replacingold,rustedoutpipesbeneaththesinkandchangingtheoilinthecar.Shesaiditwasimportantformetolearnhowtobemyownhero.
Youwon’teverneedtoaskaboy,shehadtoldme,greaseuptoherelbowsandacrossherforehead,agrinonherfaceasshereleasedthejack.Herlaughhadbeenproudandbrightinourtinygarage,crinklesinthedarkskinaroundhereyes.Herarmwarmaroundmyshoulderasourminivanrockedinplace.
She’dbescowlingatmenowthough,ifshecouldseemestaringatthetireproppedupagainstthewheelwell.
IputmyhandovermyeyesandglancedownthelongwindingroadI’vepulledtothesideof.Ican’thearasingleenginerumblinginthedistance.Icheckmyphoneagainandnotethelackofbarsinthetoprightcorner.
“Alright,well.”Maybeit’llcomebacktomeinmusclememory.Icertainlyhavenothingbettertodoatthemoment.
Ilugtheheavyjackoutofthetrunkofthecarandsetitbymybumtireandgettowork.This,atleast,Iremember.Ipourallofmyfrustrationintoturningthestubbornbolts,agroaningsoundcomingfromeachoneasIholdthemetalsteadyinmypalmandcrank.
Despitemystringofbadlucksinceleavingtheiroffices,myinterviewwiththeSmallBusinessCoalitionwentwell.Reallywell.Theohadbeenwarmandwelcoming—alittlebitawkward—offeringmecoffeeandatrayfullofsmalldanishesassoonasIarrived,thecoveredplatebalancedprecariouslyontheedgeofanovercrowdeddesk.
“Alotofyourcontentfeaturesfood,”hehadsaid,adjustinghisglasseswithhisknuckles.“Iwashopingtowooyoutooursidewithsugar.”
Hedidn’tneedtowoomewithsugarorcoffeeoranythingelse.Hehadlaunchedintohispitchimmediately,hisquietvoicecomingtolifewithexcitementatthelistofsmallbusinessesontheirroster.Hisofficehadbeencluttered,stuffy,asmallwindowabovehisdeskthatoverlookedanarrowalleyandabrickwall.Therewashardlyanynaturallightorextraspace,onlyonechairacrossfromhisdesk,adatedphonewithatangledcordwedgednexttothedanishtray.
Iloveditimmediately.Allofit.Thehalf-emptymugonthebookshelfbythedoorandthestackofpapersthatruffledeverytimehemovedinhissqueakydeskchair.Hisspacelookedlikehardworkandenthusiasm,ideasspillingoutofeverycorner.Ifoundmyselfexaminingthepictureshanginginclustersalongthewallashetalked,amismatchedtimelineofpeopleandplacesintechnicolor.Afoodstandatasmallpark.Astorefrontwitharedandblueawning,largeloopinglettersonthewindowAsmallerpicture,rightbeneath,ofhimandahandsomeman,theirhandsclaspedtogetherandalittlegirlclingingtotheirknees.
“You’llgetfancieroffers,I’msure,”hetoldme.Icouldn’thelpbutthinkofSway—thefruitartinthewaterandallthefancyoddsandendsthatdon’tmatteratall.“ButIdon’tthinkyou’llfindworkthatmakesyouhappierthanthis.”
Happier.Ofallthewordshecouldhavechosen.
Hehadn’tneededtosaymorethanthat.
Thedetailsonthepositionhadbeenlikeicingonmyfulfillmentcake.Workingwithsmallbusinesses,helpingthemestablishtheirdigitalchannels—thisnewpositionisexactlywhatI’vebeendoing,butbetter.Moretimebuildingrelationships.Strongerresourcestosupportinitiatives.AndanentireRolodexofsmallbusinessownersacrossthecountryjusttryingtofigureitallout.
Countlessstoriestotell.
Andsupportforme.Rest,whenIwantit.
IhadbeenhummingwithexcitementwhenIlefttheinterview,burstingattheseamswithafeelingIthoughtwasgoneforever.IwalkedtomycaranddialedBeckett’snumber,picturinghimsittingonthebackporch,oneofthecatsonhiskneeandhishandcurledaroundabeer,sockedfeetcrossedattheanklesandhislonglegsstretchedout.IimaginedwhathisfacemightlooklikewhenItoldhimthenews,thewayhiseyebrowswouldlift.Thatquietsmileinthelinesbyhiseyesandthedivotinhischeek.
Buthedidn’tanswer.
Iturnthewrenchwithagruntandloosenthelastbolt,abeadofsweatslidingdownbetweenmyshoulderblades.Idropthewrenchtothecementandoneofthecrowslaunchesitselfoffthetopofthegasstationinaflurryofruffledfeathers.Ifrownathisfriendsandthendownatmyflattire.
“Sofarsogood,”Imutter.
ItcomesbacktomeinpiecesasIwork.Mymom’svoiceinmyear,instructingmehowtocrankthejack,howtoholdmyselfawayfromthecar,howtopullthetireoffandgentlypushthenewoneon.AthrillofsatisfactionrunsthroughmeasImovethrougheachstep,securethenewwheel,andtightenthelastofthebolts.Irollthepoppedtiretothetrunkandlowerthejackagain,andthecarreleasesagroaning,heavingsigh.
MaybeIshouldhavechangedatiresooner.Theprideburninginmychesthasmeshortofbreath,afierceburstofenergythatzipsthroughmyentirebody.Istandtherewithmyhandscoveredingreaseandmyarmsburningfromtheeffort.
Ifeelfantastic.
IalmostlaughwhenIhearthegrowlofacarenginebehindme,abrightredtrucktearingdownthebackroad.Itslowstoastopbymysideandanoldmanwithafadedbaseballcappokeshisheadoutthewindow,histannedarmhangingoverthedoor.Helooksatallthetoolsscatteredacrossthegroundandgivesmeaquizzicallook.
“Youneedanyhelp?”
Ishakemyhead.Idon’t.Forthefirsttimeinalongtime,I’mnotleftwantingforasinglething.Iamfirmlyhere,inthismoment.Notplanningforwhat’snext,notthinkingaboutallthethingsI’mmissingoutonbystandingstill.Everythingisexactlywhereitshouldbe.
Igivehimagrinthathemirrorswithabewilderedtwitchofhislips.Astrangeladystandingoutsideofaboardedupgasstationwithgreaseonherface,smilingatnothing.
“I’mgood,thanks.”
IcallJosiefromarentalshopexactlyhalfwaybetweenDurhamandInglewild,astyrofoamcupofcoffeeinmyhandandastaledonutcradledinmyarm.
“Heofferedyouthejob?”
Iglancethroughtheglasswindowattheservicecenter,mylittlebluecarreceivingapropertirereplacement.I’mimpatienttogetbackontheroad,anothercoupleofhoursleftofdrivingbeforeI’mbackatLovelight.Beckettstillhasn’tansweredhisphone,andIdon’tknowwhattodowiththat.
IleftanoteonthekitchentablewhenIleft,myownattemptofadoodleatthebottom.Ihadtoleaveonshortnotice,Iwrote.Aninterview,threeexclamationpointsafter.WecancelebratewithburgerswhenIgetback.
Ihesitatedbeneaththat,myhandhoveringoverthescrapofpaper.Talksoonfeltincomplete.Missyoufeltsilly.Istaredatthatpieceofscrappaperandchewedonmybottomlip,cluelessastohowtosignthedamnthing.
IntheendIsettledforatinyheartwithlopsidededges,acircleoftulipscurlingatthebottom.
“Informally,”IreplytoJosie,nibblingattheedgeofmybostoncremedonut.ItpalesincomparisontoLayla’sflaky,butterydoughandapunchoflonginghitsmerightinthechest.WhatIwouldn’tgivetobesittinginhercaferightnow,mybootsproppedupontheseatacrossfrommeandBeckettleaningheavilyintomyside,hisscruffcatchinginmyhairandhisfingerstoyingwiththesleeveofmyshirt.Isigh.“Hesaidhe’dsendmeanofferletterinthenextcoupleofdays.”
“That’sgood,right?”
Inod.“Yeah.Yeah,it’sgood.”
“Thenwhydoyousoundweird?”
“Alottodo,”Imutter,peeringoutthewindowagaintocheckonmycar.There’saguyincoverallshalf-tuckedbeneathit,anothermechanicapproaching.IwishIhadtakenthereplacementtheyoffered.It’sridiculoustofeelasenseofcamaraderiewithacar.“Alotofdetailstosortout.”
Josiehums.“Likeifyou’restayinginInglewildornot?”
“Hopefullythatwon’tbeoneofthedetailsthatneedssorting.”OnceItalktoBeckett.Onceheanswershisdamnphone.
I’dliketostay.Notathishouse,ofcourse.Anewplace,maybesomewhereintown.SomewhereIcanstepofftheporchandpressmytoesintowetgrass.Flowersinthegarden.Lotsofwindows.
“I’llhavetoflyouttoCalifornia,”Itellher.“IneedtocloseoutthecontractwithSway.Sortoutacoupleotherprojects.”Collecttherestofmythingsfrommybarely-usedapartment.Probablyvisitthatempanadashop.
“I’llflydownandmeetyou.”
“Youdon’tneedtodothat.”
“AndmissyourbreakupwithSway?Idon’tthinkso.”ShesnickersontheotherendofthephoneandIhearthecreakofascreendooropening.
“I’mproudofyou,youknow.”Hervoiceisquiet,asmileineverysyllable.“Iknowyouhaven’tbeenfeelinglikeyourself,butyou’re—you’regettingbackthere.AndI’mproudofyou.”
Iblinkatthepressurebehindmyeyes.I’mproudofmyself,too.
Aconversationwhispersbacktome.Wornflanneltuckedaroundmyshouldersandthatoldporchchairroughbeneathmypalms.BorrowedsocksonmyfeetandBeckettinthechairrightnexttome
“I’mtrying.”
BythetimeImakeitbacktoInglewildandthesingledirtroadthatleadstoLovelight,thesunissettingoverthefarm,thebigredbarnbytheroadturningafadedrustinthedwindlinglight.Reliefblossomsinmychest,awarmthradiatingallthewayouttowheremyhandsgripatthewheel.TwodaysandImissedthisplace.MissedthewideopenspaceandBeckettinthespotrightnexttome.ThecatsandthetreesandthelightnessIfeelastheroadchangesfromdirttogravel,mycarrumblingalong.
Itfeelslikecominghome.
ThehouseisdarkwhenIpullintothedriveway,butBeckett’struckisinitsusualspot,adullglowfromthegreenhouseinthebackyardlettingmeknowwhereheis.IsmileasIslipfrommycarandleavemythingsforlater.I’meagertoseeBeckett,towrapmyarmsaroundhiswaistandsqueeze.
Iskipfromrocktorockdownthestonepathwaythathugsthesideofthehouse,countingthewoodensignsinthegardenasIgo.Moreherbsthanbloomsonthissideofthehouse.Basil.Thyme.Mintandrosemary.Iwonderifhe’llmakethatchickensoupagain.Ifhe’lltastelikesagewhenIsitsidewaysinhislapandpressmymouthtohis.
IseehimassoonasIturnthecorner,hisheadbowedoverashelfofplantsnearthefront.Messyhair.Strongarms.Sleevesrolledtohiselbows.Helookslikeoneofthoseoldstatues—theonesthatsitlonelyinthemiddleofbustlingcitysquares,theircrispedgesworndownbytime.MysmilefaltersandItripovertheedgeofatreeroot,stickingoutattheedgeofthepath.Theonesthatlooksosad.
I’mquietasIleanupagainsttheframeoftheglassdoor,myfingersitchingwiththeneedtosmoothmypalmsoverthosetightshoulders.Pressmyfaceinthespacebetweenuntilhereleasesadeep,relievedbreath.Iwanttomakeitgoaway,whateveritis.
“Hey,”Itipmyheadagainstthedoorandwatchashisentirebodygoesrigid,half-bentoverapotoffledglingpoinsettias.He’sfrozenwhereheis,myarrivalclearlyunexpected.Unwelcome,bythelooksofit.AcascadeofnervesflutterinmybellyandIpause.“What’reyouupto?”
It’ssogoodtoseeyou,Iwanttosay.TwodaysandImissedyoulikecrazy.
Hestraightensoutofhiscrouchedpositionandsetshiswateringcantotheside,hismovementsslowandhesitant.It’slikehe’sforgottenwhereheis,whathe’ssupposedtobedoing.Heglancesatmeslowly,athintrembleofconfusiontwistingathislips.
“I’mfinishingupafewthings,”hetellsme,voicerough.Hewipeshispalmsagainstthefrontofhisjeans,clenchesthemintofists,andshovesthemintohispockets.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
“I’mstayinghere,aren’tI?”Ilaugh.Hedoesn’t.Thesmileslipsrightoffmyface.Myheartjumpstomythroatandeverythinginmybodytightens.“Iseverythingalright?”Heremainsquiet.Thespacebetweenusfeelslikeachasm.“Didsomethinghappenwiththetrees?”
“No,”heshakeshisheadandglancesoutoneofthebigwindows.Theskyglowsbehindhim,abrightandfierceorange.Onelastburstofbrilliantcolor.“No,nothinghappenedwiththetrees.”
“Yourfamilyokay?”
Henods.
“Alright,good.”Iglanceovermyshoulderatthebackporch,thetwochairsthatlooklikethey’realittlebitfurtherapartthanthelasttimewesatinthem.“Whyareyououtheresolate?”
Whyisthehousedark?
Whywon’tyoulookatme?
Whyhaven’tyoukissedmeyet?
“Evelyn,”hesighs,exhausted.Hedragshisgazeupfromthefloortoblinkatmeslowly.“Whatarewedoing?”
Evelyn.Ifeelthatlikeapinch.Atinypricktomyheart.Hehasn’tcalledmebymyfullnameinweeks.
“Well,”Irubmyfingertipsagainstmyheartandurgemyselftosettle.“Rightnow,itsoundslikeyouhavesomethingtosaytome.”
“That’snotwhatImeant.”
“Iknowthat’snotwhatyoumeant,”Isigh.MaybeIshouldgobacktothecar,doalaparoundthefarm,andwecantrythisagain.Ihadbeensoexcitedtoseehim,sorelievedtobebackinthisplace.Andhe’streatingmelikemyarrivalistheworstthingthatcouldhavehappened.“What’sgoingon?Whyareyouupset?”
“I’mnotupset.”
“Beckett.Youcanbarelylookatme.”Hisjawclenchesandimpatiencegrabsmebythethroat.“Ifyouhavesomethingtosay,I’dwishyou’djust—”
“Whatareyoudoinghere,Evie?”Heasksinarush.Itakeahalf-stepforwardandhetakestwostepsback,hishandsgrippingthemetalframeoftheshelfhe’sbackedintolikeheneedstheanchortokeephimselfgrounded.Inallthisfranticmotion,he’ssuretokeephisbodyawayfrommine.Wedon’ttouchanywhere,andIfeelthatabsencelikeahandtomychest,demandingdistance.Hiseyessearchmine,desperateandalittlebithurt.“What’syourplan?Areyoucomingorareyougoing?”
“Whatareyoutalkingabout?IthoughtIwascominghome.”HisfacecrumplesandIhavenoideawhat’sgoingon.“Doyouwantmetoleave?Idon’tunderstand.”
HepushesofftheshelfbutIreachoutandgriphist-shirtinbothhands,haulinghimclose.“No.No,youexplainwhatthehellyou’retalkingabout.Rightnow,Beckett.”
“Youleft.”
“Yes.”Ileftfortwodays.Icamerightback.Iboughthimastupidgasstationt-shirtandakoozieforhisbeer.
Hecurlshishandsaroundmywristsandsqueezesgently,urgingmetoletgoofhisshirt.Ido,andhetakesthreestepsacrossthesmallspace,hisbackagainstthesametableheproppedmeupontwonightsago.Icanbarelymakeouttheshapeofthemanwhopressedakisstomyneckandtangledaflowerinmyhair.
“Youdidn’tbothertotellme,”hesays.“Ithoughtyouleftforgood.”
“Ileftanote.”Rightinthemiddleofthetable.Nexttoathermosofcoffeeandastackofmail.
“Therewasnonote.”
“ButIleftone.”Ithinkaboutthescribblesatthebottomofthepage,howIagonizedoverwhattowrite.Guessthatdidn’tmatter.“Idrewflowersonit.Tulips.”
Hedoesn’tmoveaninch,notevenaflexofhisfingersathisside.“Therewasn’tanoteonthetablewhenIgothome.Therewasn’tanything.”
Aleadweightsinksinmychest.
“Ileftallofmystuffinthesparebedroom.”
“Ididn’tcheck.”
“Well,maybeyoushouldhave,”Isnap.Allhehadtodowascrackopenthedoortoseemylaundrythrownallovertheplace.
“Ididn’twanttoseeanemptyroom.”Hisresponsethundersoutofhim,afistagainstthetable.“Ididn’twanttolookattheplaceyouwereandfindyougone.”
“YouthinkIcouldjustleave?”
HeshrugsandIknowexactlywhathe’sgoingtosaythemomentbeforehesaysit.
“You’veneverhadtroubleleaving,”heaccuses,andIfeelthewordslikeasliceagainstmyskin.
Thatwasbefore,Iwanttotellhim.BeforeIstoodinyourkitchenandwatchedyoumakepancakes.BeforeIsatonyourbackporchandlistenedtoyoutalkaboutthestars.Beforeyoutrustedmewithallofyoursmiles.Beforeyouletmeknowyou.
BeforeIfellinlovewithyou.
“You’llleaveagain,”headdsasanafterthought,hisshoulderscurlingin.Helooksexhausted,completelyspent.DarkcirclesunderhiseyesandastraininthelinesofhisbodythatIhaven’tseensincethatnightatthebar,wheneverythingwastooloudaroundhim.
“You’regonnakeepleaving,Evie.”Hisfacetwistsinnakedlonging.”Whywouldn’tyou?”
Oh,Ithinkquietly.Thereitis.
“Thenaskmetostay.”ThewordsareoutofmymouthbeforeIcanconsiderthem.Theyholdinthespacebetweenus,impatient.Pleading.
Hiseyesmeetmineandheshakeshisheadonce.
“Ican’t.”
“Whynot?”
Heswallowshard,acatchinthestronglineofhisthroat.Hestaresatmeforalongtime.Solong,Ithinkhewon’tanswerthequestion.
“Idreamtaboutyou,”hesays,hisvoicerough.Helooksembarrassedtosaysuchalovelything.“AfterthosetwonightinMaine,Idreamtaboutyouallofthetime.Whenweranintoeachotheragainthatnightonthestreet,IthoughtIhadfallenasleepforasecond.Youweresobeautiful.”Heswallowsagainandlooksdownathisboots,gatheringhimself.Helooksbackatme,eyesbright.“Havingyouherehasfeltlikethat.Adream.ButIthinkwebothknowithastoend,yeah?You’vegotagreatbiglifeoutsidethistinytownandthat’sokay.That’sthebestthing,really.Youglowlike—youglowlikethefuckingsunandyoushouldn’tbottlethatuphere.Youshouldn’twasteyourlight.IthoughtIcouldbehappywithwhateverpiecesofyouIgot.Ithoughtitwouldbeenough.ButthenyouleftandIrealizedit—itwon’tbe.You’lltakeapieceofmeeverytimeyougountilI’vegotnothingleft.Ican’tkeepstandinghereandwatchingyouwalkawayfromme.”
ButI’llbringyourpiecesback,Iwanttosay.I’llbringthembackandgiveyousomeofmine,too.
Silenceringsbetweenus,afaintbuzzinginmyears.
“Howlonghaveyoubeenthinkingaboutthis?”
Helookssotired,proppedupagainstthetable.Hedragshispalmoverhisface.“What?”
“Howlonghaveyoubeenexpectingmetoleave?Afterourdate?”Iswallowhardandwillthehuminmybloodtosettle.“Afterwehadsex?”He’stoostill,overbythewindows,theshadowstwistingaroundhisanklesandcloakinghimindarkness.“YoureallythoughtI’djustleave,withoutaword?YouthinkIcoulddothat?”
Heshrugsandavertshiseyestothefloor.“Idon’tknowwhatyouwantmetosayhere,Evie.”Herubshispalmagainstthebackofhisneck.“I’mjust—I’mjusttryingtoholdontowhatIcan.Doyouunderstand?”
Ishakemyhead,apressurebehindmyeyes.“Idon’tunderstand.”
Hishandsfalllimplybyhissides.“Idon’tknowabetterwaytoexplainittoyou.”
Itakeastepcloser.“IfIhadwaitedforyoutogetback…ifyousawmynote…wouldyouhavebelievedmewhenItoldyouIwascomingback?”
Hedoesn’tsayaword.Hesighsandcloseshiseyestightandthenmeetsmygaze.Iseetheanswerinthelinesofhisface.Inthesad,sadblue-greenofhiseyes.
“Whycan’tyoubelieveme?”Iask,myvoicecrackingattheedges“Iwanttobehere.”
Withyou.Witheveryoneelse.WhereIcanbreatheandrestandthink.WhereIcanbewhoeverIwanttobe.
Hismouthopensandcloses.Iwaitforhimtosaysomething,anything.Buthedoesn’t.Hesnapshismouthshutandlooksataspotovermyshoulder.
“That’sitthen?”
Heglancesattheemptypotonthetable,theseedpacketsnexttoit.Everywhere,itseems,exceptforme.Hesighsandscrubshishandagainstthebackofhishead.Asmallshrug.
“Youcan—youcanstayaslongasyouwant.You’realwayswelcomehere.Ijustthink—Ithinkmaybeweshouldgobacktothewaythingswerebefore.IcomplicateditandI’msorryaboutthat.”
Likeitwouldbethatsimpletountangleallthefeelingsinmychest.LikeIcouldsitdownintheseatnexttohimonthatporchandnotlovehimwithallofmyheart.
“You’resorry.”
Idon’tbotherphrasingitasaquestion.He’ssorryforhowhecomplicatedthings.Mychestcracksrightopen.Hehesitates,andthen,“Yes.”
Allofthefightdrainsrightoutofme.HethinksI’llbegivingsomethingupbystaying,notgettingeverythingI’veeverwanted.TheflameofhopethatwasburningbrightinmychestasIdrovebackfromDurhamflickers.Embers,really—coolinginthecircleofashthat’stakenupresidenceintheopenspacebetweenmylungs.Everybreathburns.
“BeckettPorter,”Isighouthisnameandblinktooquickly.Idon’twanttocry.Nothere.Notrightnow.“Areyoulettingmedowneasy?”
Ihatethewaymyvoicewobblesattheedges.Henoticesandhiseyessnaptomine.Iwatchhisfingersflex,thesmalloakleafontheinsideofhiswristdancingashisarmturns.
Hehuffsalaughbutitdoesn’tsoundfunnyatall.Itsoundssad,athousandunspokenthingstuckedintoasinglesound.
“No,honey.”Hewatchesmewiththoseseriouseyes,lookingforalltheworldlikehe’stryingtomemorizethecurvesofmyface.Hismouthtwitchestotheside.Notquiteasmile,notquiteafrown.Somethingresigned,rightin-between.“I’mlettingmyselfdownhard.”
Icouldtellhimaboutmyjoboffer.
IcouldtellhimaboutTheo’scluttereddeskandthepicturesonthewall.TheschedulehegavemebeforeIleft,allofmytravelplannedoutforthenextyear.IcouldtellhimaboutmyphonecallwithJosieandhowIhaveaplaneticketinmynamefortwodaysfromnow,aone-wayticketback.
IcouldtellhimIplantostay.
ButI’mtired,andmyheartfeelsbruised.
SoIpressuponmytoesandbrushagentlekisstohislips.ItellhimI’llseehimsoonandsqueezehishandinmine.Iturnandleavehimstandingthereinthegreenhouse,withtheflowersandtheherbsandthespilledsoilonthetable.
Mybodymoveswithoutmymindneedingtocheckin.Igotothespareroomandpackupmythings.Ifightwiththedoorofmycarandtossmysuitcaseinthetrunk.Istompbackupthestairsandleavethestupidgasstationt-shirtandkooziesittingbyhisdoor.
Igatherallofthepartsofmethatareunravelingandholdthemtightinmyshakingfist,twodeepbreathsandmyhandsonthesteeringwheel.Istareatthehouseandexhaleslowly.
Ibackoutofthedrivewayandrumbledownthelittleroadthatleadsbacktotown.
Tomorrow.
I’llmakeaplantomorrow.CHAPTERTWENTY-ONEBECKETT
Istareattheduck.
Theduckstaresatme.
OneofthekittensmeowsfrombehindthemakeshiftfenceI’vemadeinthekitchen.Notthatitwouldstopthemiftheytrulywantedtogetout.IstillhavenoideahowPrancermanagestoleavethehouseeverymorningforhertractorrides.I’velookedovereverysquareinchoftheperimeterandcan’tfigureoutwhereshe’sleavingfrom,shortofopeningthefrontdoorherself.
Isighandglanceatthecatfamilywaitingpatientlybehindsomechickenwire.TheycamerunningassoonasIelbowedmywaythroughthefrontdoorwithournewaddition.It’sthefirsttimethey’veacknowledgedmyexistencesinceEvelynlefttwonightsago.Theyhaven’tforgivenmeyetforchasingheraway.
Haven’tquiteforgivenmyselfeither.
Ifoundhernotecrumpledandhalf-torninPrancers’bedbythecouch,nexttoahairtieandanemptytubeofchapstick.Istaredatthatlittlepieceofpaperforalongtime,theflowersscribbledalongthebottomedge,thethreeexclamationpoints.
Itdoesn’tmatterthatsheleftanote.Itdoesn’tmatterthatshehadeveryintentionofcomingback.Keepingallherlightformyselfstillfeelsliketheworstkindofselfish.Iwon’tdoit.
Itellmyselfthat,anyway.AndIputthenoteinthedrawernexttomybed.Nexttothedamndried-upblueflowerandacrumpledreceipt.
Isighandscooptheducklingupinmyhands,biggeralreadythanthelasttimeIsawhim.Dr.Colsonhadcalledthismorningandletmeknowtherewasnoplaceforhimatthelocalwildlifecenter.Itlikelyhadbeentoolonganyway,forthelittleguytomakeasuccessfultransitionbacktothewild.
Hehadn’tneededtosaymuchmorethanthat.
Ididn’twantthelittleducktobealone.
“Alright,everyone,”Ishootasternglanceatthecatslinedupinarowbehindthemakeshiftwall.“We’regoingtobeonourbestbehavior,yeah?Nonibblesoranythingteethadjacent.”IswearPrancerfrownsatme,apoutonhertiny,furryface.
Isitdownonthefloorandcarefully—slowly—extendmyhandsout.WithDr.Colson’srecommendationinmind,Ikeeponehandhoveringoverthetopoftheballofyellowfluffinmypalm,readytoprotecthimifIneedto.Butallfourcatsseemcalmenoughtomeettheirnewhousemate,facesturnedupininterest.
Theduckpokeshisheadoutfrombetweenmyoutstretchedfingers,atinychirrupofgreeting.
Prancerstaresinavidconcentrationandthenmeowsinresponse.Sherisesfromherpronepositiononthefloorandnudgesgentlyatmyhand,herpinkvelvetnosebrushingmythumbandthentheduckling.Shemeowsagainandthethreekittensechoinkind.Theducklingoffersthebeginningofaquack.
Alright.Thatseems…good.
DuckandcatscontinueinvestigatingeachotherandIhearmyfrontdoorswingopen.Forasplit-second,aflareofhopeseizesinmychest.ButthenIhearStellaandLaylabickeringaboutcinnamonrollsandmyheartrollsover,disappointmentpoundingoutaslowbeat.
IlookedatEvelynandtoldherIwouldn’tsettleforthepiecesofher.It’showIfeel,butIwishIsaiditinabetterway.Softer,maybe.Icanstillseeherfaceasthewordstrippedoffmytongue.Thewayherwholebodyflinched,herhandsclaspedtighttogether.Hereyelashesagainsthercheek.Asingle,sharpinhale.
Regretisafunnything.Self-preservation,too.I’vebeenswingingwildlybetweenthetwoandreachedformyphonemoretimesthanIcancount.ButIcan’tquitemakemyselfdialhernumber,mythumbhoveringoverthescreen.
StellaandLaylastumbletoastopattheedgeofmykitchen.Idon’tbotherlookingup.
“Christ,”Laylabreathes.“It’sworsethanIthought.”
IwatchasCometnudgesonceattheduckwithherhead,ahappypurrtuckedbetweenthem.Theduckflapshislittlewingsagainstmyhand.I’llhavetonamehimnow.It’ssettled.“IthoughtIlockedmydoor.”
“Ihaveakey,”Laylasaysmildly.
“Itookyourkeyawaythreemonthsagowhenyoubrokeinandstoleallofmypoptarts.”
“LikeI’deatstore-boughtpoptarts.”Laylaisoffended.“Thatwasn’tme.”
Stellaraisesherhand.“ThatwasCharlie.He’llbuyyouanewbox.”Shepausesforasecondanddropstoherkneesnexttome,holdingherhandouttowardsthekittens.“Beckett,whyareyousittingonthefloor?”
Interestingquestionfromawomanwhojusttoldmeherhalf-brotherbrokeintomyhouseandateallmyprocessedsugar.Iignoreit.I’mtootiredforthedetails.
“I’mintroducingthemtoeachother.”
“Alright.”Sheblinksatme.“Howlonghaveyoubeendoingthis?”
“Sittingonthefloor?”
“Yes.”
Laylabusiesherselfwithsomethingonthecounter.Ihearthesoundoffoilcrinkling,mydrawersopeningasshelooksforsilverware.Vixenismoreinterestedinwhatevershebroughtthanhernewfamilymemberandgoestrottingoff,windingherselfbetweenLayla’sankles.
Iglanceattheclock.“I’veonlybeensittingherefortenminutes.Why?”
Stellalooksrelieved.“Okay,good.”
“Why?”
“BecauseSaltoldushesawyouonyourbackinthemiddleoftheSantabarnyesterdayforthreehours,”Laylainterrupts.Sheholdsoutaplatewithasingleblueberrymuffinonit—aperfect,butterycrumbleontop.
Ifrown.Ihadn’trealizedI’dbeentherethatlong.“Iwascheckingtheroofforholes.Someofthefarmhandshavenoticedleaks.”
AndthenIfellasleep,flatonmybackinthemiddleoftheSantabarn.Iwokeuptiredanddisoriented,ahollowacheinthepitofmystomach.
MissingEvelynislikemissingthebottomsteponaflightofstairs.Ikeepexpectinghertobewhereshe’snot.
It’sthatexpectation,Ithink,that’stheworstofit.Istepintothekitchenandexpecttoseehersittingatthecounterdoinghercrossword.Iwalkpastthebackdoorandpeekoutthewindow,lookingforherlonglegscurledbeneathheronthebackporch.Icheckforhercoatonthepegnexttomine.Herbootstossedbeneaththeentrywaytable.Ileaveaspaceinthefridgeforwhereshelikestoputhercoffee,rightnexttotheicedtea.
I’mmissingallthepiecesofher.
Iwantthemback.
LaylasitsdownonmyothersidewithherownplateofmuffinsandextendsonetoStella.Ibringtheduckclosertomychest—behindtheprotectionofthefence—anddeposithimcarefullyinmylap.Hegivesahappyquack,wandersinacircle,andthenfallsintoalittleclumpofyellowfuragainstmythigh.
“Evelyntextedus,”Laylaoffers,likethatsinglesentencedoesn’tstealallthebreathoutofmylungs.Itakeabiteofmuffintokeepmyselffromsayingsomethingstupid.When,Iwanttoask.DidshesoundhalfassadasIam?“Shewantedustocheckinonyou.”
That’ssomething,Iguess.Ipluckadriedblueberryoffthetopofthemuffin.Icheckedhersocialmediaprofilestheotherday,desperateforaglimpse.Shehasn’tpostedanythinginweeks.Nothingsinceapictureofherflatonherbackinthewildflowerfield,theshotangledtogetonlythetopofherhead.Smilingeyeslitupbythesun,herlonghairspreadaroundherheadlikeahalo,flowerpetalstwistedbetweenthestrands.
Istaredatthatpictureforalongtime.
“I’mfine,”Isay.IwanttoaskmoreaboutEvelyn,butIcan’tbringmyselftosayhername.
Stellasighs.“Youcan’tsithereallday.”Shelookslikeshewantstowalkoutback,getthewheelbarrow,anddumpmeintoit.“Comeovertothehouse.Lukawillmakeyougnocchi.”
He’llalsoprobablysighhiswaythroughthemeal,mutteringunderhisbreaththeentiretime.“No,thanks.”Itakeanotherbiteofmuffinandignorethesilentconversationhappeningoneithersideofme.Icanfeeltheireyeslikelittlelasers.“I’mgoingtomyparentshouselater.I’mfixingtheporch.”
WhatI’mdoingisavoidingmyproblems.Gettingoutofthishousethatstillhastheghostofherlaughandhersmileandherbig,browneyeseverywhereIlook.
“Well,”Laylastretchesoutherlegsonthefloorofmykitchenandfrownsdownathersockedfeet.Shemusthavetoedherbootsoffatthedoor.ShedropsherheadagainstmyshoulderjustasStellacurlsherhandaroundmyarm,rightabovemyelbow.Shesqueezesaffectionately.“We’llsitwithyouuntilyouhavetogo.”
Iletoutashakyexhaleandwatchthecatsbataroundanoldcardboardbox,somethingtheymusthavepulledoutoftherecycling.StellacrossesheranklesandLaylaletsoutayawn.Thethreeofussitthereinsilence,huddledonthefloor.
Partners,inallthebestways.
“Doestheduckhaveaname?”
“Hm?”
“Theduck.Heneedsaname.”
Hedoes.Thethreeofusconsiderit
“HowaboutPickles?”Laylaoffers.Shepeersovermyshoulderattheduckfastasleepagainstmyknee.“HekindoflookslikeaPickles.”
“InwhatwaydoeshelooklikeaPickles?”
“Thelittlemarkonhisheadsortoflookslikeone,don’tyouthink?”Sheglancesatmeandhereyeswidenatthelookonmyface.“Alright.NotPickles.”
“Eggbert?”
Imakeanoiselowinmythroat.Ihaven’tforgottenthatStellawantedtonamePrancer—Raccoon.
“JamesPond?”
“Squeak?”
Iignorethemboth.“IlikeOtis.”
MydadusedtoplayOtisReddinginthemorningwhileweweregettingreadyforschool.Hewouldblastitfromthespeakersinthelivingroom.Turnituploudenoughthatwe’dhearitallthewayinourbedrooms.ItwastheveryfirstartistNessaeverdancedto.HestillplaysTheseArmsofMineformymomeveryWednesdaynightafterhethinkswe’veallleft.Shesitsacrosshislapandhehumsinherear,aslowturnaroundthedrivewaywithnothingbuttheporchlightson.
“Ilikethatname,”Stellasays.
Laylanodsintomyshoulder.“Yeah,metoo.”
Irubmyknuckleoverthelittleguy’shead.“Otisitis,then.”
IbringOtiswithmetomyparent’shouseandsethimupinasmallboxonthefrontporchwhileIgettoworkunloadingthewoodfromthebackofmytruck.Thehouseandthegardensbehinditarestillandquiet,thenarrowwindowsoneithersideofthefrontdoorreflectingtheafternoonsun.Asinglebeamoflightcascadesthrough,dustmotesdancingingoldenwaves.
It’sstrangebeingherewhennooneelseis.I’musedtothefrontdoorcracked,mysistersspillingoutintothefrontyard.Loudlaughterandthesmellofsomethingonthestove.MydadpleadingwithNovaforafullbacktattoo
ButIplannedthisspecificallyforthesilence.I’llfixtheramp,securetherailing,andbeonmywaywithouthavingtotalktoanyone.It’stheperfectplan.
“Youbuildingmeanewdeck?”
Idropallthewoodgatheredinmyarmsasmydadwheelsaroundthesideofthehouse,agrinonhisface.Ipressaclosedfisttomypoundingheartandfrowndownatmysuppliesscatteredatmyfeet.“Whatthehell,dad?”
Helaughs.“WhenareyougoingtorealizeI’malwaysaround,kiddo?”
“Never,apparently,”Igrumble.Hemeetsmeatthebackofthetruckandleansforwardinhischair,leveragingapieceofwoodI’vedroppedupintohisarms.Hestacksitneatlynexttomytoolboxandgivesmeanamusedlook.
Inarrowmyeyesathim.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
“Ilivehere,”herespondswithachuckle.
Irollmyeyestothesky.“Whyareyouhome?Ithoughtyouwereworking.”
Aboutsevenyearsago,mydadtookonadifferentjobattheproducefarm.Nowheworksatthefrontoffice,helpingmanageshipmentsandagreementswithlocalmarketsandgrocerychains.HealsooccasionallystealsthetractorwhenRogerParsonleavesthekeyslayingaround.
“Itooktodayoff.”
“Forwhat?”
“Areyoumykeepernow?”Anotherrough,amusedchuckletumblesoutofhisbarrelchest.“Whatareyoudoingatmyhouseinthemiddleoftheday?WithenoughsuppliestobuildyourownUnabomberden,mindyou.”
Iglanceatthehaphazardstackofwood.ThehandsawIborrowedfromthefarm.“It’snotthatmuch,”Ihedge.
“It’senough.”Helooksupatmeinthatwayhehas.Eyessquinted,oneeyebrowslightlyhigherthantheother,hislipsinathinlinebuttiltedupattheedges—likehe’sgotsomeprivatejoke.Everytimehelooksatmelikethat,IfeellikeI’msevenyearsoldagain—lyingtohimaboutwhathappenedtothewindowinthebackshed,mybaseballbathiddeninoneoftheshrubs.Hishandreachesformyarmandhesqueezesthereonce,thesameexactplaceStelladidnottwohoursago.“Youdoingokay?”
“I’mfine,”Isay,notquitelying.
BecauseIam.I’mfine.Everythingis—everythingisfine.Iwisheveryonewouldstopaskingmethat.IjustneedafewhourstonotthinkaboutEvie.Tonotreplaythatlastconversationandseeherarmscurledaroundherself,hereyesblinkingtoofast.
I’mtiredofseeinghereverytimeIclosemyeyes.I’mtiredofmissingherwhenshe’sbarelybeengoneatall
Iblowoutabreathandbrushmyhandsoffagainstmyknees.“Ijustwanttofixyourramp.”
Mydadsearchesmyface.“Youwanthelp?”
It’safighttonottoclenchmyteeth.Ireallydon’t.Ischoolmyfeaturesintosomethingniceandneutralinstead,organizingsomeofthetoolsbymyfeet.Ibegintogathersomeofthewood,mybodygratefulforthetask.“Ifyouwant.”
“Whatdoyouwant?”
Ipausewithmyarmsfulloftwo-by-fours.“What?”
“Whatdoyouwant?”Herubshisfingertipsagainsthisbottomlipinthought.“Ifsomeoneheldaguntoyourheadrightnowandaskedyouwhatyouwant,whatwouldyousay?”
“Uh,”Ilookovermyshouldertomakesureoneofmysister’sisn’tstandingnearbywithaphoneintheirhand.Heseemswaytooseriousforaquestionaboutporchassistance.“Iwantsomeonetonotbeholdingaguntomyheadoveraporchrailing.”
Mydadisnotamused.“Beckett.”
“What?Thisis—”aweirdconversation.“Whatareyouaskingme?”
“You’realwayslettingusdowhatwewant,”mydadsaysafteralengthypause.“Whenhaveyoueverdonewhatyouwant?”
“Likewhat?”
“Trivia,”hesaysimmediately.Heholdsuphisfinger.“Weallknowyoudidn’twanttogoandyouwentanyway.”
“BecauseNovaandNessaaskedmeto.”AndsometimesIneedtobedraggedoutofthehouseorI’llneverleaveit.Icanacknowledgethataboutmyself.
Heflicksupanotherfingeranddigshisphoneoutofhispocket,tappingaroundandthenreadingfromthescreen.“January16.Weallorderedpizzaandyouatetheonewithmushroomseventhoughyoudon’tlikemushrooms.”
ItwastheonlyoptionandIhadbeenhungry.
“Doyouhavealistonyourphone?”
Heignoresmeandscrollsdown.“December28.YoudroveyoursistertothreeseparategrocerystoressoshecouldfindNutella.”
Ikickatapieceofwood.“Shesaidshewantedit.”
Hedropshisphonetohislapandlooksatme.“Youwereabouttoletmehelpyouwiththedamnedrampwhenyoudon’twantmeto.”
“It’snotabigdeal,”Icounter.Icanseethepointhe’stryingtomake.He’saboutassubtleasabrickthroughawindow.“There’snothingwrongwithmedoingthingstohelpotherpeople.Mushroomsaren’tthatbad.”
Mydad’sfaceturnsintoathundercloud.“They’reterribleifthey’renotwhatyouwant.”
Ishrug.“Notreally.”
“Fine.”Thewordcomesoutofhismouthlikeagunshot.“Ihavetwomoreforyou.”
Isighandrolloutmyshoulders.“Let’shearthem,then.”It’lllikelybesomethingaboutthechickencoopImadeinHarper’sbackyardthatstilldoesn’thavechickens,orthetimeIwasNessa’sstand-indancepartnerforaweek.Ilastedtwodays.
“Youletyourteenagesisterputtattoosalloveryourarms,justtohelpherout.”Heswallowshard.“Youdroppedoutofhighschooltosupportthisfamily.Youworkedyourselftothebone.”
AndI’ddoitagain.Allofit.Nohesitation.
Ilovethetattoosonmyarms.Eachoneisapieceofmyfamily—apieceofme.ItfeelslikearmorwhenIneeditmostandcomfortwhenIneedthat,too.Ilovelookingattheleafonmywristandtracingthewobblyedges,rememberingthewayNova’swholefacelitupwhenIagreedtolethertry.
Andthefarmingthing.Thatwasn’tevenachoice.OfcourseIwasgoingtostepup.ItwastheeasiestdecisionIhaveevermade,thatdayinthekitchen.TheParsonshadcometovisitmydadoncehegothomefromthehospitalandtheideacametomelikelightninginasummerstorm.Ihadbeenitchingforsomethingtodo—somewaytohelp—andtakingmydad’splacewasthebestwaytodoit.Theonlywaytodoit.
“BecauseIloveyou,”Isay,stubborn.Idon’tseeanythingwrongwiththethingshe’slisted.“BecauseIloveallofyou.”
“I’mstartingtothinkImadeamistake,then,”mydadsaysquietly,hisentirefacelinedwithregret.Heblinksquicklyandclearshisthroat,neverlookinganywherebutrightatme.“WhenItaughtyouhowtolove.”
Somethinginmychestfractures.WorsethanwhenEvelynwalkedoutmygreenhousedoor.“What?”
“Ifyouthinklovemeanshavingtosacrificebitsofyourselftomakesomeoneelsehappy,”heexplains.“Ifyou’reafraidtoaskafterwhatyouwant.MaybeIdidsomethingwrong.”
“I’mnot—”myvoicecutsout,mythroatclosingaroundthewords.Ilookdownattheground,attheedgeofmyboots.Mudsplatteredfrommytimeinthefields.Iclenchbothmyfists.“That’snotwhatI’mdoing.”
It’snot.Ilovehelpingmyfamily.Helpingpeopleismy—Christ—Nessawouldsayhelpingpeopleismylovelanguage.It’showIshowthemIcare.Actionshavealwaysbeeneasierformethanwords.
“DidyouaskEvelyntostay?”
Ishakemyhead.“Thathasnothingtodowiththis.”
“Didyou?”
IwishIhadalreadystartedontheporch.Itwouldbehelpfultohaveahammerinmyhands.Pouralltherestlessenergytwistingthroughmychestintotheliftandpoundofwork.
“Ididn’t,”Igritout.“Becauseshewouldn’tbehappyhere.Becauseshe’dleaveagain.”
BecauseIcan’tbethereasonshegivesanythingup.She’dhatemeandI’dhatemyself.
“Aren’tthoseherdecisionstomake?”WhenIopenmymouthtorespond,mydadtalkslouder,steamrollingrightovertopofme.“Howthehellisshesupposedtoknowyouwantherhereifyouneverevenaskhertostay?”
Iclosemymouth.
Blink.
Blinkagain.
“Sometimesloveisgreedy,kiddo.”Mydadsetshismouthinafirmline.“Sometimesit’salittlebitselfish,too.Youthinkit’snevercrossedmymindthatyourmomdeservessomethingbetterthanthelifewecarvedoutforourselveshere?Ithas.Amilliontimes.Amillionandone.ButI’mholdingontoherwithbothhands.I’mtrustinghertomakeherownchoices.Tochooseme.”
Helooksrightatme,asmilehookingatthesideofhismouth.Hebendsatthewaistandgrabsapieceofwood.Heflipsitoverhisshoulderandbeginsmakinghiswaytotheramp.
“Beselfish,Beckett.Justthisonce.”CHAPTERTWENTY-TWOEVELYN
“Whatdidhesay?”
IglanceupatJosiefrommycollectionoffoldedleggings—afranklyalarmingamountofcomfortwearthattowersnexttooneofmymovingboxes.“When?”
“Whenyouleft.”
Hehadn’tsaidathing.Hestoodintheentranceofthegreenhousewithhisarmbracedagainstthedoorandwatchedmequietlymovearoundhishouse.Ionlyallowedmyselfasinglelookback,rightbeforeIwalkedoutthefrontdoor.Hehadhisbacktomebythen,bothhandsanchoredinhishair.
Ican’tkeepstandinghereandwatchingyouwalkawayfromme.
Itopplethewholestackintothebox.“Hedidn’tsayanything.”
“Hashesaidanythingsince?”
Iglanceatmyphoneandthenshakemyhead.It’sbeenradiosilence.
NotthatIexpectedanythingdifferent.
It’sbeentwodaysandtheonlyupdateI’vereceivedonBeckettisabanaltextfromStella.Asimplehe’sokaythatshedidn’tchoosetoelaborateon,alongwithapictureofababyduckwithacookiebyhiswebbedfeet.Otiswritteninicingontop.
ThoughIsupposethatwasanupdateinandofitself.
“Ineedyoutwotocommunicate,”Josieoffersfromtheothersideoftheroom,holdingupashotglassfrom…Ihavenoidea,honestly.Sherummagesaroundabovemymicrowaveandfindsabottleofwhiskeythatissoold,it’saccumulatedalayerofdust.Ithinkthecapisfusedtothebottle.“Themiscommunicationhereis—”
Shetrailsoff,grumblingunderherbreath.
“What?”
“It’sextremelyfrustratingforme,asabystanderinthisrelationshipofyours.”
Sheshufflesherwaybackovertomearoundaminefieldofmovingboxesand…moreleggings…thebottlewedgedunderherarm.Shecollapsesinfrontofmeandhandsmetheshotglass,workingatthecapwithherteeth.Shespitsittowardsthewindowswhenit’soff.
“It’snotamiscommunication,”Ireply.It’sBeckettthinkingthere’snopossiblewayIcouldfindmyhappyonhisfarm.It’shimmakingadecisionforthebothofusoutofamisplacedsenseof…something.“Ijustcan’tbelievehethoughtI’dleavelikethat,”Isigh.
IseeiteverytimeIclosemyeyes.BeckettandthewayhisentirebodywentrigidwhenIwalkedintohisspace.Theresignationonhisface,likeitwaswhatheexpectedtheentiretime.
HereallythoughtIleft.
Josiefiddleswiththebottle.“Well,didyouevertellhimyouwantedtostay?”
“What?”
“Youknow.‘Beckett.Iwantyourgiganticheartandyoursmokinghotbody.I’mstaying.’”
Iopenmymouthandthencloseit.
Josiecontinues.“Youwereverycommunicativewithmeaboutyourplans.”Shesniffsattheopenbottleandmakesaface.“Whatwashisreactionwhenyoutoldhimaboutthenewjob?”
“Hedoesn’tknowaboutthat,”Imumble.
Josiemakesasound,exasperated.Thebottleinherhandalmostgoesflyingacrosstheroom.“Soitisamiscommunicationthing.”
“It’snot.”Irubmyfingertipsagainstmyforehead.Ithinkaboutourlatenightsontheporch,talkingabouteverythingunderthesun.Everything,apparently,exceptourplansforthefuture.ThethingsIwasworkingtowardsandthethingshewasafraidof.
Seewherethisthinggoes.
God,we’vebothbeensostupid
ButI’veshownhim,haven’tI?Triviawithhisfamilyandmynamewrittenontheregistrationsheetfornexttime.Afternoonsspentintownandeveningsspentwithhim.I’vebeenputtingdownrootsthiswholetime,carefullycultivatingeachonetobesomethinglastingandtrue.Hasn’theseenthat?Hasn’therealized?
JosiepourstheamberliquidintotheshotglassandIfrownatit.“Whatdoyouwantmetodowiththis?”
Sheraisesbotheyebrows.“Drinkit.”
“I’mnottwenty-twoanymore.”Takingashotphysicallyhurtsmethesedays.
“Weneedtocommemoratethisnewchapterofyourlifeandsolvethegiantmessthetwoofyouhavemade.”Shetakestheshotoutofmyhand,sipshalfofit,andalmostspitsitrightinmyface.Sheswallowsitdownwitheffort,herfingertipsatherlips.“Ohmygod.”
“Itoldyou.”
“Youdidnottellme.”
“Ithoughtmyrefusalmightsayenough.”
“Alright,changeofplans.”Shescoopsupherphoneandscrollsandtaps—andtapssomemore.“Iorderedustwobottlesofwineandapizza.”
“Thatwasveryefficient.”
“Moderntechnology,baby.Wecannotshepherdyouintothegreatunknownwithoutgrease,friedcheese,andcarbohydrates.”Shewigglesherphoneandplacesittotheside.“Alright.Let’stalkthroughyourplanwiththefarmerman.”
It’salooseplan,atbest.Iwanthimtoseethatit’snotjusthimI’mgoingbackfor,buteverythingelse,too.IthinkheneedstoseethatImeanit.
“Well,I’mgoingback.”Ialwaysplannedongoingback.
Josienods.
“AndIhavethatlittlehouseI’mrenting.It’sweirdthatitsuddenlybecameavailable,butwhatever.”
It’snotweird.Iknowforafactit’sbeenemptysincebeforeIcametotown.GustoldmesowhenIcalledhimtoputdownmydepositoverthephone.Apparently,hewantedtotryhishandatflippinghouses—inadditiontothetrivianightemceeingandfirehousedancing.Amanofmanystrangetalents.Unfortunatelyforhim,therewerenootherhousestoflipinInglewildtownlimitsandthatdreamcametoanabrupthalt
“AndI’ll—”thisiswheretheplangetsmurky.“—I’llgotothefarm.I’llshowhimthateventhoughIleft,Ialwaysplannedoncomingback.”I’llbringburgersandfriesinabrownpaperbag.MaybeI’llwaituntilthesunsetssothestarsarebrightinthesky.“Ifhedoesn’twanttoseeme,that’llbeokay.”
It’llbeheartbreaking,butIwon’tleave.
“I’llstayinthehouseandI’llvisitifhe’llhaveme.I’llbringhimthecookieshelikes.I’llkeepshowingup.I’llstay.”Ibreatheinashakybreaththroughmynose.“I’lltellhimIlovehim.ThatIlovethetown,too.ThatIwenttherelookingforonethingandfoundabunchofotherthingsinstead.Thebestthings.”
Happinessandfreedomandbelongingandcommunityand—shortbreadcookiesinthedeadofnight.Weirdtrivia.Layla’sbuttercreamfrosting.
“Ithinkyoucouldhavesavedyourselfsometroubleandtoldhimallofthisearlier,but—”shereachesformyhandwithhers.“It’sagoodplan.”
“Yeah?”
“Imean,youcouldtexthimandtellhimyou’recomingback,butIlikethedramaofthis.”
“IdidtellhimI’dseehimsoon.WhenIleft.”
“Youdid?”
“Yeah.ItoldhimIwascomingback.”
Didn’tI?IswearIdid.Ipressedmythumbtotheconstellationontheinsideofhisforearmandtracedtheinkedlinesallthewaydowntohispalm.ItappedtheretwiceandtoldhimI’dbeback.“It’snotamiscommunication,”Iexplain.
Wejustkeepmissingeachother.Everytimewecollide,somethingisslightlyoff.Wesmackintoeachotherandgoricochetingbackintospace,amillionmilesbetweenus.Oneofthosemeteors
Amisalignment,maybe?
Amissedopportunity,certainly.
HopefullyIcanfixthat.
Josietapsherfingersalongattheopenbottleofliquorandkeepshergazeonme.Shelookslikeshe’sconsideringanothertaste,previousexperiencebedamned.
“Eitherway,”shetellsme.“I’mhereforit.”
“I’llfinishoutwhatevercontractworkI’monthehookfor,butafterthatI’llbeexploringotheropportunities.”
Istareoutataconferenceroomfullofblankfaces.Forsomeinexplicablereason,theycalledtheentireorganizationinhereforthismeeting.IseeKirstyninthecorner,openlyweepingwithherfacehiddeninapatternedhandkerchief.Shehasatinyglassofespressoatherelbowandaminiaturecucumbersandwich.There’snobasscomingfromthespeakerinthecenteroftheroomthistime,thankgod.
ThoughIbetJosieisdyingtobreakoutatinyviolin.
“I’msoappreciativeofeverythingyourteamhasdoneforme,”ItackonlamelywhenIgetnoresponse.“I’ve,uh,I’vereallyenjoyedworkingwithallofyou.”
JosiesnortsandIdrivetheheelofmybootintoherConversebeneaththetable.
IwonderwhatBeckettisdoingrightnow.Ifhe’soutinthefieldsoratthebakehouse,stealingsnacksfromthefrontcasewhenhethinksLaylaisn’tlooking.Hedoesn’tknowit,butsheputstheoatmealchocolatechipcookiesinthebottomrightjustforhim,half-hiddenbehindthelemonbarssohehasachancetograboneafterhismorninglistisdone.
Ipicturehimthere,leaningupagainstthecounter.Flannelrolledtohiselbowsandhatbackwards.Theslightestcurltotheendsofhishairbehindhisears.
Thistime,Josiehastosteponmyfoot.
Iglancedownatherandsheraisesbotheyebrowsexpectantly.
Ah,that’sright.Aroomfullofpeople.
IglancesheepishlyatLeon,sittingattheheadofthetablewithbothpalmsflatagainstthewood.Helookslostandalittledesperate,hisdarkbrowneyesresignedbehindhishorn-rimmedglasses.
“Whatwasthat?”
“Iaskedifthereisanythingwecandotoconvinceyoutostayon?”
“Notunlessyougrowsomescruff,adoptonehundredcats,getfullsleevetattoosanddevelopasixpack,”Josiemuttersunderherbreath.Ibitetheinsideofmycheektokeepmyselffromlaughing.
“Idon’tthinkso.”Igatherthesmallstackofpaperslaidoutinfrontofme.NotesfromJosiewithtiny,handwrittenscribblesatthebottomtellingmetoSTAYSTRONGandDOTHEDAMNTHING.Oddlymotivational,whenitcamedowntoit.“Thankyouagain,foreverything.”
NowIjustwantempanadas.
AndaplaneridebacktoMaryland.
Weallfileoutoftheroominaslowslog,hinderedbytwopeopleatthefronttoobusyontheirphonestowatchwherethey’regoing.I’msurroundedbypeoplewithhunchedshouldersanddrawnfaces,activelyavoidingeyecontact.Oneguywipesathischeekswiththebackofhishand.Someonewandersintothekitchenandturnsoffthepinkneonlightabovetherefrigerator.There’snoplacelikeSwaystuttersandthenblinksout,thekitchenoddlycoldwithoutthefluorescent,glowinglight.
Itallseemsabitmuch.
Josieleansintomeaswewalktowardstheelevator.“Thatwasnicelydone.”
IglancebackovermyshoulderatKirstyn,sittingattheedgeofthelongtableinthecenteroftheroom,herforeheadflatagainstthesurface.Ifrown.“Itdidn’tfeelverynice.”
Josieshrugsandjamstheelevatorbutton.Shedoesitagainwhenitdoesn’tlightuprightaway.They’regoingtohavetoreplacethedamnthingwhenshe’sthroughwithit.“Sometimestherightthingforonepersonisn’tthenicethingforsomeoneelse.”Sheturnstomeandgivesmeagrin.“Hey,dowehaveanypizzaleftoverfromlastnight?”
Wedo.Barely.I’dmuchratherwalkacrossthestreetanddevourtheentiremenuofempanadas.TheelevatorfinallyarrivesandJosiestormsthedoors,mutteringsomethingaboutpizzawithcroquetasontopwhilediggingforherphoneinherbag.Ifollowinbehindherandpivotonmyfoot,tracemyeyesoverthefernsonthewallpaper.Beckettwouldhateit.Toogreen,hewouldsay.Thecoloringisallwrong.Icanpracticallyhearhisvoiceinmyear,tellingmethedifferencebetweenvascularplantsand…non-vascularplants.Whatkindofsunlighttheyneed.Theperfectsoilconsistency.
I’msolostinmylittleBeckettbubblethatIalmostdon’tnoticeit.
Afewthingshappenatonce.
Myphonebeginstogowildinmypocket.Josiewhispersaquietohmygodthatgainsvolumeassherepeatsitoverandoveragain.Severalpeoplestandupatthelongcoworkingtableand—themostjarring—IseeBeckett’sfacesuddenlyappearintheconferenceroom,tentimeslargerthanusualonthescreenthat’sdroppedfromtheceiling.
Islammyhandagainsttheelevatordoortoholditopen,adipinmybelly.ItfeelslikethiselevatorjustdroppedallthewaytothebasementandI’malongfortheride.
Josiereachesformyarmandsqueezes.“Evie.”
Itakeastepoutandthenanother.IwatchBeckett’smouthmovesilentlythroughtheindustrialglasswindow.Helooks—god—helooksgood.TwodaysandIfeellikesomeofthedetailshavealreadydimmed.HowdidIgoweeksbefore?HowdidIgomonths?
HowdidIeverslipoutofhisbedtobeginwith?
“Whatis—”
Josietrailsafterme,hergazestuckonherphone.“Yourmentionsaregoingabsolutelyinsane,”shesays.
IwatchBeckett’seyescrinkleslightlyatthecornersthroughthewindow,abarely-theresmileonhishandsomeface.Icanhearthemutedrumbleofhisvoice,thelowtonesofhimspeakingoncamera,butIcan’thearanyofthewordshe’ssaying.“WhyisthereavideoofBeckettplayingintheconferenceroom?”
Josie’sheadsnapsupandhereyesnarrow.“Iguessit’shittheblogsalready.Hemusthaveposteditwhilewewereinthatmeeting.”
Wewatchtogetherasthevideoendsandthenstartsupagain.Itlookslike—itlookslikeit’saTikTokvideo,pulleduponthebrowser.It’shardtotellwithpeoplestandinginfrontofthescreenwatching.Noneofthismakesanysense.AndasfarasI’maware,Beckettdoesn’thaveonlinebanking.Hiscoffeemakerhasasingleswitchonthebottom.IfindithardtobelievehehasaTikTokaccount.
Josieloopsherarmthroughmineanddragsmeacrosstheofficespace,backtotheconferenceroom.Shecomestoanabrupthaltrightoutsidethedoor,watchesthescreen,andseemstotimeherentrancewithwhateverBeckettissayinginthevideo.
Whenthevideoloopsagain,sheshovesmeonce—hard—betweenmyshoulderblades.Icatchmyselfontheedgeofthetableandwatch.
It’sanawkwardshot.Thecameraangleisalittleoff,leavinghimlopsidedinthecenterofthescreen.Oneofhisfingersisslightlycoveringthecamera,ahaloofobstructioninthetopcorner.Butitonlymakesitbetter,theimperfectionofit.
“Hey,”hebegins,afiercefrownonhisface.Alaughimmediatelyburstsoutofme.LeaveittoBecketttomakethatonesyllablesoundsodamnreluctant.Sharpedges.Agrumble.HisvoiceissodeepthroughthespeakersinthecornersoftheroomthatIcanalmostfeelit,rightatthebackofmyneck.Thewayitrollsoutofhim,thetingleagainstmyskinwhenhe’spressedallthewayagainstme.“Iknowthisis—well.Ithinkthisissortofthecoward’swayofdoingthis.SayingwhatI’mgonnasaytoyouthroughascreen.Butitfelt—itfeltappropriatetodoitlikethis.Tobeuncomfortable.”
Iwatchasheswallowsandlooksup,overthecamera.IcanseetreesbehindhimandIimaginehimoutthereinthefields,dirtonthepalmsofhishands.“Ihaven’tbeendoingthatwithyou,haveI?Goingoutofmyway.”Hiseyessnapbacktothescreen.“We’vebeensittingonmybackporchforweeks,Evie.Justwatchingthesunmove.We’vebeendoingthingshowI’vewantedtodothem.”
Metoo,Iwanttotellhim.Ihaven’twantedtobeanywhereelsebutonthatporchwithyou.
Heletsoutadeep,gustingsighandhismouthcurlsattheedge,justatouch.Regret,itlookslike.“SoIthought—Idon’tknow.IguessIthoughtmakingyouoneofthesethingswouldbeastartatsayingsorry,forthewayIleftthings.Thelasttimeweweretogether,ItoldyouIcouldn’tkeepwatchingyouwalkaway.Youtoldmetoaskyoutostay,andIdidn’t.Iwashavingtroublewiththepossibilitythatyou’dwantto.Ithought,howcouldsomeonelikeEviewanttobehere?Withme?”Hepausesanddriftshishandoverhisheart.Myownpoundsinresponse.“I’vekeptsomuchfromyou.”
Hopelightsupeveryinchofme,myheartinmythroat.Iignoreeveryoneelseintheroomandtakeastepclosertothescreen,lookingatthoseblue-greeneyes,somehowthesamecolorastheskyabovehimandthetreesbehindhim
“Sothisis—I’maskingyoutostaythistime,”herasps.“I’mtryingtodoitright.Comehome,honey.Staywithmeforabit.I’llmakeyouthosemuffinsyoulikeandwon’tsayadamnthingaboutyoustealingmysocks.We’llsitontheporchandI’lltellyouaboutthestars.I’llbringyouflowerseveryday.”Hescratchesbehindhisearandshiftshisphone,arustleoffabricagainstthebottomspeaker.
“I’msorryIdidn’tsaythisnextpart.”Hegivesthecameraagrin,knucklesagainsthisjaw.“Iwantyoutostaywithme.Youcanleavewhenyouhaveto.Solongasyoucomebackwhenyou’redone.”
Iholdontothebackofthechairinfrontofme,myhandsgrippingthetopedgeuntilmyknucklesturnwhite.IwishIwerestandinginfrontofhim.IwishIcouldtracethoselinesbyhiseyesandstepbetweenhisfeet,pressmypalmtohisneckandguidehismouthtomine.
Heblinksandhisgazetripssomewhereelse,anotherlingeringpause.Hiseyesswingbacktothephonewithabrushofcoloracrosshischeeks,aslow-curling,bashfulgrinthatinchesundermyribcage.“Alright,well.That’sit,Iguess.”Heshrugs,alittleunsure.“Iknowyoucamebackherebecauseyouwerelookingforyourhappy.ButEvie,yougavememinewhileyouwerelookingforyoursandIthinkit’sonlyfairifItrytoreturnthefavor.I’llbe,uh—”heswallowsaroundhiswords—looking,Iknow,fortherightones.“I’llbehere.Youknowwheretofindme.”Hestaresatthephonelikehewishesitweremeinstead.“Bye.”
Thevideocutsoffwithafumble,hismovementsunpracticed,hisfrowningfacethelastthingIseebeforethevideoloops—backtohimstandingbeneaththesun.
IstandthereinthattinyconferenceroomandIwatchitagain.Againandagainandagain.Ifeeltheeyesoftheotherpeopleintheroomastheywatchmeforareaction.I’mprettysureacoupleofthemhavetheircamerasout.
ButIdon’tcare.
IonlyseeBeckettandthedarkshadowsunderhiseyesthattellmehehasn’tbeensleepingmuch,thewaythesunlightcatchesinhishairandmakesitseemlighter—ahaloofgoldaroundhim.Icatalogthelinesofhisfaceandthewaytheonesbyhiseyesdeepenwhenhesayscomehome,honey.
Ifeelthosewordsmeltagainstme.
Itightenmygriponmybagasasmilebeginstobloomacrossmylips.Likethewildflowersinthatfieldattheedgeofthefarm,myfacetiltedtowardsthesun.
Onmyway.
“Fortherecord,”Josieappearsatmysidewithherphoneclaspedlooselyinherpalm.Ithangsdownbyhersidebuzzingawayasherchinfindsmyshoulder.Sheignoresitandinsteadsighshappilyasten-foot-Beckettscratchesonceunderhisjaw.“Ilikehisplanbetter.”CHAPTERTWENTY-THREEBECKETT
I’mhavingregrets.
NotforwhatIsaid,butfor—
“Dude,youmademecry.”
IgruntandignoreGus,throwingaboxofpastaintomycart.Forwhateverreason,Idecidedtodayisthedaytobreakmyunspokenonly-shop-in-the-dead-of-nightrule.Anattempt,probably,atintegratingmyselfintotownlikeEviewasalwaysencouragingmetodo.
Evie,whoIhaven’theardawordfromsinceIpostedthatvideoalmosttwelvehoursago.
I’veheardfromtherestofthecontinentalUnitedStates,though.Abunchofothercountriesaswell.Myphonehasbeenbuzzingnon-stopsinceIdecidedtostandoutinthemiddleofthefieldswithmyphonelikeajackass.
Iwantedtodosomethingoutsideofmycomfortzone.IwantedEvelyntoseethatvideoandrealizethatI’m—I’mgoingtotry.Iwanderedouttotheplacewiththetoweringoaktreesjustbecauseitmademefeelbetter—tostandtherebetweenthemandrememberthewayEvielookedinthemoonlight.Withherhairtangledacrosstheblanketandstarsinhereyes.
Ittookmeacoupleoftriestogetitright.Ihadtostopthinkingsomuchaboutit,closemyeyesandpretendlikeshewasstandingrightinfrontofme.Windinherhair,rubyredlips,thesunmakingherbrownskinglow.ItwaseasywhenIwentaboutitlikethat.
Ididn’tbotherwatchingitbackbeforeIposteditandhaven’tquitemusteredupthecouragetowatchitagain.IhadtoaskStellaifIdidanythingweird.Shehadshakenherheadwordlesslywithhereyesfulloftears.Notexactlyaconfidenceboost.Ihavenoexplanationforthethousandsofnewfollowersonmyaccountfeaturingexactlyonevideo.Orthehundredsofthousandsofcommentsthatarebothconfoundingandterrifyingintheirabjectpassionandenthusiasm.
Ithrowanotherboxofpastaintomycart.Gustrailsmedowntheaisle.
“Itwaspoetic.Just—”hemakessomesortofgesturewithhishandthatIcannotinterpret.Hisfingerandthumbpinchedtogetherand…Ihavenoidea.Idon’twanttoknow,frankly.“Whoknewyouweresoeloquentunderallthatgrunting?”
Ifighttheurgetogruntinresponseandsteermycartaroundtheedgeoftheaisle.GusleavesmeforcandyandbeerwhileIdebatethestrawberryjamontheendcap.EvelynlikeditandIranoutthreedaysbeforesheleft.Igrabajarandplaceitgentlynexttoacartonoforangejuiceandthreepacksoffudgestripecookies.IstareatitthereinmycartlikethesadsackI’veturnedinto.
Alittlehopeneverhurtanyone,Ireason.
Thoughthathopeisquicklycirclingthedrainasthesilencestretchesbetweenus.
Maybeshedidn’tseethevideo?Ifindthathardtobelieveconsideringherprofessionandthefactthateveryotherlivingpersonintheuniversehaswatcheditatleastthreetimes.
Maybeshedidseeitanddroppedherphoneinanotherstagnantbodyofwater.Ormaybeshesawitandcommentedonthepost.Ihaven’tfiguredouthowtoseeifshedidornot,andI’mtooembarrassedtoaskNovaforhelp.
Maybeshewatchedmyvideoandhoppedonthenextplaneshecould.
Ormaybeshesawitandlaughed,pocketedherphone,andwentaboutherbusiness.
“Allgood?”
IblinkawayfromthecoffeecreamersI’vestalledinfrontofandglanceatSheriffJonesstandingnexttome.It’sweirdseeinghimoutofuniform,almostunrecognizableinanoldOriolest-shirtanddarkjeans.“What?”
“You’vebeenstaringatthedairysectionlikeit’sdoneyoupersonalharmforaboutsevenminutes.”Hechewsaroundatoothpick.“Wouldyouliketofileaformalcomplaint?”
“No.I’m—”Tired.Losinghope.UncomfortablethatawomaninCincinnaticalledmehercatdaddygardenhimbointhecommentssectionofavideomeantforexactlyonewoman.Ihavenoideawhatthatmeans,butitdoesn’tsoundgood.“—fine.”
Danemakesahuffingsound.“You’velookedbetter.”
Ipickupabottleofpeppermintmochacreamerandeyeballit.NotsosurethisshouldstillbeontheshelvesinApril.Iputitbackandgrabacartonofhalfandhalfinstead.“Thankyou?”
It’sreallyawonderwhyIprefershoppinginthemiddleofthenight.
Danepicksupmydiscardedbottleofpeppermintmochaandplacesitinhisbasket.WhenIstareathimalittletoolongbecauseofit,heraisesbotheyebrowsatme.“Yougotsomethingagainstseasonalcreamer?”
Ishrug.“Whenit’sthewrongseason…yes.”
Danepicksupthebottleandcheckstheexpirationdateonthebottom.Whateverheseesmustbereassuring,becausehedropsitbackintohiscollection.“Mattylikesit,”hetellsme.
Wonderful.Icouldn’tcareanyless.
ImovepastSheriffJonestothecheckoutlineandtheblissfulsilencebeyond.Idon’twanttostandhereandshoottheshitasecondlonger.I’mtiredofpeopletalkingtome.I’mtiredofpeopleaskingmeifI’mokay.Iamtiredoftheunsolicitedadvice.Atthispoint,I’meventiredofLayladroppingherbasketsofbakedgoodsonmyfrontporcheverymorning.Theheapsofpitymuffinssittingonmykitchentablearestartingtomakemefeelalittlepathetic.
“IheardGusrentedouthishouse,”Daneofferswithoutlookingup,pokingaroundinthebuttersection.Behindhim,Iseeoneofthekidsfromthepreschoolattempttoscaleaballoondisplay.Roma,Ithinkhernameis.“Theyellowone,rightbehindMatty’s.”
Asighrattlesoutofmefromsomewheredeepinmychest.Iknowtheplace.“Youmeantheonewiththeporchroofhefellthrough?”
Danesnorts.“That’stheone.”
Therehadbeenalotofconfusionthatday,wonderingwhoshoulddrivetheambulancewhenthetownparamedicwaslayinginaheapofbrokenwoodinthefrontyard.
“Allthepaperworkwassignedacoupleofdaysago,”Daneadds.“That’swhatIhearanyway.”
“Fromthephonetree?”
“Fromthephonetree.”
Itakeanotherstepclosertotheexit.“That’sgood.”
“Heardthenewtenantwasmovingintoday,actually.”
Idon’tcare.Imakemybestapproximationofavaguelyinterestedsoundandkeepwalking.
“Maybeyoushouldstopby.”Dane’svoicecarriesdowntheaisle.WhenIturntolookathim,he’sexaminingacontainerofcreamcheese.Hisfrowndeepensandhiseyebrowscollapseintoastraightlineacrosshisbrow.“Whatdoyouthinkbuffalo-stylewhippedcreamcheesetasteslike?”
I’mmoreinterestedinwhyhewantsmetostopbythelittlehousewithdaisiesinthebackyard.“Someonenewintown,huh?”
I’mthelastpersonanyonewouldwantonthewelcomecommittee.Aflareofhopeflickerstolifeinmychestalongwithahealthydoseofsuspicion.Danethrowsthecreamcheeseinhisbasket,rightnexttothenot-appropriately-seasoned-seasonalcreamer.
“Yep.”Hepopsthelastletteroftheword.
“AndIshouldstopby?”
Danegivesmealook.“Areyouhavingtroublehearing,Beckett?”Buthiseyesaresmiling,atwitchathismouththatisasclosetoagrinasSheriffDaneJonesgets.“Yes,Ithinkyoushouldstopby.”
Exceptthereisn’tanyoneatthehouse.
Nocarinthedriveway,nomovingtruckatthecurb.NooneanswersthedoorwhenIknock.Ifeelridiculousstandingthere,listeningtothecicadashuminthetreesatmyback,mybootsshufflingacrossthenewfrontporchthatis…actuallyreallynice.I’mgladGusdidn’tdestroythispartofthehouseinhisquesttobecomeahomerenovationexpert.
IdigtheheelofmyhandinthebaseofmyneckuntilI’mtheidiotstandingonthefrontporchofarandomhouseintheearlyafternoonsunshine.Isighandwanderbacktomytruck,wonderingwhatinthehellDanewastalkingaboutatthegrocerystore.Idrivebacktothefarmwithatightnessinmythroatandanopenpackoffudgestripecookiesinmylap,thewindowsallthewaydownandtheghostofEvie’slaughslippingalongtheseats.Shehadbeensobeautifulthatday,withthewindinherhair,chintiltedupandback.Iwantedtokisseverymarkonherskin.Everyscar,everyknick,everylinethatappearedwithhersmile.
I’veperfectedarhythmoverthelastcoupleofdays.Iwakeup.Idon’tallowmyselftolingerinbedformorethanacoupleofminutes.IshuffleintothekitchenforcoffeewithoutglancingatasinglethingandthenItrudgeouttothefieldsandletmybodytakeoverformymind.It’stheonlyplaceIcanbearmissingher—wherethere’senoughopenspaceforittocometumblingoutofmychest.Inthehouse,Ifeelstuck.Istareattheemptychairnexttomeandthelongingstealsmybreath.
I’veplantedmoreinthepastweekthanIthinkIhaveduringmyentiretenureatLovelightFarms.We’llhavebellpeppersforthenext750years.
Igrabmygroceriesandstompmywayupthestairs,ignoringthealuminumtrayof…somethingonthetopstep.IthinkLaylaisconvincedasugarhighwillseemethroughthisdifficulttime.Ihesitatewithmykeyinthedoorandthenleanbacktosnatchitup,balancingitontopofeverythingelse.Igetawhiffofcinnamon,thebottomofthetraystillwarm.
Shemightnotbewrong.
Fourcatsgreetmeatthedoor,achorusofquackingfromthesmall,fencedinareainthekitchen.Otisandthekittenshavetakenwelltoeachother,Pranceradoptingthelittleguyasoneofherown.Myeveningsarespentwatchingfourcatstrytoteachaduckhowtomeow,nudgingtheirlittlefeltmiceathiswebbedfeetandthenrubbingtheirheadsagainsthisdownyfluff.MaybeIshouldputthatonthestupidvideoapp.
Iputmygroceriesawayinahaze.Itonlytakesafewminutesforthesilencetofeeloppressiveinsteadofcomforting,pressingdownonmyshouldersuntilit’saringinginmyears.I’veneveroncehadtroublewithquiet,butnowIfeelmyjawclenchinginthestillnessofthehouse.Igottoousedtothesoundsofherherewithme—whisperedfightswithPranceroverscarfownership,theclinkofhermugagainstthecountertop.
ThiswholehouseisbathedinmemoriesofherandIcan’tbreathebecauseofit.
SoIsliponmybootsandstepoutthefrontdoor,halfofmygroceriesstillleftindisarrayonthecountertop.Mychestloosensassoonasmyfeetareontheground,thetightnessslippingawaywithfreshairandsunlight.ImakemywaythroughthetallgrassandIwatchthetreesswayinthebreeze.Springhasarrivedinearnestafteritslengthydelay,theflowersandtheirbloomwithit.Black-eyedSusanswiththeiryellowpetalsopeningtothesun.Brightpurplemonkshoodinthickclustersatthebaseoftheoaktrees.Scarletbeebalmandearlyblueviolets.
I’mbusycarefullysteppingaroundtiny,brightorangepoppiesburstingfromthegroundinlicksofcolorthatIalmostdon’tnoticeitatfirst.Icategorizeitasbackgroundnoise—ahabitoflifeonafarmwherethere’salwayssomeonedoingsomething.
Excepteveryoneisalreadyhomefortheday,andwefinishedupfieldworkhoursago.
Itiltmyheadupandshadowmyfacewithmyhand.Icatchafigureattheveryedgeofthefield.Tall.Legsformiles.Thebackofherwristpressedagainstherforehead.
Myheartdoessomethingcomplicatedinmychest.Anose-diveora—afreefall.Ican’treallyfocusonanythingotherthan—
Evelyn.Standinginthemiddleofmyfieldwithashovel,wearingapairofloosefadedjeansandherhairpulledintoaponytail.Forasecond,IthinkI’mhallucinating.Asugar-inducedfantasy.Dreamingagain,maybe.Butthenshestraightens,tossestheshoveloverhershoulder,andyellsatme.
“DoyouknowhowlongI’vebeenouthereshovelingrocks?”
I’mfrozenwithmybootsplantedintheground,onefootinfrontoftheother,caughtmid-stride.There’safeelinginmychestthat’soverwhelming,staggering,theburstofitbrighterthantheflowersatmyfeetandthesunatmyback.Ibitethecornerofmymouthagainstmygrin.
She’slookingatmelikeI’vekeptherwaiting.Atilttoherbrowlikeshe’spissedaboutit,too.
“Whyareyoushovelingrocks?”Icallback.Ikeepmyfeetmovingforward,helplessnotto.Istopaboutanarm’slengthawayfromher,myeyesunsurewhattofocusonfirst.Hermessyhair,asheenofsweatacrossherforehead.Dirtuptoherelbowsandinalineacrossherwhitet-shirt.Shelookslikeshe’sbeenpersonallykissedbythesun,allthatskinjust…shining.
I’vemissedhersomuch
“Newbiedoesrockduty,right?”
Iclearmythroatandignoretheimplicationofwhatshe’ssaying.“You’vebeentalkingtoJeremy?”
“Jeremyhasbeentalkingtome,”sheamends,hervoicethatlowraspIlove.“Everyonehasalotofideas.”
“Ideasaboutwhat?”
“FormetotellyouhowIloveyou,”shesayssimply,likeshe’snotdrivingthatshovelinthecenterofmychestandbreakingmyribcagerightopenforallhersunlighttocomepouringthrough.Asmilestartsinhereyes,nudgingatherbottomlipuntilshe’sstandingthereandgrinningatme,lookinglikeeveryhappythoughtI’veeverhad.Itakeastepcloserandshetiltsherheadbacktokeephereyesonmine.“Josie’ssuggestioninvolvedfireworks.”
“Don’tneedfireworks,”Igritout,myvoiceroughandtight.Myhandsachetoholdher.“Justneedyou.”
“ItoldyouIwascomingback,”shesays.ThereisaperfectthreeinchesofspacebetweenusandIwanttopullhercloser,feelhertuckedagainstmychest.Sheinclinesherheadandconsidersme.“ButIdidn’tsayitenough,andIknowyouappreciateactionoverwords.I’llproveittoyou.I’mhere.I’mstayinghere.Youdidn’thavetoask.”
“Idid,though.”Igiveintotemptationanddragmypinkyagainstthesideofherhand.Allofherfingerstwitchonthehandleoftheshovel.“Ineededtoask.Becausewordsareimportant,too.Youdeservethatfromme.I’mworkingonit.”
Shesmilesatme,gentleandshyandunbearablybeautiful.“Okay.”
Inod.“Alright.”
“Ididloveyourvideo,”shetellsme.Awhisper—asecret—aflushinhercheeksthatdeepensasIuncurlherfingersonebyone.“Whoknewyou’dbetheTikToksensationbetweenus,farmerboy?”
Itangleourfingerstogetherandgripherhandinmine.“Imissedyou,”Isay.“Imissedyousomuch.IfeellikeI’vebeenmissingyouthewholetimeI’veknownyou.”Iswallowhard.“Lovingyou,too.”
“Well,youdon’thavetomissmeanymore,”shesays,hervoicesoft.Agustofwindcomestocatchthewordsoffherlipsandtwistthemaway.ShesqueezesmyhandandIhalvethespacebetweenus,mybootsagainsthers.“We’regoingtohavetoworkonthat.”Attheconfusiontwistingmymouth,sheclarifies.“WhenItoldyouIwascomingback.Youdidn’tbelieveme.”
“Ididn’t.”
Idon’trememberhearingthatpromise,tobehonest.IwastoofocusedonthelookonherfacewhenItoldherIwouldn’tsettleforpieces.Thatwhatshewaswillingtogivemewasn’tenough.
“Ifthisisgoingtowork—youneedtotrustwhatIfeelforyou,okay?Iwon’teverlietoyou.”
HerbrowneyessearchmineandInod.“I’mworkingonthat,too.Ipromise.”
“Good.”Shetiltsherheadtotheside,consideringme.Thesunshinesonherskinandherhairclingstoherneck.“Igotanewjob,youknow.DowninDurham.”
Thesubjectchangeleavesmegrasping.Iblinkather,confused.“Durham?”
Idon’tcareifit’sinAntarctica.I’llbuyaparkaandlearnhowtospeakpenguin.
Herhandsqueezesagain,adeeppressofherthumbinthecenterofmyhand.ThesamewayIdowheneverythingaroundmeistooloudandIneedtocalmdown.“That’swhereIwent.TheofficesareheadquarteredinDurhambutthejobisremote.Ineedachangeandthisfeels—thisfeelsright.Finally.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”Shetuckssomehairbehindherear.“YouknowwhenIfirstgothere,IhadnoideawhyIpickedthisplace.ButIthinksomewhereinmyheadormyheartIknewthisiswhereIneededtobe.Ineedsomethingslower,Beckett.Somethingdeeper.AplacewhereIcancatchmybreathandfindmyfooting.”Sheholdsmyhandtight.“Ineedtobehere.Iwanttobehere.”
“Good.”Ineedherhere,too.Wantherherejustasmuch.
“I’vegotsomethingelsetosaytoyou.”
“Let’shearit,honey.”
Ican’timagineanythingbetterthanthewordsshe’salreadygivenme.
“It’sarequest,actually.”Hersmileiscoy,thatblushdeeper,herbodymovingfurtherintomine.Shecurlsherfreehandaroundthenapeofmyneck,fingertipssiftingintomyhair.
“Anythingyouwant.”
Shepressesuponhertoesuntilhernosebrushesmine.Untileverythingbutherisalittlebitblurryaroundtheedges.Hermouthhoversthere,hardlyacentimeteraway.Iwanttokisshersobadmyhandsshakewithit.ShebrusheshermouthagainstmineandItastethebiteofhersmile.
“Askme,”shewhispers.
Idon’tneedhertosayanythingelse.Itfeelslikewe’vebeenslowlymakingourwaytothisexactspotsinceIsteppedthroughthedoorofabar,allthosemonthsago.
“Honey,”Icupherfaceinmyhandsandsmoothmythumbsacrosshercheeks.Idropakisstothetipofhernose,thelittledipatthecornerofhermouth.Iclosemyeyesandexhale.“Didyoufindyourhappytoday?”
Ifeelhergrinwhenshekissesme.
“Yes,”shewhispersintomymouth.“Idid.”EPILOGUEEVELYNAYEARLATERAPRIL
“Evie.”Hemouthsmynamebetweenmybareshoulderblades—asmiletuckedintomyskin.“Wakeup.”
Igroanandburrowfurtherintothepillowbeneathmyhead,ignoringthehandsomeidiotbracedaboveme.MyflightfromElPasowasdelayedtwiceandIdidn’tpullintoourdrivewayuntilaftermidnight,Beckettasleepinthechairbythefireplace.Hehadabookopenonhischestandabouquetoffreshflowersathiselbow,hisowntraditionforwhenIgethomefromtrips.Hetellsmehelikestoseemewalkthroughthedoor.Thathisfavoritethingistowraphisarmsaroundmywaistandtuckhisnoseundermyear,aquietImissedyoupressedintomyskin.
Wordsandaction,together.
Ibeathimtoitthistime,slippingontohislapandbrushingthewordsagainsthislips.Hehadwokenupinincrements,hissleepyeyeshazybuthishandssureonmyhips.
Now,though.Nowhe’snotlettingmesleep.
“It’stimetowakeup,”hesaysagainwithagentlebumpofhisnosebehindmyear.Iletoutanothergroan,louderthistime,andshimmyforwardbeneathmymountainofblanketstonipathiswristwithmyteeth.
“No.”
Agrunttripsoutofhimfromsomewheredeepinhischest,hisbodygoinglaxandpliantagainstmine.I’mpresseddownfurtherinthemattress,hishipspinningmethroughthecomforterandtwoblanketsheinsistsonsleepingwith.
“Thathadprobablytheoppositeeffectyouweregoingfor,honey,”hetellsme,hisvoiceagruffpromise.Hescrapeshisteethagainstmyneckwithintention,anotherpressandrollofhisbodyovertopofmine.
Igrinintothepillow.“Notifmygoalistostayinthisbedwithyou.”
PoorGusonlyhadatenantinthatcutelittlehousefortwomonthsbeforeIbrokemyleaseandmovedallofmybelongingsintoBeckett’scabin.IwastiredofpretendingIwantedtobeanywhereelseexceptonhisbackporch—jamjarinhandandmyfeettuckedunderhisleg.
Ourchairsaremuchclosertogetherthesedays.
Beckett’shandpeelsbacktheblanketovermyshouldersashedropslingering,indulgentkissesagainstmyneck.Hispalmpressesbeneathmeuntilhefindsmybarebreast,squeezinggently.Igaspintomypillowandturnbeneathhim.
Messyhair.Barechest.Asoftsmilethat’sprettierthanthemoonlightstreaminginthroughthewindow.
“Hey,”hetellsme,hishandstillcuppedaroundme.Hisfingerspluckatmynippleandmybackarches.
Istretchmyarmsabovemyheadandhewatchestheirjourneywithinterest.Itwistmyhandsaroundtheslatsontheheadboardandhemakesapainedsound,lowinhischest.Igrin.“Hi.”
“Youshouldputsomeclotheson,”hesays,hisotherhandatmyhip,squeezingandstrokingandcontradictinghisstatement.
“Yeah?”
Henodsbutdoesn’tmovehishands.Hetracesthesoftskinbetweenmybreastsandhiseyestripdowntowatchtheansweringcatchinmybreath.“Yeah,”heanswers.
“Yousureaboutthat?”
Hisheadtipstothesideandhistongueappearsatthecornerofhismouth,indulginghimselfinanotherstrokeofmysoftskin.Itracemyfingersoverthefullswellofhisbottomlipandwebothshudderoutagroanwhenhecatchesmythumbinhismouth,bitesatthepadonce.Hepusheshimselfuponhisknees,astrainoffabricatthefrontofhissweatpants.
Hetakeshishandsoffmeandpatsmyhip.“You’redangerous.”
Isituptofollowhimandbrushakissagainstthewarmskinofhisshoulder.“Youstartedit.”
Hecatchesmychininhishandandguidesmyfacetohis.HekissesmeslowanddeepuntilI’mleaningintohim,mynakedskintuckedagainsthis.
“I’llfinishit,too,”hesaysagainstmymouth.“Afterwewatchtheskyforabit.”
That’sright.Hismeteorshower.It’sbeentapedtothefrontofthefridgeformonths,circledinbrightred.
Idropmyforeheadtohiscollarboneandhecardshisfingersthroughmyhair.“Wedon’thaveto,”hesaysquietlyafterasecondofmerubbingmyknucklesagainstmyeyes.Hebrushesakissacrossmyforehead.“Ifyou’retired.”
“No,Iwantto.”He’sbeensoexcited.AnotheryawntwiststhroughmybodyandIshiverintohim.“ButI’mwearingyoursweatshirt.”
Hehums.“That’sfine,honey.”
I’mclumsyasIdressmyself,mismatchedsocksandanoldpairofsweatpants,oneofBeckett’ssweatshirtsdwarfingmyframeasItugitovermyhead.Ipushthehoodoutofmyfaceandcatchhimstaring,leaningupagainstthedoor.
“What?”Ipushmyhairoutofmyface.He’slookingatmelikeI’meverythinghe’severwanted.Everythinghe’lleverwant.
Iknowthefeeling.
“Nothing.”Heholdsouthishandandtiltshisheadtowardsthedoor.“C’mere.”
“C’mere,what?”Ilaugh,butmyhandisalreadyinhis.
I’mremindedofanothernight,thebothofusunderthesamestars.Togetherweslipdownthedarkhallwayandthroughthefrontdoor,ourbootsquietagainstthewetgrass.It’saclearnight,thestarssobrightit’slikeIcanreachoutandtouchthem—acollectionofdiamondsinaseaofblack.Itipmyfaceuptowardsthenightskyandwatchaswewalk,waitingforaflareoflight.
Beckett’shandcupsmycheekandheguidesmyfacedownuntilI’mlookingathiminsteadofthestars.Heshakeshisheadonce.“Notyet.”
Ifrownathim.“Aren’twesupposedtobewatchingameteorshower?”
Histhumbrubsbehindmyearashetugsmeforward,beckoningmetowalksomemore.Imakeadisgruntledsoundundermybreathandhedoeshisbesttohidehissmile.“Notyet.”
“Icanseetheskyjustfinerighthere.”
“Notmuchfurther.”
Iknowwherewe’regoingassoonaswecrestthesecondhill,thepathtothisstretchoffieldawellwornrouteinmymind.Wehaven’tgoneaweeksinceImovedinwithoutvisiting.Picniclunchesandlate-nightdrinksonathreadbareblanket.Bareskininthemoonlight,Beckett’smouthhotagainstmine
IshiveragainandBeckettgivesmealookoverhisshoulder,oneeyebrowjumpingupininterest.
“Eyesontheroad,”Itellhimandhesnickersinfrontofme,fingersthreadingthroughmine.Wewalkandwalkandwalkuntilfinallywegettotheclearingwiththetwogianttrees,theirbranchescurvedupandoutlikethey’rewelcomingtheskyintotheirmassive,swayingarms.
Becketttugsmeforwardandplacesmeinfrontofhim.Hecurlsbotharmsovermyshouldersandrestshispalmflatovermyheart.
“Watch,”heinstructs,andwetiltourheadsbacktogether,eyesfixedonthestars.
Theskyremainsstillaswestandtheretogether,therustleofthetreesandourgentlebreathingtheonlysoundsinthenight.Ifeellikemyeyesareaswideastheycanpossiblyget,unwillingtomissasinglething.Beckett’shandsqueezesatmywrist,theotherdippingintothecollarofhissweatshirttopressagainstwarmskin.
“Watch,”hesaysagain,awhisper.Ifeelhissmileagainstmyearandjustlikethat—magic.
Iseesomethingstreakacrossthesky,soquickIalmostmissit.Aburstoflightandabrightflareofgoldfollowedbygreen,likeasparkcatchingintoflame.MybreathhitchesandBeckett’sgriponmetightens.
Iwatchasanotherappears.Andthenanother.Another—acascadeoflightdancingacrosstheskyaboveus.
“Askme,”Beckettsayssuddenly,hisvoicelowinmyear.
ItipmyheadbackuntilIcanseehisface,abackdropofabillionstarshaloedbehindhishead.AnothermeteorflaresinthenightskyabovehimandImakemywishonthatone,exactlylikethis,wrappedupinBeckettwithmyhandsclingingtight.
Ilookathimlookingatme,outhereinthefieldwherehekissedmelikeitwastheveryfirsttime.Ishakemyhead,myhaircatchingandpullingagainsthisshirt.“Idon’tneedto.”
BecauseIfeeliteverytimehebringsmeamugofteaontheporch,orslipsathickpairofhissocksovermycoldfeet.Ineveryhandwrittennoteandpotofcoffeeandtouchagainstmybareskininthestillnessofnight.Inthedriveswetakedownthedirtroadthatleadstothefarm,allthewindowsdownandmyhairinthewind.Ineveryfamiliarfacewepassonthewayintotown,acallofmynameandahappywave,Beckett’shandwarmandcomfortinginmine.
Inthetinytattooofalimeontheinsideofmyforearm—theverysameplacehelickedalineofsaltfrommyskinthefirstnightwemet.Abirthdaypresentthatmadehimlaughsohardhefelloutofhischair.
Inthetattooofsomepoorlydrawntulips,justabovehisheart.
Idon’task,becauseIdon’tneedto.
Hefoundhishappyinme.
LikeIfoundmineinhim.
Inus.
Inthis.
THEENDOTHERBOOKSBYB.K.BORISON
LovelightFarms
Luka&Stella’sStory
LovelightFarmsisaromanticcomedyfeaturingahandsome,freckleddataanalyst,amessy,optimisticChristmastreefarmowner,andasmalltownwiththebesthazelnutlattesontheeastcoast.Friends-to-loversmeetsfakedating.COMINGSOON
Layla’sstorywillarrivein2022.
Signupforbookalertstoreceivethelatestnews.THANKYOU
Myfirstthankyou,asalways,goestoyou.I’vebeenblownawaybythekindnessandgenerosityofcompletestrangers.Therearen’twordstoexplainwhatitmeanstome.Thankyouforgivingmybooksomeofyourtime.AsanIndieauthor,itmeanstheworld.Ireadeverycomment,everytag,everycaption,andeveryreview.Fromtheverybottomofmyveryfullheart,thankyou.Ihopethisbookwasthehugyouneeded.
I’dliketothankallmyfriendsandfamilyfortheblindsupporttheygavemyfirstbook,notrealizingitwasaromance.Inparticular,allofmyco-workers,theteachersattheschoolmysisterworks,andmyhusband’sfriends.Ihopeyouenjoyedchapterstwelve,sixteen,andtwenty.
Sam.ThankyoufortakingeverywordvomitemailIsentyouandturningitintosomethingbeautiful.Youmademycoverdreamscometrue,despiteprobablyhatingmeforasolidcoupleofdaysinDecember.
Annie.Everybookstartsandendswithyou.Thanksformakingmebetter,foransweringalltwelvethousandofmypanickedtextmessages,andfordistractingmewiththingsIshouldn’tbelookingatwhilewritingabook.Let’sdothisforever.IloveyouanIvanamount.
Sarah.Gettingtosharethiswithyouhasbeenthebestthing.Thankyouforscreamingatmeinyoureditswhilesimultaneouslycorrectingmygrammar.Talkingtoyouaboutcharactersandbooksandheadcanonswillalwaysbemyfavorite.Loveyouforever.
Eliza.Youarethebesthypewomanagirlcouldaskfor.I’mluckytobeyoursister.
E.Yougivememyhappyeverysingleday.Thelastpageofthisbookisforyou.Iloveyou.
Ro.Youmadethisonetough,kiddo.ThanksforgoingbacktotakingnapsasIwrotethesecondhalfofthisbook.I’msoproudtobeyourmom,butalsomaybesleepmore.
Icouldn’tdoanyofthiswithoutallofyou.ABOUTTHEAUTHOR
B.K.BorisonlivesinWashingtonD.C.withhersweethusband,vivacioustoddler,andgiantdog.Shestartedwritinginthemarginsofbookswhenshewasinmiddleschoolandhasn’tstopped.
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