Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

EVELYN

Angry Beckett is … an experience.

Tense forearms, a deep groove in the center of his forehead. Hard eyes and his mouth in a flat, severe line. He keeps taking deep breaths during the drive into town, letting them out slow. His hands flex on the steering wheel and he mutters something about beach blonde sonofabitch under his breath.

Frankly, it’s working for me.

Not that there’s much Beckett does that doesn’t work for me.

Watching him in the fields this morning was like a glass of water set just out of reach. The flex and release of his arms as he thrust his shovel down. The spread of his shoulders and the strong line of his jaw. It didn’t help that I know what his body looks like under all of those clothes. The way his hard chest tapers down into narrow hips, the stacked muscle across his abdomen that I definitely sunk my teeth into during our time together.

His truck slows as we hit the edge of town, a painted wooden sign welcoming us to downtown Inglewild. It makes me smile every time I see it. The difference between downtown and the rest of it must be two square blocks. Beckett turns left at the firehouse and rumbles down the street, his gaze focused out the front windshield. I feel like maybe I should turn on some guided meditation, calm him down before he finds whoever it is he’s looking for.

I’m starting to think his plan is to drive his truck right through someone’s living room.

I nod like that name means anything to me. “And what are you going to do to Carter Dempsey?”

Beckett smoothes his hand over the gear stick and slows us to a stop. In a series of practiced movements, he maneuvers his behemoth of a truck into one of the parking spots that borders the main road. Never in my life have I been so turned on by parallel parking. Beckett shifts into park and levels a look right at me.

Okay, well. That is probably not a great idea. He kicks open his door and strides across the street like he’s off to happily murder someone. I struggle to get my seatbelt unbuckled and follow after him with quick steps, jogging to catch up with his furious walking.

He shoulders his way through the wide wooden door, keeping it open with his palm so I can slip in beneath. “No.”

Chocolate waffle cone with little bits of butterfinger mixed in. Layla and I got three cones in a row. He grunts at me and heads towards the long counter that stretches across the middle of the space. It’s dark, even during mid-day, and no one is standing behind the bar, the place empty except for a man slouched in a booth in the corner. He raises a hand in greeting as Beck stomps his way to a stool, kicking out the one next to him in what I assume is an invitation.

I trail after Beckett to the old mahogany bar, cataloging the ornate tin detail layered across the ceiling. If Carter has a lick of sense, he’ll disappear out the back of the bar. I take the seat next to Beckett and he pulls me closer with his foot between the bottom rungs of the stool, handing me a paper menu.

I curl my fingers around it and stare at him. “Will we be eating before or after you commit a crime?”

A smile barely touches his lips. “After.”

His lip quirks up further and he nods towards the bathroom. “They have soap.”

Alright, then. I glance down at the menu, one edge ripped clean off. “What would you recommend?”

Sea-green eyes slant in my direction. “Thought you’d like the eggplant thing.”

I hum and tilt my head as I look at the description printed beneath. “You’re right. But I’m getting french fries.” I refuse to eat a side salad after a full day of manual labor. Or, you know, ever.

He keeps his boot below my stool as we wait, his gaze not wavering from the small half-door that leads to the back kitchen. His knee bumps into my leg every couple of minutes and it’s nice, despite the tension he’s holding in his shoulders. It’s nice sharing a space. It was nice spending all day out in the fields with him. It was nice coming back to the house with the tea kettle on the stove and muffins from the bakehouse in a pretty green box on the kitchen island. The cats lounging across the furniture and Beckett’s boots discarded at the door. It was nice seeing him come down the hall, hair still wet from a shower, jeans low on his hips, his eyes lighting up at the sight of me. It was nice being pressed against him, his skin warm and his breath a gentle puff against my ear.

I’ve always felt a pull towards Beck. That’s no secret. But it’s worse now. Deeper. I like spending time with him, seeing the bits of himself he does his best to hide. His routines and his order and begrudging commitment to a family of orphaned cats. His loyalty and his quiet caretaking.

I like him.

The longer I’m here, the easier it is to ignore everything else. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing yet.

After ten minutes without an appearance from the mysterious Carter, Beckett sighs and stands from his stool, uncurling his big body from his hunched over position. I hear him mutter something about useless fuckwad under his breath again. He rounds the edge of the bar. “You want a beer?”

He squints down at the tap handles. I smile as he bends slightly closer to the labels, his head tilting in confusion.

He wraps his hand around one of the taps, tipping a glass beneath and filling it with amber bubbles. He doesn’t answer me.

I think about him in a pair of thick black frames, slipping low on his nose as he sits in the big leather chair by his fireplace, one of the cats on his lap and a book on his knee. My whole body breaks out in goosebumps.

Beckett nods and grabs a bottle off the back shelf. A slow curl of heat unfurls at the base of my spine as Beckett lines up a glass, forearm flexing. The last time I had tequila, Beckett had licked a line of salt from the inside of my wrist and then knotted his fingers in my hair, urged my head back until he could taste it off my tongue.

He glances up at me as he pours, eyes knowing.

I try to smile around the lump lodged in my throat. “This is familiar.” My voice comes out in a gritty whisper.

It’s as close as we’ve ever come to talking about that weekend. He nods and slides the glass of tequila down the bar. “I’m not bringing it to you, Pete,” he calls over his shoulder.

The old man in the corner chuckles. “Figured as much. Seems you’ve got your hands full as it is.”

Beckett moves back around the bar with his beer, his steps slow. His chest brushes against my shoulders as he slips behind me. I feel every single place our bodies touch. When he sits, he’s closer than before, his boot back on the bottom rung of my chair. He tugs once, the metal screeching as it drags across the floor. Pete muffles a laugh in the sleeve of his coat as he collects his glass, returning to his secluded spot in the corner of the bar. I turn my face to Beckett and watch as his tongue wets his bottom lip.

I watch the strong line of his throat as he swallows. “Did you—“

He doesn’t finish his question. The door behind the bar swings open and a man slightly shorter than Beckett strolls out. He’s wearing a Guns N’ Roses t-shirt that’s ripped at the bottom and light wash jeans, an armful of clean glasses balanced against his chest. His bleach-blonde hair falls into his face as he ducks through the door, a washcloth tucked through his belt loop. He’s kind of cute in an unassuming sort of way. He’d probably be cuter if I didn’t have Beckett sitting right next to me, hands curling into fists.

This must be Carter, then.

He hesitates as soon as his gaze lands on Beckett, his eyes cutting to the exit and back to the hulking man about to take two fistfuls out of the bar top.

He nods at the drinks in front of us. Beckett doesn’t say anything. Carter shifts on his feet. He actually does have a puka shell necklace on. I thought maybe Beckett had been exaggerating.

Beckett remains silent.

Carter sighs. “You just gonna sit there?”

Beckett reaches for his beer and takes a long sip, gaze not budging an inch. Impatient, Carter’s face twists into something unkind. He doesn’t look cute at all anymore. He looks petty and childish, his dyed hair turning to a faded green in the lights overhead.

Carter bristles. “Well, if she’s running her mouth like a—“

Beckett’s hand snaps out, quick as lightning. He grabs the collar of Carter’s shirt and pulls him over the bar until the other man is practically dangling there, hands braced on the edge to keep himself from falling face-first into the draining tray.

Carter sputters.

He picks up the menu I placed next to my drink. He glances at it once. Carter edges closer to the door that leads to the back.

We take our food to go.

Beckett is quiet but relaxed on the way back, fingers drumming on the center console. I turn the dial until I find a classic rock station, static bursting between Fleetwood Mac. I roll down my window and untangle my ponytail, the wind picking up the ends of my hair until it’s a hurricane around my face. I can smell the sun and sweat of the day and a touch of my shampoo, the sweet hint of springtime rain in the fields we’re whipping past. Everything is green and gold and bright, bright blue. I laugh and scoop my hair away from my face with my palm and watch as Beckett presses down harder on the gas, a grin tipping at his lips. It lights up his whole face, that smile—the lines by his eyes deepening, his bottom lip a bit crooked.

I release my hair again and close my eyes. I feel like I’m floating, flying. A gentle snip to one of the strings tied tight around my lungs, Beckett’s low laugh whispering through the cab of the truck.

Happiness.

The feeling holds as we settle into our usual seats on the back porch of the house. Cupid joins us briefly before scampering off to the greenhouse. I point at it with a fry as I watch her disappear inside.

He shrugs, legs crossed at the ankle and half of a burger in his hand. “Flowers, mostly. The climate isn’t good for them without a little protection, so I built the greenhouse.”

He stretches his shoulders and reaches for one of my fries. His knuckles bump up against the back of my hand and I almost tip the whole container into my lap. “Orchids, mostly. I’m experimenting with some poinsettias for next winter, but we’ll see.” He chews a fry in consideration. “I might set the duck up in there.”

He nods. I sink down an inch further in my seat and shove a fry in my mouth, picturing him sitting in that chair with a baby duck in his shirt pocket.

It’s devastating.

I can’t help it with the questions. Josie tells me I have a curious spirit when she’s feeling generous. Nosy, when she’s annoyed by it. With Beckett, I feel like I’ve only ever gotten crumbs. I want to crack him right open and examine every tiny detail.

He looks uncomfortable with the attention though, shifting around in his chair.

The prince. Or maybe the damsel in need of rescuing. I haven’t quite decided yet.

He considers that, rolling his words around in his head as he squints out at the fields. “I wanted to be—” he laughs a little bit, his palm against the back of his head. “I wanted to be an astronaut.”

I think about the map of the sky he has taped on the front of his refrigerator, times and dates of celestial events scribbled in the margins. A book of the moon phases on the very top of his shelf.

I suck in a sharp breath. “Beckett, I’m so sorry.”

I stare at Beckett. “You took your dad’s place at the farm?”

He nods. “Yeah, when I was fifteen. It’s been farming since.”

Beckett must see the look on my face because his whole body softens, a thoughtful look on his handsome face. “Nah, don’t look at me like that. It’s alright.”

I oversleep the next morning, my body sore from my shoulders all the way down to my calves. Muscles I never even knew existed protest as I pull myself out of bed, shuffling down the hall to the kitchen. Comet and Cupid trail after me, Vixen waiting patiently next to an empty mug by the coffee maker.

There’s a note too, a plain piece of paper with a scribbled map. I stare at it, trying to make sense of the figures Beckett drew. I’m assuming the penciled outline of a house with a cat on top is his cabin, a path marked in a neat line around several farm landmarks.

The big oak tree that splits at the trunk. The pumpkin patch by Stella’s house. The fields we were working in yesterday. All of it leads to a big X in the corner. He’s written SOME HAPPY in tiny block letters right next to it.

I grin.

That’s how Josie answers the phone as I begin my treasure hunt across the farm. I snort a laugh. “I did not.”

She breathes out a sigh, long and gusting. “What are you even doing out there?”

Going on a scavenger hunt for bits of happiness, apparently. I round the pumpkin patch and refer back to my map. Beckett has drawn a little dotted line that crosses the next field in a zigzag pattern. I take three big steps to the left and then tilt to the right. I look down at my boots and notice this field is more marshy than the last, a somewhat solid stretch of ground moving at a crisscross right through the center of it. I smile.

I don’t feel the same suffocating pressure when I’m helping someone else. I’m not stuck in my head, trapped in an endless cycle of over analyzing every detail. It’s slower, more relaxed.

I like it.

Just a short video. A mash-up of clips from my wandering around town. A half-eaten croissant on a chipped plate. Flower petals drifting through the air. Dane staring at Matty over the counter at the pizza shop like he hung the damn moon. Sandra McGivens belly laughing on the sidewalk.

Bits and pieces of a normal, extraordinary day. Just like I used to.

Her relief reaches through the phone. “Thank god. Can I be the one to end it? I’ll do it right now.”

I stop in the middle of the muddy field I’m walking through and look up at the rolling hills lined with trees. I can just make out the sounds of a rumbling tractor in the distance, the figures of people working in the field. I wonder if Barney is needling Beckett. If Prancer is on her throne at the back of the tractor.

I don’t feel ready to leave this place yet. For the first time in a long time, I’m content standing still.

I start walking again. “Yeah?”

Not exactly unexpected, as that was a big reason why I signed up for their services. I wanted someone else to sort through for potential. I was also tired of the trolls and the comments and the never ending criticism. “I do.”

I rack my brain. “I don’t think so.”

That would be a new direction. I never went back to exploring traditional jobs after my string of horrible interviews right out of school. I always liked being my own boss too much.

I snort a laugh and continue carefully wandering my way across the muddy field. “He’s not my landlord.”

I glance at my watch. It can’t be much later than six in the morning on the west coast. But Josie has always been an early riser. “Godspeed.”

I tuck my phone back in my pocket and continue following the map, snickering at Beckett’s doodles. I laugh at a collection of wavy lines scribbled on the paper, supposed to be a cluster of bushes right before a dip in the landscape hides everything from view. I crest another small hill and then I see it. Exactly what Beckett intended for me to find.

A field of wildflowers, rolling out from the base of the hill in a patchwork quilt of color. Blue and purple and a smattering of rich gold, the sight of it so quietly beautiful that I don’t hesitate to walk right in the middle of it all and lay flat on my back. They must have bloomed to life during the last string of warm days, still standing tall despite the cold. Resilient. Stunning.

Flower petals tickle my cheek and I close my eyes with a sigh. A quiet, perfect miracle, hidden behind the hills.

SOME HAPPY, Beckett had written.

I curl my fingers around the edge of the paper and hold it tightly to my chest.

I lay in the field until my stomach starts to grumble, a reminder that I’ve been here for most of the morning. I’m grateful for the extra sweater I slipped over my head before I left the house, the earth cold at my back and the wind brisk enough this morning for my breath to be visible in tiny puffs of white above me. Beckett tells me the weather will break soon and that winter is being a little stubborn this year.

Not the only stubborn thing, he had mumbled, a significant look cast in my direction.

I sigh and watch the stems around me dance in the breeze. Flat on the ground like this, it’s just me and the blooms, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue above me, endless in every direction. I sit up with a groan and dip my nose into a cluster of aster at my hip. They smell like moss, the grass after rain. I pass my palms over the petals as I leave and decide I’ll bring Beckett with me the next time I come. I want him to sit in the patch of foxgloves and see if they bring out the blue in his eyes.

I take a different, meandering path back to the cabin, arching back in the opposite direction from the way I came. Beckett had scribbled a half-moon shape in the top corner of his rudimentary map, and I find the pond he must have been referencing easily enough. It’s not very large, but it does have a dock extending over the water with a row boat tied at the end. The little dinghy bobs up and down gently as the water laps at the legs of the aged wood and I smile, imagining Beckett trying to cram his body in the tiny thing. The rope is frayed at the edges, the boat painted a dark, midnight blue.

Trees arch up over the water, a canopy of tangled branches and bright green leaves. Sunlight dances through where it can, painting the still water beneath in stripes of gold. I see a tire swing on the other end of the pond, barely skimming the water, a thick rope wrapped three times around the sturdy branch of an old oak. When I was a kid, I used to climb the biggest tree in my parent’s backyard, all the way to the top. I’d sit perched there with a book until the sun began to set, a chill making me shudder with the leaves. My dad had offered to build me a treehouse a million times, but I liked climbing too much. I liked the challenge, the scrapes it left on my palms. It always felt like I was keeping a piece of nature with me. Proof that I could do anything I wanted.

Feeling nostalgic, I wander over to the trunk of a thick maple, wide branches stretching out over the water, a natural ladder of misshapen knobs and divots in the bark. I reach for the branch closest and curl my hands around it, leveraging my body up and pressing my foot to the base. Muscle memory kicks in as I place my hands and feet in all the right places, the ache in my muscles disappearing as my body warms. I press and pull until I can swing my leg over a branch, holding my body steady about halfway up. From here the pond looks bigger, the still water reflecting the branches above like a mirror. I gaze down at my wiggly reflection and rest my chin against my knee.

I don’t know if it’s the sliver of my childhood, or the field of flowers, or Beckett’s hand drawn map, or my time away from everything I thought was important, but I feel the wayward pieces of myself sliding back into place. It’s not quite there yet, not the perfect fit, but isn't that what Beckett said that night on the back porch? Some of it comes, some of it goes. It’s about the trying. Settling into the happy when you find it, being okay when you don’t. Feeling all the misshapen bits and pieces and where they fit together. The delightful, ordinary blank space in between.

I finally feel like I’m trying.

I lower my body carefully along the branch until my arms and legs are hanging free, my cheek pressed against the rough bark. I’ll have imprints on my face, I’m sure, but like this, when I close my eyes, I’m weightless. Nothing bothers me. Not the cold wind twisting through the trees and tickling at the small of my back. Not the dig of a stick against my thigh. Not the endless buzzing of thoughts in the back of my mind. It’s just me and the gentle rustle of the branches, the water lapping at the edge of the boat below, and the call of birds as they hop from tree to tree. It’s a perfect moment.

Until I tilt to the side, and I fall.