Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EVELYN

It is not fine.

He barely finishes his beer before a dramatic rise of music begins to pump through the bar. It sounds like something from Harry Potter or maybe … Battlestar Galactica? I have no idea. Whatever it is, Gus slowly rises to the beat from his crouched position on top of the bar, megaphone in hand.

Nova slaps down a sheet of paper that looks like it’s embossed at the bottom, a sharpie between her teeth. “And you never will again. Let’s kill these motherfuckers.”

Beckett drags his entire hand down his face.

Nessa shoots up from her seat next to Nova. “No one questioned you last month about how you know so much about the Spice Girls, Sam. Sit down.”

There’s a grumble from the opposite end of the room. No one else says a word.

I shrug and sip at my beer. “I know things.”

He opens his mouth to say something else but Gus cuts in with that damned megaphone. “Second question! Which part of the rhubarb plant is edible?”

A warm glow settles in my chest. I didn’t realize how much I was hoping they’d like me until just now. Nessa snaps her fingers in front of Beckett’s face. He hasn’t looked away from me. “Head in the game.”

My designation as team moral support is needed because two rounds later, Beckett is miserable, so tense next to me that I’m pretty sure I could break a bottle over his head and he wouldn’t notice. He participates only when he’s asked, offering one word answers and clenching his hands into fists during the breaks. He guzzles down his beer like it’ll disappear if he doesn’t down each glass in three gulps. At one point, Nova leans forward with a concerned look and quietly asks him if he needs his earmuffs.

I try to engage him when I can, but he’s stiff and unyielding next to me, retreating further and further into himself. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to and flat out ignores me more than once. I sigh and glance over my shoulder to the far end of the room where the bathrooms are. I cuff Beckett’s wrist loosely with my hand and attempt to get his attention from where he’s staring blankly at the tabletop. He tilts his head slightly, flower crown tipping to the side. A white daisy brushes against his forehead.

For a second it looks like he might try to stop me. He opens his mouth and his eyes trip over the planes of my face, considering. But whatever it is, he bottles it right back up. His jaw snaps shut. A quick, sharp nod.

I squeeze his wrist again.

I make my way through the raucous crowd, a group of people dressed as birds having a heated argument with ladies in long, pastel dresses and sun hats. Layla wasn’t joking when she said trivia night is serious business in Inglewild. Both Caleb and Dane are in attendance, sitting at the far end of the bar with a basket of jalapeño poppers between them. Dane has a long suffering look on his serious face. Caleb looks like he’s holding himself back from participating.

I get sidetracked by Jeremy and his friends as I travel through the tables, their heads bent over their cellphones and a pitcher of soda in the middle of the table. They ask for selfies and tips on lighting and then I’m shown 17 video drafts that they’re thinking about posting. It’s like a social media version of American Idol, and I slip away with promises of more tomorrow, if they come by the bakery in the morning.

Gus and Monty corner me next, proudly showing me the numbers on their dance video. When I ask them how they plan to follow up such a stunning debut, Gus gets a twinkle in his eye and stands from his stool, scooping me in his big arms and spinning me around the small square of floor space. I laugh loudly and hold myself steady on his shoulders, my heart so light it feels like I could float away.

This is what I was missing. Foundation. Belonging. People and stories and my name tossed out in greeting over half-eaten baskets of greasy french fries. All of my trips—I haven’t stayed in a place long enough for anyone to know me. I haven’t had Caleb waving at me from across the bar with a jalapeño popper held between thumb and forefinger. Ms. Beatrice screaming in someone’s face about the official name of New York’s Sixth Avenue while wearing a sun hat and holding a croquet mallet, a wink tossed over her shoulder. A chorus of whistles when I wave to the ladies from the salon.

Stella’s words drift back to me. People change. Maybe this is what I need now.

I’m still smiling, breathless, when I finally make it to the bathroom. I stop and stare at myself in the mirror—my flushed cheeks and a grin that makes my face almost unrecognizable. It’s been so long since I’ve felt like this. I touch my fingers to my cheeks and try to memorize it.

That’s enough.

I wash my hands in the sink and edge my way out of the door, a wall of sound slamming into me. Music has somehow joined the mix, shrieks and laughter and someone yelling overtop of it all about a quesadilla. It’s chaotic, but lovely. A soundtrack of community and love.

I barely manage two steps down the dark hallway before I see him. His big body tipped up against the wall, one shoulder and his head pressed to it. His arms are crossed and his face is shadowed, but I’d recognize the angles of his body anywhere—in the dark, especially.

He looks like he’s in pain. Shoulders hunched. A deep frown on his handsome face as I get closer. I reach out to him and my hand hovers over the slope of his shoulder, not sure if he wants to be touched right now or not.

He makes the decision for me, lifting his head and blinking at me blearily. He curls his hand around my wrist and tugs, a quiet oof slipping from my lips as I stumble into him.

His usual smell is tucked under layers of alcohol and fried food, but his skin is warm where my nose finds his neck. He wraps his arms around my back and holds on tight, clinging to me in the narrow hallway at the back of the bar. My hands slip over his shoulders and I hold on just as tight, confused and concerned.

I feel a shudder work its way up his spine, a thin tremor in his hands. He rocks his forehead against my shoulder and grunts, mumbling something under his breath. He sways slightly and I tighten my grip.

I drag my hands up and down his back in a soothing rhythm. He makes a grateful sigh against me.

I make sure to take a noisy, obnoxious breath on my next inhale and he softens further, the grip of his arms relaxing slightly but his body becoming heavier against mine. I shuffle back until I’m leaning against the wall, Beckett pressed right up against me.

It is loud in here. I hear Gus clamber back on the bar top with his megaphone, a short siren wail that has Beckett flinching against me. I smooth my fingers through his hair and he lets out a deep, rattling breath. Gus announces last call and last round, and the crowd gives a belligerent groan in response.

I asked, too. I wonder how much pressure Beckett puts on himself to be what everyone needs, all of the time.

His hands flex at my hips and he takes a step back, leaving me propped up against the wall. I feel the two inches of space between us like a shove to the chest.

He shakes his head. “It’s not the same. Not like when we were in Maine.”

He must have had more to drink than I thought. I glance out at the crowded bar and can barely make out the table we were sitting at—a wide collection of glasses haphazardly stacked next to empty food baskets.

The image that blinks to life is immediate. Beckett on his knees at the edge of the bed, hand splayed low against my belly to hold me still. His nose at my hip and my thighs pressing at his ears, my foot drumming between his shoulder blades.

My entire body shivers, a forceful pulse pounding once right at the base of my throat.

I let that confession press against me, the words ringing in my ears despite the loud noise of the bar. I hold his gaze and blink as he stares right back. He pushes off the wall with a sigh, his hand through his hair.

I loop my fingers around his wrist. “I think you’ve had enough.” I glance towards the end of the hall and the door with EXIT marked in blinking red letters above. “I’m gonna drive us home. You want to say bye to your family?”

He shakes his head, muttering something about texting them later. He twists his arm out of my grip and straightens with a stumble. I slip my arm around his waist and his hand finds my shoulder, head tipping until his flower crown brushes my forehead.

I pat his back through the thick material of his flannel. “Let’s just go home.”

As soon as we step outside the door into the stillness and silence of a mostly abandoned street, Beckett lets out a heaving, gusting sigh. He sounds like he just finished a run, lungs burning and legs twitching. Aching, blissful relief.

I keep my arm around his waist, guiding us to his truck parked two blocks over, right behind the cafe. He’s already got his box of shortbread cookies in the passenger seat and he’s careful to place them on his lap when he slips into the car.

It takes me a second to orient myself in the driver’s seat, everything feeling a little too big. Beckett snickers as my hands hover over the steering wheel, trying to find a position in the seat that doesn’t feel like I’m operating a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

I look over at him in the passenger seat, splayed out as much as he can be in the cab of the truck. His knee is tucked up against the window and his arms are loose, face relaxed. I put the truck into drive and ease us out of the space, rumbling down the road that will take us back to the farm.

It’s nothing but the growl of the engine and the wind licking at the windows as we head back, Beckett’s gentle and easy breathing. I don’t know what to say to him, no idea how to respond to the things he said in the bar.

Cause I still think about kissing you all the damn time.

I had no idea. I sneak another glance at him from the corner of my eye, my hands flexing on the wheel.

Beckett doesn’t have a television in his house, doesn’t listen to music while he putters away in his greenhouse. He flinches when he enters a room and people are talking too loud, his head tilting slightly to the side. It’s like he’s trying to muffle the sound without being obvious about it. He shifts in his seat until his shoulder is pressed to the back of it, his elbow on the center console and his chin in his hand.

Handing me his secrets like he wants me to hold them for him.

Nova’s question at the table makes sense now. “Okay.”

We drift into silence again. He rearranges himself until he’s staring out the window.

He huffs, a grumble under his breath I don’t quite catch. The pause drags on and then he quietly says, “I like your questions.”

I bite my lip against my smile. “Okay.”

I do. I do know more words than that. But the truth is, I’m struggling to restrain myself. This adorable, open version he’s showing me right now is—it’s a lot for me to handle. I want to pull over onto the shoulder of the road and throw the truck into park. I want to climb over the console and slip onto his lap. I want to fist my hands in his flannel and guide his mouth to mine, kiss him until he’s breathless and then drive him home and tuck him into bed.

All this time he’s been wanting me, I’ve been wanting him, too.

I nod. “Yeah, about what you said at the bar.”

Cause I still think about kissing you all the damn time.

If he still feels that way in the morning, we’ll have a few other things to talk about. I follow the lanterns that lead to his cabin.

I take a fortifying breath as I pull the truck to a stop, yanking with what feels like my entire body weight to throw it into park. I turn off the ignition and the rumble cuts out, the cab of the truck filled with the sounds of muffled night lingering outside the window. The chirp of the crickets that hide in his gutters. The creak of the weathervane at the peak of his roof. A loose shutter, tapping lightly at the siding.

Beckett doesn’t look away from me, the light from the moon casting his face in shadow. Like this, he is only strong angles and smooth lines. His nose. His jaw. The slant of his serious brow. His hand shifts against the top of the console, his fingertips barely brushing at my knuckles.

I need to get out of this truck.

He follows me as I stumble from the truck, my knee hitting the banister at the edge of his porch as I clamber my way up. All of a sudden it feels like I was the one downing beers at the bar tonight, my hands clumsy as I fumble to find the right key.

I scoop the keys from the weathered wooden planks and shoulder my way through the front door, Beckett trailing after me with slow, careful steps—a sigh he does his best to hide as he toes off his shoes and slips the crown from his head. I watch as he places it carefully on a hook, his finger tracing a pale purple petal. He’s an introspective drinker, I tell myself. That’s all this is. Our best bet is to call it a night and retire to the two very opposite ends of the house. Maybe we can—maybe we can try this conversation again in the morning.

I doubt very much he’ll say anything about it. He’ll probably pour his coffee and mumble about making an egg scramble for breakfast. Complain about the quality of store bought spinach and scrape the wooden spoon against the bottom of the pan with quick, agitated movements.

I just—we can’t have this conversation right now. Not when alcohol has made him honest. I want him to want to be honest.

I pour a glass of water and set it on the counter, press up on my toes to root around the cabinet above the fridge. A strong arm appears above me, the smooth skin on the inside of Beckett’s arm close enough for me to drag my nose against. I see the edge of bright blue—a galaxy peeking out from the beneath the sleeve of his shirt.

When I turn, he’s standing close, both hands anchoring on the countertop at my sides. I’m tucked between his arms, close enough to brush my lips against the cluster of flowers on his bicep. My knees knock into his and I lift my chin up.

His eyes dart back and forth between mine, knuckles grazing at my hip where his hands flex and hold. “I like having you here,” he says roughly. Another confession.

I try to ease the tension that has us stumbling closer together. “You’re not tired of me yet?”

I search his eyes to measure how serious he is. “You’re very good at hiding all of this.”

I know the feeling. I let out a shaky breath. “We should go to bed.”

Beckett doesn’t move an inch. His tone suggests we should go to bed, but maybe we should do it together. I squeeze the bottle in my hands like it’s the only thing keeping me pressed up against this counter. This close, I can smell the outside on his skin. Spring wind, a crisp clean bite. It would be so easy to lean up and taste it off his collarbone. I already know the sound he would make. The way his hands would mold to my hips, his pinky finger slipping down into the waist of my jeans.

I feel his nose against my temple right before he pushes off the counter and takes a step back. I keep my eyes closed and thrust out the bottle of medicine. Rough fingertips brush over the back of my hand before he grabs it.

I hear footsteps down the hallway and the quiet click of a door.

I breathe out slowly.