Chapter Twenty-One

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

BECKETT

I stare at the duck.

The duck stares at me.

One of the kittens meows from behind the makeshift fence I’ve made in the kitchen. Not that it would stop them if they truly wanted to get out. I still have no idea how Prancer manages to leave the house every morning for her tractor rides. I’ve looked over every square inch of the perimeter and can’t figure out where she’s leaving from, short of opening the front door herself.

I sigh and glance at the cat family waiting patiently behind some chicken wire. They came running as soon as I elbowed my way through the front door with our new addition. It’s the first time they’ve acknowledged my existence since Evelyn left two nights ago. They haven’t forgiven me yet for chasing her away.

Haven’t quite forgiven myself either.

I found her note crumpled and half-torn in Prancers’ bed by the couch, next to a hair tie and an empty tube of chapstick. I stared at that little piece of paper for a long time, the flowers scribbled along the bottom edge, the three exclamation points.

It doesn’t matter that she left a note. It doesn’t matter that she had every intention of coming back. Keeping all her light for myself still feels like the worst kind of selfish. I won’t do it.

I tell myself that, anyway. And I put the note in the drawer next to my bed. Next to the damn dried-up blue flower and a crumpled receipt.

I sigh and scoop the duckling up in my hands, bigger already than the last time I saw him. Dr. Colson had called this morning and let me know there was no place for him at the local wildlife center. It likely had been too long anyway, for the little guy to make a successful transition back to the wild.

He hadn’t needed to say much more than that.

I didn’t want the little duck to be alone.

I sit down on the floor and carefully—slowly—extend my hands out. With Dr. Colson’s recommendation in mind, I keep one hand hovering over the top of the ball of yellow fluff in my palm, ready to protect him if I need to. But all four cats seem calm enough to meet their new housemate, faces turned up in interest.

The duck pokes his head out from between my outstretched fingers, a tiny chirrup of greeting.

Prancer stares in avid concentration and then meows in response. She rises from her prone position on the floor and nudges gently at my hand, her pink velvet nose brushing my thumb and then the duckling. She meows again and the three kittens echo in kind. The duckling offers the beginning of a quack.

Alright. That seems … good.

Duck and cats continue investigating each other and I hear my front door swing open. For a split-second, a flare of hope seizes in my chest. But then I hear Stella and Layla bickering about cinnamon rolls and my heart rolls over, disappointment pounding out a slow beat.

I looked at Evelyn and told her I wouldn’t settle for the pieces of her. It’s how I feel, but I wish I said it in a better way. Softer, maybe. I can still see her face as the words tripped off my tongue. The way her whole body flinched, her hands clasped tight together. Her eyelashes against her cheek. A single, sharp inhale.

Regret is a funny thing. Self-preservation, too. I’ve been swinging wildly between the two and reached for my phone more times than I can count. But I can’t quite make myself dial her number, my thumb hovering over the screen.

Stella and Layla stumble to a stop at the edge of my kitchen. I don’t bother looking up.

I watch as Comet nudges once at the duck with her head, a happy purr tucked between them. The duck flaps his little wings against my hand. I’ll have to name him now. It’s settled. “I thought I locked my door.”

Stella raises her hand. “That was Charlie. He’ll buy you a new box.” She pauses for a second and drops to her knees next to me, holding her hand out towards the kittens. “Beckett, why are you sitting on the floor?”

Interesting question from a woman who just told me her half-brother broke into my house and ate all my processed sugar. I ignore it. I’m too tired for the details.

Layla busies herself with something on the counter. I hear the sound of foil crinkling, my drawers opening as she looks for silverware. Vixen is more interested in whatever she brought than her new family member and goes trotting off, winding herself between Layla’s ankles.

I glance at the clock. “I’ve only been sitting here for ten minutes. Why?”

Stella looks relieved. “Okay, good.”

I frown. I hadn’t realized I’d been there that long. “I was checking the roof for holes. Some of the farmhands have noticed leaks.”

And then I fell asleep, flat on my back in the middle of the Santa barn. I woke up tired and disoriented, a hollow ache in the pit of my stomach.

Missing Evelyn is like missing the bottom step on a flight of stairs. I keep expecting her to be where she’s not.

It’s that expectation, I think, that’s the worst of it. I step into the kitchen and expect to see her sitting at the counter doing her crossword. I walk past the back door and peek out the window, looking for her long legs curled beneath her on the back porch. I check for her coat on the peg next to mine. Her boots tossed beneath the entryway table. I leave a space in the fridge for where she likes to put her coffee, right next to the iced tea.

I’m missing all the pieces of her.

I want them back.

Layla sits down on my other side with her own plate of muffins and extends one to Stella. I bring the duck closer to my chest—behind the protection of the fence—and deposit him carefully in my lap. He gives a happy quack, wanders in a circle, and then falls into a little clump of yellow fur against my thigh.

That’s something, I guess. I pluck a dried blueberry off the top of the muffin. I checked her social media profiles the other day, desperate for a glimpse. She hasn’t posted anything in weeks. Nothing since a picture of her flat on her back in the wildflower field, the shot angled to get only the top of her head. Smiling eyes lit up by the sun, her long hair spread around her head like a halo, flower petals twisted between the strands.

I stared at that picture for a long time.

Stella sighs. “You can’t sit here all day.” She looks like she wants to walk out back, get the wheelbarrow, and dump me into it. “Come over to the house. Luka will make you gnocchi.”

He’ll also probably sigh his way through the meal, muttering under his breath the entire time. “No, thanks.” I take another bite of muffin and ignore the silent conversation happening on either side of me. I can feel their eyes like little lasers. “I’m going to my parents house later. I’m fixing the porch.”

What I’m doing is avoiding my problems. Getting out of this house that still has the ghost of her laugh and her smile and her big, brown eyes everywhere I look.

I let out a shaky exhale and watch the cats bat around an old cardboard box, something they must have pulled out of the recycling. Stella crosses her ankles and Layla lets out a yawn. The three of us sit there in silence, huddled on the floor.

Partners, in all the best ways.

He does. The three of us consider it.

I make a noise low in my throat. I haven’t forgotten that Stella wanted to name Prancer—Raccoon.

I ignore them both. “I like Otis.”

My dad used to play Otis Redding in the morning while we were getting ready for school. He would blast it from the speakers in the living room. Turn it up loud enough that we’d hear it all the way in our bedrooms. It was the very first artist Nessa ever danced to. He still plays These Arms of Mine for my mom every Wednesday night after he thinks we’ve all left. She sits across his lap and he hums in her ear, a slow turn around the driveway with nothing but the porch lights on.

Layla nods into my shoulder. “Yeah, me too.”

I rub my knuckle over the little guy’s head. “Otis it is, then.”

I bring Otis with me to my parent’s house and set him up in a small box on the front porch while I get to work unloading the wood from the back of my truck. The house and the gardens behind it are still and quiet, the narrow windows on either side of the front door reflecting the afternoon sun. A single beam of light cascades through, dust motes dancing in golden waves.

It’s strange being here when no one else is. I’m used to the front door cracked, my sisters spilling out into the front yard. Loud laughter and the smell of something on the stove. My dad pleading with Nova for a full back tattoo.

But I planned this specifically for the silence. I’ll fix the ramp, secure the railing, and be on my way without having to talk to anyone. It’s the perfect plan.

I drop all the wood gathered in my arms as my dad wheels around the side of the house, a grin on his face. I press a closed fist to my pounding heart and frown down at my supplies scattered at my feet. “What the hell, dad?”

He laughs. “When are you going to realize I’m always around, kiddo?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you doing here?”

I roll my eyes to the sky. “Why are you home? I thought you were working.”

About seven years ago, my dad took on a different job at the produce farm. Now he works at the front office, helping manage shipments and agreements with local markets and grocery chains. He also occasionally steals the tractor when Roger Parson leaves the keys laying around.

I glance at the haphazard stack of wood. The handsaw I borrowed from the farm. “It’s not that much,” I hedge.

Because I am. I’m fine. Everything is—everything is fine. I wish everyone would stop asking me that. I just need a few hours to not think about Evie. To not replay that last conversation and see her arms curled around herself, her eyes blinking too fast.

I’m tired of seeing her every time I close my eyes. I’m tired of missing her when she’s barely been gone at all.

I blow out a breath and brush my hands off against my knees. “I just want to fix your ramp.”

My dad searches my face. “You want help?”

It’s a fight to not to clench my teeth. I really don’t. I school my features into something nice and neutral instead, organizing some of the tools by my feet. I begin to gather some of the wood, my body grateful for the task. “If you want.”

I pause with my arms full of two-by-fours. “What?”

My dad is not amused. “Beckett.”

He flicks up another finger and digs his phone out of his pocket, tapping around and then reading from the screen. “January 16. We all ordered pizza and you ate the one with mushrooms even though you don’t like mushrooms.”

It was the only option and I had been hungry.

He ignores me and scrolls down. “December 28. You drove your sister to three separate grocery stores so she could find Nutella.”

I kick at a piece of wood. “She said she wanted it.”

He drops his phone to his lap and looks at me. “You were about to let me help you with the damned ramp when you don’t want me to.”

My dad’s face turns into a thundercloud. “They’re terrible if they’re not what you want.”

I shrug. “Not really.”

I sigh and roll out my shoulders. “Let’s hear them, then.” It’ll likely be something about the chicken coop I made in Harper’s backyard that still doesn’t have chickens, or the time I was Nessa’s stand-in dance partner for a week. I lasted two days.

And I’d do it again. All of it. No hesitation.

I love the tattoos on my arms. Each one is a piece of my family—a piece of me. It feels like armor when I need it most and comfort when I need that, too. I love looking at the leaf on my wrist and tracing the wobbly edges, remembering the way Nova’s whole face lit up when I agreed to let her try.

And the farming thing. That wasn’t even a choice. Of course I was going to step up. It was the easiest decision I have ever made, that day in the kitchen. The Parsons had come to visit my dad once he got home from the hospital and the idea came to me like lightning in a summer storm. I had been itching for something to do—some way to help—and taking my dad’s place was the best way to do it. The only way to do it.

Something in my chest fractures. Worse than when Evelyn walked out my greenhouse door. “What?”

It’s not. I love helping my family. Helping people is my—Christ—Nessa would say helping people is my love language. It’s how I show them I care. Actions have always been easier for me than words.

I shake my head. “That has nothing to do with this.”

I wish I had already started on the porch. It would be helpful to have a hammer in my hands. Pour all the restless energy twisting through my chest into the lift and pound of work.

Because I can’t be the reason she gives anything up. She’d hate me and I’d hate myself.

I close my mouth.

Blink.

Blink again.

He looks right at me, a smile hooking at the side of his mouth. He bends at the waist and grabs a piece of wood. He flips it over his shoulder and begins making his way to the ramp.