Great Big Beautiful Life(71)

He pulls away and ducks his head to peer into my eyes, his expression torqued. “I’m sure that’s not true,” he says quietly.

“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” I say. “Maybe the fact that she does love me is all that does.”

She made me who I am, in so many ways—not just the skills she passed on, but the strength. When we were all scared shitless about Audrey’s health, Mom was as steady as a metronome, day in and day out, working our land, making our meals, providing what we needed, driving my sister to and from doctors’ appointments, and helping Dad homeschool us. She taught me to think of life not just in terms of how many executioner’s blades were poised over our proverbial necks at any given time but in terms of how we could use our time before that ax fell, or didn’t. And a lot of the time it didn’t.

Keep working, keep moving, keep hoping.

He wraps his arms more tightly around me, pulls me in against his side, and tucks my head beneath his chin. I take a deep inhale of his almond soap and feel my chest loosen. My eyes flutter closed, his even breathing soothing me.

When I next open them, the sky is deep purple, the chickens just starting to move around, clucking in their enclosure. I pry myself away from Hayden and he stirs awake, his eyes slitting open on a sleepy smile.

“Hey,” I croak.

“Hey,” he croaks back.

“Did my snoring keep you up?” I ask.

He runs a hand over his face, wiping the sleep from himself. “Weirdly, no.”

We smile at each other a beat, a silent acknowledgment of how strange this all is, and—at least for me—how strangely normal it feels.

“We’re going to be covered in mosquito bites,” I say.

“Not me,” he teases scratchily, “I’m wearing pants.”

“Well, your arms have double the surface area of mine, so things will probably shake out pretty evenly.” I fight off a yawn. “Want some tea?”

“Tea sounds good.” He groans a little as he unfolds himself from the bench, giving me a hand to pull me upright and straight into a hug I wish I could wear like an almond-scented coat, morning, noon, and night. “I think my neck is stuck at an angle,” he murmurs against the side of mine.

I reach up and knead the tight muscles there, and the way his groan travels through me makes every little hair on my arms and legs stand up, like they’re reaching toward him.

Behind us, the door creaks open, and we lurch apart, but Mom hardly looks our way as she trudges toward the coop, a basket over her arm. “Anyone want to help me collect the eggs?” she calls to us, the mist seeming to nibble away at her voice like thousands of tiny fish pouncing on a piece of bread.

I look to Hayden. “Tea can wait,” he tells me.

“Yep,” I shout back to Mom as we start toward the coop.



* * *



? ? ?

Slept with Hayden, I type to the group text, and when a flurry of !!! And WHAT and tell me everything chimes in from Cillian, Bianca, and Priya respectively, I send a clarifying follow-up: As in, we fell asleep on a stone bench outside my mom’s house.

Priya replies with an unimpressed ellipsis.

Cillian writes, I still can’t believe you took him to your mama’s house. I’VE never even been there.

I have, Bianca brags. Best spoon bread of my life. I dream about it sometimes.

RUDE, Cillian says.

Next time you’re in GA, let me know, I tell him. It’s an open invitation. I promise.

Let’s back up to you sleeping on a stone bench with a (hot) man, like you’re not two grown adults, Priya says.

They’re at her PARENTS’ HOUSE, Pri, Bianca says. What do you WANT them to do?

Priya sends through a winky face.

How are you guys? I ask. I miss you all.

Pretty good, Cillian says. Except my editor is breathing down my ass about this profile on the team making the new E.T. miniseries.

I have never and I will never breathe “down your ass,” Bianca says. The piece needs work.

Can you guys handle this privately, Priya says. I come here for the goss, not to feel like I’m at work.

I can literally see the top of your head poking out of your cubicle from here, Cillian says.

Wait you’re at the office today?!? Priya says, and then the messages go silent, probably as they reconvene in real life, at the water cooler or office Nespresso.

I go back into the kitchen to wash the rest of the breakfast dishes, then join Mom in the garden. I’d assumed Hayden was still out on his run, but he’s actually back, drenched in sweat, and working by her side.

“Hey,” I call, trudging up. “Could you use another set of hands?”

“Actually, I was about to shower,” Hayden says, pushing himself up and handing the spare gardening gloves over.

“Lunch in about two hours?” Mom asks, without looking at either of us.

Hayden’s eyes and mine connect. He gives me a small nod.

“Sure,” I say. “And then we should head out.”

Mom nods, still digging with a trowel, focus buried in the dirt. “Nice kid,” she says after a minute.

I ignore the flip-flop my stomach does and take up my post beside her. “He’s great. Really good writer too.”

She sneaks a glance at me, then goes back to digging.