He relaxes into his chair and grabs his bowl, poking around at the rice. “Thank you,” he mutters again, barely looking at me.
“It’s no problem.” I keep watching him, at the way his jaw works when he takes a bite. “It’s the least I can do.”
I had offered to pay him rent on my fifth night here. Beckett had given me a look so affronted I didn’t bother bringing it up again.
We eat in silence and I let myself wonder if this is what he does every night after a long day in the fields. Sunsets on the back porch in his socks. His flannel sleeves rolled up and a beer at his elbow. I have the sudden, confusing urge to smooth his hair back from his forehead. Get up from this chair and go to his, slide onto his lap and tuck my head under his chin.
That was the problem, I think, in that little room in Maine. It was way too easy to imagine being with Beck. To want for more.
I clear my throat and decide to tackle the reason for this little meal. “I don’t know for sure how long I plan to stay.”
He looks up at me, eyebrows raised. “Okay.”
“Probably a couple of weeks, I think.” That should be enough time for me to get my head on straight. If it’s not—well. I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.
He rolls his head back to look out over the trees. “That’s fine.”
“You sure you don’t mind?”
He shakes his head, fingers flexing on his fork. “Not if you keep making chicken like this.”
I hesitate before my next question. I feel like an idiot for asking, but I don’t want any surprises. It’s something I should have asked sooner, honestly. “There isn’t anyone that would be upset about me staying here?”
He turns to look at me again. “Who would be upset about it? Stella and Layla obviously know you’re here.” He spears another piece of chicken. “Didn’t tell them why though.”
That’s good, because I don’t even know the answer to that. I only know that it feels good to sit on this comfy chair on his back porch with my knees tucked to my chest. “I’m asking if you’re seeing anyone, Beckett. And if this will complicate things for you.”
“Oh.” A brush of color dances over his cheeks, the same exact shade as the sun melting into the horizon. “No.”
No. That’s it. That’s all he says. He tips his beer to his mouth and swallows heavily. One, two, three gulps in a row.
“What’s your plan for tomorrow?”
Alright, then.
“I don’t have one,” I answer honestly. I stretch out my legs and flex my feet back and forth. Back and forth. I squint my eye and touch my toe to the very top of the greenhouse. “I thought it was pretty apparent I don’t have any sort of plan.”
“You’ve always got a plan,” he tells me. “Even when it feels like you don’t.”
That’s fair. I’ve had a plan since I was sixteen years old. The YouTube channel, then college, then a program at Pratt. I deviated slightly when my dream of working at a big name publication didn’t work out, and decided to make my own platform instead. I’ve been pursuing that ever since.
Not letting myself breathe since.
“New territory, I guess,” I say, forcing my voice to be light and ignoring the swarm of unease that settles every time I think about work. “For someone who posts cute pictures all day.”
He makes a sound under his breath. A frustrated huff. I drop my foot back down to the porch and look at him.
“Stop doing that,” he finally says.
“What?”
“Making yourself seem smaller than you are.” He doesn’t bother to elaborate. His hand finds his beer bottle again and he taps his thumb there once. He heaves out a gusting sigh. “What are you doing here, Evelyn?”
“I missed the trees,” I tell him.
“Try again.”
“You’re right. I missed Layla’s peppermint hot chocolate.”
“More believable.” He turns in his seat until he can fix me with a gaze that offers no room for teasing remarks. It demands the truth, and all of it. Right now. “What are you doing here?”
I reach for the wine bottle by my feet and pour myself a glass that redefines the term heavy pour.
“I don’t know. I just know that I felt stuck, and this was the first place that popped into my head when I thought about taking a break. I think I’m looking for—“ I think about standing in the middle of the field, pine trees all around me. “I think I’m reevaluating. To see if what I’m doing is still the right fit.”
I watch the tree branches lift with the breeze, tiny green buds starting to appear. Everything will be in bloom soon, the fields bursting with color. I smile. I bet it looks just like the lights on a Christmas tree.
“I wanted to be a journalist, you know? I thought I’d work for National Geographic or maybe The New York Times. Something amazing.” The confession trips off my tongue easily enough, loosened by wine and the smell of fresh earth. Spring rain and dirt. “I wanted to travel so badly. See all the places from those features. I got into the media studies program at Pratt and I thought I’d made it. I was so sure I’d be able to land a good job after graduation. But I didn’t. I kept going to interviews with my portfolio and it was always the same. Too whimsical. Too lighthearted.” I shrug and remember one painful interview, where a woman with a high collar flicked her eyes up and down my arms and told me I didn’t have the right look for on-camera work. “Too brown.”
Beckett shifts in his seat, the wood creaking under his weight, but I don’t look at him. I can’t.
“I went home to lick my wounds and my parents were having trouble with their shop. They own a boutique in Portland. They sell—all sorts of stuff, really. All locally sourced and produced. I had a YouTube channel with a decent following that I played around with. But I made some videos for my parents and it just—took off. The rest is history.”
It all snowballed from there. Traffic increased for the store. My accounts began to attract attention. I started bopping around my old neighborhood, talking to people. Asking about their business and what they were doing. Their passions. Their interests. Just everyday people doing incredible things.
I don’t know when I stopped. Or why.
I glance at Beckett out of the corner of my eye when he doesn’t say anything. “I know you think it’s stupid, but social media helps me connect. It’s like having a conversation on a massive scale. I really am trying to help people.”
He looks startled. “What?”
“I’m not just posting pictures all day. There’s a strategy behind it. Planning.” A never-ending cycle of content. A crushing desire for more, more, more. Unsolicited opinions and criticism.
“I know that.” He’s looking at me like he doesn’t understand the words coming out of my mouth. Like I just jumped out of this chair and slapped a chicken suit on and started doing the Macarena. “I don’t think what you do is stupid.”
I blink at him. “Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You said so.”
“When?”