“When I was staying here in November. When I was here to evaluate the farm.” When he figured out who I really was and looked at me like I wasn’t worth his time.
He frowns. “I never said anything about your job being stupid.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Evelyn. No, I didn’t.” He drags his palm down his face. “How could I think your job is stupid? Look what it did for us. For the town.”
“Oh.” Alright then. I have no response to that.
I stare out at the yard and try to remember the specifics of that conversation. Beckett interrupts with a question.
“Where are you looking?”
“For what?” I want to thumb between his eyebrows until that line disappears. He spends too much time frowning.
“For your happy. Where do you think you’ll find it?”
“I don’t know.” I curl my hand around my glass until the condensation tickles my palm. I’m busy thinking about my answer when he finds one for me.
“Cause I think it’s still in there somewhere.” He gestures in my general direction with his bottle. “You wouldn’t glow like that if it wasn’t.”
He finishes his drink and places it down by his feet, and then tilts his head to look back out at the fields like what he said didn’t slam me right in the chest. “It’s okay if it takes you some time to find it again. And it’s okay if you find it just to lose a bit of it here and there. That’s the beauty of it, yeah? It comes and goes. Not every day is a happy one and it shouldn’t be. It’s in the trying, I think.”
I clear the cobwebs out of my throat. “Trying to be happy?”
“No.” He shakes his head once. “That doesn’t work. Trying to be happy is like—it’s like telling a flower to bloom.” He crosses his ankles and drags his palm against his stubble. “You can’t make yourself be happy. But you can be open to it. You can trust yourself enough to feel it when you stumble on it.”
I stare at him. Stare and stare and stare.
“You’re not what I expected, Beckett Porter.” Not now. Not the last time I saw him. And not that hazy evening in Maine, when he walked in a door like he’d been looking for me forever.
One of the cats wanders out from the house and jumps into Beckett’s lap, settling on his thigh with a wide yawn. He drops a heavy hand over her back and smooths it gently down over soft fur. His smile is almost shy when he looks at me.
“Right back at you.”
CHAPTER NINE
BECKETT
I wake up face down in my bed, two cats burrowed between my shoulder blades and my phone vibrating on the nightstand. I groan and fight not to fling the damn thing right out the window. I was having a dream about Evelyn and those socks she was wearing on the back porch—the ones that go all the way up to her knees. In my dream, she was only wearing those socks, a coy smile on her dark red lips.
I’m a creature of habit, and I can feel myself making new habits with Evelyn in my space. I’m used to having her here now—I like it, even. I like hearing her move around on the other side of the house in the middle of the night, a muffled curse under her breath when she runs into something in the dark. I like listening to her talk to the cats, arguments with Prancer about who has a right to the big fluffy scarf she loops around her neck. I like her shoes in the hallway and her bag on one of the hooks by the door. Her tube of lipstick on the kitchen counter and her hair ties forgotten on the edge of the sink.
I roll over in bed and Comet and Vixen voice their protest, finding another place in the blankets to curl up in. I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes until I see spots.
I shouldn’t like anything.
I certainly shouldn’t like dreaming about her. Pretty sure that crosses some sort of line in the tremulous friend truce we’ve slowly pieced together.
But my brain hasn’t gotten the memo. Every night is a free-for-all of vivid fantasies. Evelyn in the giant tub, bubbles sliding down her neck. Evelyn in the kitchen, bent over my countertop. Evelyn up against the bookshelf by the fireplace, her hands curling around the edges.
My phone vibrates again and I blindly slap around my nightstand. Predawn light flirts with the edges of my window in a shadow of gray.
4:32 am
Nessa: You’re needed at trivia this week.
Nessa: I don’t want to hear a single complaint or excuse.
Nessa: One of the categories is botany.
I frown at my phone.
4:41 am
Beckett: What are you doing up so early?
Beckett: And no.
My family has a trivia team for the bar’s monthly competitions. They’re scary competitive about it. Harper almost threw a chair through the front window when she got a question wrong about Boyz II Men.
4:42 am
Nessa: Early rehearsal before work.
Nessa: You have 72-hours to come to terms with this reality. Harper can’t make it.
I rack my brain for an appropriate excuse.
4:43 am
Beckett: I’m not registered.
I know for a fact all team members need to be registered at the start of the trivia season. Caleb had to intervene in a dispute last year when Gus and Monty pulled Luka in for the Bruce Willis category without any clearance.
I sit up in bed and swing my legs over the edge, the floorboards cold beneath my feet. It’s been unseasonably chilly this March. I glance at the window, and then back down to my phone when it buzzes again.
4:45 am
Nessa: Oh, sweet brother of mine.
Nessa: We register you every year for exactly this reason.
Nessa: Now is your time to shine.
Nessa: The category is BOTANY.
4:47 am
Beckett: Our father is also a farmer.
4:49 am
Nessa: See you this weekend.
I don’t bother with a response. I know if I don’t show up to trivia, Nessa will appear at my house—probably with Harper—and physically drag me there kicking and screaming. It’s happened before and it’ll likely happen again.
I don’t like going to trivia. I don’t like spending my time in a crowded room that smells like beer and hot wings, a television on in every corner and an old record player that anyone can change whenever they want. For some insane reason, Jesse loves playing ABBA. It’s overwhelming, and at least seven people try to talk to me every time.
I go through the motions of getting ready for the day, the edges of my dream clinging to my thoughts. In my dream, I had been tracing the gentle slope between her shoulder and neck, my finger tracing soft brown skin. I shuffle down the hallway while pulling my flannel over my shoulders and indulge. Would she still taste like citrus if I pressed my tongue to her skin? Would she still hiccup my name?
The clink of the coffee pot distracts me, a warm glow of light coming from the kitchen.
Evelyn stands with her back to me at the counter, Prancer nuzzling her head into her hip. She hums and pets her hand down the cat’s back, whispering something with a laugh as Prancer pushes harder into her. I glance at the countertop. Two mugs sitting out, steaming with coffee.
My heart gives a heavy thump in my chest.
“Morning,” I greet and Evelyn turns to glance at me over her shoulder, hair swinging around her face. With her eyes still heavy and a yawn making her nose scrunch, she’s better than any dream I could ever come up with. Soft. Sleepy.