It’s as close as we’ve ever come to talking about that weekend. He nods and slides the glass of tequila down the bar. “I’m not bringing it to you, Pete,” he calls over his shoulder.
The old man in the corner chuckles. “Figured as much. Seems you’ve got your hands full as it is.”
Beckett moves back around the bar with his beer, his steps slow. His chest brushes against my shoulders as he slips behind me. I feel every single place our bodies touch. When he sits, he’s closer than before, his boot back on the bottom rung of my chair. He tugs once, the metal screeching as it drags across the floor. Pete muffles a laugh in the sleeve of his coat as he collects his glass, returning to his secluded spot in the corner of the bar. I turn my face to Beckett and watch as his tongue wets his bottom lip.
“Haven’t had tequila since,” he tells me and I don’t think we’re talking about alcohol. The lick of heat sparking along my skin turns into an inferno. I spread my legs slightly on the stool until I can press my knee to the side of his thigh. I let myself look at him, delighting in all the details I can collect when I’m this close. I tuck them into my palm like secrets. The barely there freckles dusted under his left eye. The straight line of his nose, a little dip in the center of it. The curl of hair behind his ear.
“Neither have I,” I say. A whisper. A confession.
I watch the strong line of his throat as he swallows. “Did you—“
He doesn’t finish his question. The door behind the bar swings open and a man slightly shorter than Beckett strolls out. He’s wearing a Guns N’ Roses t-shirt that’s ripped at the bottom and light wash jeans, an armful of clean glasses balanced against his chest. His bleach-blonde hair falls into his face as he ducks through the door, a washcloth tucked through his belt loop. He’s kind of cute in an unassuming sort of way. He’d probably be cuter if I didn’t have Beckett sitting right next to me, hands curling into fists.
This must be Carter, then.
He hesitates as soon as his gaze lands on Beckett, his eyes cutting to the exit and back to the hulking man about to take two fistfuls out of the bar top.
“Beckett,” he greets, wariness in his voice and with good reason. The warmth that was creeping into Beckett’s expression while we waited is gone now, and his jaw looks tight enough to snap. “I see you helped yourself.”
He nods at the drinks in front of us. Beckett doesn’t say anything. Carter shifts on his feet. He actually does have a puka shell necklace on. I thought maybe Beckett had been exaggerating.
“Did you need anything else?”
Beckett remains silent.
Carter sighs. “You just gonna sit there?”
Beckett reaches for his beer and takes a long sip, gaze not budging an inch. Impatient, Carter’s face twists into something unkind. He doesn’t look cute at all anymore. He looks petty and childish, his dyed hair turning to a faded green in the lights overhead.
“Did Harper tell—“
“Don’t say her name,” Beckett interrupts. A shiver licks up my spine. I’ve never heard that tone of voice out of his mouth before, a warning in every syllable.
Carter bristles. “Well, if she’s running her mouth like a—“
Beckett’s hand snaps out, quick as lightning. He grabs the collar of Carter’s shirt and pulls him over the bar until the other man is practically dangling there, hands braced on the edge to keep himself from falling face-first into the draining tray.
“Like a what?”
Carter sputters.
“Go on, finish your sentence.” When Carter doesn’t say anything in response, Beckett releases him. He goes stumbling to the other side of the bar, his back hitting the edge of a table holding his tray of clean glasses. They rattle on impact.
“I know it’s been a minute since we last talked, but let me make it very clear for you. If I hear another word out of your mouth about my sister, I will break every bone in your body,” Beckett doesn't break eye contact, not for a second, his voice deceptively calm for the threat living in each word. “Don’t talk about her. Don’t look at her. Don’t even think about her. If I find out you’ve contacted her with any more of your bullshit, I’ll make what happens next look like an accident. Do you understand me?”
He picks up the menu I placed next to my drink. He glances at it once. Carter edges closer to the door that leads to the back.
“I want a burger. She’ll have the eggplant sandwich.” He tosses the menu over the bar and gives Carter a dismissive look. “Don’t forget the fries.”
We take our food to go.
Beckett is quiet but relaxed on the way back, fingers drumming on the center console. I turn the dial until I find a classic rock station, static bursting between Fleetwood Mac. I roll down my window and untangle my ponytail, the wind picking up the ends of my hair until it’s a hurricane around my face. I can smell the sun and sweat of the day and a touch of my shampoo, the sweet hint of springtime rain in the fields we’re whipping past. Everything is green and gold and bright, bright blue. I laugh and scoop my hair away from my face with my palm and watch as Beckett presses down harder on the gas, a grin tipping at his lips. It lights up his whole face, that smile—the lines by his eyes deepening, his bottom lip a bit crooked.
I release my hair again and close my eyes. I feel like I’m floating, flying. A gentle snip to one of the strings tied tight around my lungs, Beckett’s low laugh whispering through the cab of the truck.
Happiness.
The feeling holds as we settle into our usual seats on the back porch of the house. Cupid joins us briefly before scampering off to the greenhouse. I point at it with a fry as I watch her disappear inside.
“What do you grow in there?”
He shrugs, legs crossed at the ankle and half of a burger in his hand. “Flowers, mostly. The climate isn’t good for them without a little protection, so I built the greenhouse.”
“What sort of flowers?”
He stretches his shoulders and reaches for one of my fries. His knuckles bump up against the back of my hand and I almost tip the whole container into my lap. “Orchids, mostly. I’m experimenting with some poinsettias for next winter, but we’ll see.” He chews a fry in consideration. “I might set the duck up in there.”
“There you go with the duck again. What duck?”
“I told you about the duck.” He did, but I thought he was full of it. “We found an abandoned duck on the farm. The town vet hasn’t been able to find a home for him yet.”
“Is it a baby duck?”
He nods. I sink down an inch further in my seat and shove a fry in my mouth, picturing him sitting in that chair with a baby duck in his shirt pocket.
It’s devastating.
“Did you always want to be a farmer?”
I can’t help it with the questions. Josie tells me I have a curious spirit when she’s feeling generous. Nosy, when she’s annoyed by it. With Beckett, I feel like I’ve only ever gotten crumbs. I want to crack him right open and examine every tiny detail.
He looks uncomfortable with the attention though, shifting around in his chair.
“You don’t have to—“