“Appreciation is not objectification.”
I set the flower I’ve been twirling between my thumb and forefinger on the nightstand and see a post-it note stuck to his stack of books. Sneaky man. I pick it up and glance at his neat handwriting. Muffins on top of the oven, it says. Be back soon.
A scribble beneath, something that looks like a … cat dozing? His doodles are horrendous.
But I like it better than any saccharine thing he could have written. One hundred percent Beckett. Practical and sweet—care through action. Breakfast waiting on the counter and coffee in the pot.
I place his note next to the flower.
“What’s your news?”
“We will circle back to this.”
I laugh, a quiet snicker that has one of the cats poking her head up from beneath a mountain of sheets to look at me. She flops back down and nudges me once with her paw for the inconvenience. “I have no doubt.”
“Alright, then. Your news.” I hear paperwork in the background and imagine her in the office in the front of her house. The big bay window that looks out over dense green forest, a thin layer of fog in the mornings that rolls against the glass. “Theo gave me a call when he couldn’t get through to you.”
That’s right. The head of the small business coalition. We’ve talked briefly over email about the position and what it would entail. Small business advising, more or less. Helping people like Ms. Beatrice and Stella get up on their digital feet. I had given him Josie’s number in my email back, letting him know my phone was temporarily out of service. I didn’t mention that it was at the bottom of a pond. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, he was thrilled to hear from you. He said you can expect an email today, but he wanted to follow-up by phone, too. He wants you to come in for an interview.”
My heart beats a little bit faster in my chest. Excited, I think. Hopeful, too. Nervous as hell, surprisingly. “Yeah? That’s good, right?”
“I’m pretty sure he would have offered me the job on your behalf.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “That’s how excited he is for you to come in.”
I’m flustered, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt with it. “Do you think—do you think I’m qualified for something like this?”
“Of course you are.” Josie’s response is quick. No hesitation. “You created your own social following from nothing. An entire content stream that attracts hundreds of thousands in ad revenue. You’ve helped countless businesses thrive. Developed your own grant that has literally made people’s dreams come true. Frankly, I think you’re overqualified.” She pauses for a second and I hear the tip-tap of her keyboard. “Maybe this Theo guy should work for you,” she muses as an after-thought.
I sit up in the bed and stare at the cats cuddled up around me, a stack of Beckett’s neatly folded sweaters on a chair in the corner. The job is half-remote office work, half-traveling to small businesses around the country. Not all that different from what I’m doing now. It would mean—I would have some flexibility as to where I stay. I would have options.
Inglewild-shaped options.
Beckett-shaped options.
“Jo Jo,” I whisper. “Am I crazy for thinking about this?”
“The job?”
“The job, yeah. Also—” I gather some of my courage. “This place. Inglewild. I think I want to stay.”
It’s the secret I’ve been holding in my heart for the last couple of weeks. Nowhere has ever felt like such a perfect fit. It’s not just Beckett. It’s the friendly call of my name as I walk down the street. It’s the same order every Wednesday from Matty’s pizza. It’s knowing the exact steps to take down the side street and through the park to make it to the cafe before the morning rush.
Comfort.
Familiarity.
A home.
She sighs out, long and slow. I’m grateful she’s thinking about it and not blurting out mindless reassurances. But then again, that’s Josie.
“You’ve been struggling for a while now. What you’ve been doing isn’t working for you anymore, and that’s okay.” I haven’t touched my social accounts since my last little video, ignoring all of the comments and tags and posts. I am … more than okay with that. “So I think if this new path feels good, then it is good. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to stay. When’s the last time you wanted to stay somewhere?”
I rack my brain for the last time I felt this content. This settled. I can’t think of a single time.
I pick up my flower from the nightstand and twirl it between my fingers. “We’ll have a lot to do to tie up loose ends.” My mental to-do list appears, gathering items like raindrops in a bucket. I frown, a thought occurring. “We wouldn’t work together anymore.”
“Like you could get rid of me,” she says quietly. Fondly. “Plus, I’d like to remind you that the man has a tattoo just below his collarbone. I’d have questions if you didn’t want to stay.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BECKETT
“Stop smiling like that,” Barney snaps from the passenger side of the flatbed truck, his arms crossed over his chest and a bag full of snacks from the last gas station resting on his knee. The man has consumed more Honey Buns in 48-hours than anyone has a right to. “You look like a maniac.”
“I’m not even smiling,” I tell him.
Barney sinks further in his seat, his head against the window. His hand reaches for his plastic-wrapped heart attack. “Might as well be.”
The bed of the truck is filled with one-hundred-and-eighty-three Douglas Fir saplings. I know this because Barney insisted on counting them twice, loudly and in front of the people who mistakenly received our shipment.
“I still think those Lovebright people were up to something,” Barney grouches around a mouthful of processed sugar. “I don’t trust maple syrup farmers.”
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. It was pure coincidence that our names were so close, though I do have questions for our supplier. I gave him our address three times, and it’s printed on the invoice we already paid. “They didn’t just harvest maple syrup. They had apples, too.”
“My point remains. I watched a documentary on the underground syrup trade. Apparently there’s a whole black market. Gang activity.”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “What’s gotten into you?”
He mumbles something.
“What?”
He shifts in his seat and gives me a look, debating. I raise both eyebrows in encouragement. We have another three hours left of this drive, and I’m not thrilled about the prospect of listening to Barney hem and haw over there like he’s sitting on a seat made out of metal spikes. “I like you better when you’re a grumpy ass,” he finally says in a rush.
That was not what I expected. “What?”
“You’ve been humming for six hours,” Barney seethes, biting off another giant mouthful. “Are you aware of that?”
I was not aware of that. I had no idea, actually.
“The radio in this thing is broken, and you have been humming for six. Hours. Straight.” He slouches back down in his seat. “Driving me up a damn wall.”