CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BECKETT
I’m having regrets.
Not for what I said, but for—
“Dude, you made me cry.”
I grunt and ignore Gus, throwing a box of pasta into my cart. For whatever reason, I decided today is the day to break my unspoken only-shop-in-the-dead-of-night rule. An attempt, probably, at integrating myself into town like Evie was always encouraging me to do.
Evie, who I haven’t heard a word from since I posted that video almost twelve hours ago.
I’ve heard from the rest of the continental United States, though. A bunch of other countries as well. My phone has been buzzing non-stop since I decided to stand out in the middle of the fields with my phone like a jackass.
I wanted to do something outside of my comfort zone. I wanted Evelyn to see that video and realize that I’m—I’m going to try. I wandered out to the place with the towering oak trees just because it made me feel better—to stand there between them and remember the way Evie looked in the moonlight. With her hair tangled across the blanket and stars in her eyes.
It took me a couple of tries to get it right. I had to stop thinking so much about it, close my eyes and pretend like she was standing right in front of me. Wind in her hair, ruby red lips, the sun making her brown skin glow. It was easy when I went about it like that.
I didn’t bother watching it back before I posted it and haven’t quite mustered up the courage to watch it again. I had to ask Stella if I did anything weird. She had shaken her head wordlessly with her eyes full of tears. Not exactly a confidence boost. I have no explanation for the thousands of new followers on my account featuring exactly one video. Or the hundreds of thousands of comments that are both confounding and terrifying in their abject passion and enthusiasm.
I throw another box of pasta into my cart. Gus trails me down the aisle.
“It was poetic. Just—” he makes some sort of gesture with his hand that I cannot interpret. His finger and thumb pinched together and … I have no idea. I don’t want to know, frankly. “Who knew you were so eloquent under all that grunting?”
I fight the urge to grunt in response and steer my cart around the edge of the aisle. Gus leaves me for candy and beer while I debate the strawberry jam on the end cap. Evelyn liked it and I ran out three days before she left. I grab a jar and place it gently next to a carton of orange juice and three packs of fudge stripe cookies. I stare at it there in my cart like the sad sack I’ve turned into.
A little hope never hurt anyone, I reason.
Though that hope is quickly circling the drain as the silence stretches between us.
Maybe she didn’t see the video? I find that hard to believe considering her profession and the fact that every other living person in the universe has watched it at least three times.
Maybe she did see it and dropped her phone in another stagnant body of water. Or maybe she saw it and commented on the post. I haven’t figured out how to see if she did or not, and I’m too embarrassed to ask Nova for help.
Maybe she watched my video and hopped on the next plane she could.
Or maybe she saw it and laughed, pocketed her phone, and went about her business.
“All good?”
I blink away from the coffee creamers I’ve stalled in front of and glance at Sheriff Jones standing next to me. It’s weird seeing him out of uniform, almost unrecognizable in an old Orioles t-shirt and dark jeans. “What?”
“You’ve been staring at the dairy section like it’s done you personal harm for about seven minutes.” He chews around a toothpick. “Would you like to file a formal complaint?”
“No. I’m—” Tired. Losing hope. Uncomfortable that a woman in Cincinnati called me her cat daddy garden himbo in the comments section of a video meant for exactly one woman. I have no idea what that means, but it doesn’t sound good. “—fine.”
Dane makes a huffing sound. “You’ve looked better.”
I pick up a bottle of peppermint mocha creamer and eyeball it. Not so sure this should still be on the shelves in April. I put it back and grab a carton of half and half instead. “Thank you?”
It’s really a wonder why I prefer shopping in the middle of the night.
Dane picks up my discarded bottle of peppermint mocha and places it in his basket. When I stare at him a little too long because of it, he raises both eyebrows at me. “You got something against seasonal creamer?”
I shrug. “When it’s the wrong season … yes.”
Dane picks up the bottle and checks the expiration date on the bottom. Whatever he sees must be reassuring, because he drops it back into his collection. “Matty likes it,” he tells me.
Wonderful. I couldn't care any less.
I move past Sheriff Jones to the checkout line and the blissful silence beyond. I don’t want to stand here and shoot the shit a second longer. I’m tired of people talking to me. I’m tired of people asking me if I’m okay. I am tired of the unsolicited advice. At this point, I’m even tired of Layla dropping her baskets of baked goods on my front porch every morning. The heaps of pity muffins sitting on my kitchen table are starting to make me feel a little pathetic.
“I heard Gus rented out his house,” Dane offers without looking up, poking around in the butter section. Behind him, I see one of the kids from the preschool attempt to scale a balloon display. Roma, I think her name is. “The yellow one, right behind Matty’s.”
A sigh rattles out of me from somewhere deep in my chest. I know the place. “You mean the one with the porch roof he fell through?”
Dane snorts. “That’s the one.”
There had been a lot of confusion that day, wondering who should drive the ambulance when the town paramedic was laying in a heap of broken wood in the front yard.
“All the paperwork was signed a couple of days ago,” Dane adds. “That’s what I hear anyway.”
“From the phone tree?”
“From the phone tree.”
I take another step closer to the exit. “That’s good.”
“Heard the new tenant was moving in today, actually.”
I don’t care. I make my best approximation of a vaguely interested sound and keep walking.
“Maybe you should stop by.” Dane’s voice carries down the aisle. When I turn to look at him, he’s examining a container of cream cheese. His frown deepens and his eyebrows collapse into a straight line across his brow. “What do you think buffalo-style whipped cream cheese tastes like?”
I’m more interested in why he wants me to stop by the little house with daisies in the backyard. “Someone new in town, huh?”
I’m the last person anyone would want on the welcome committee. A flare of hope flickers to life in my chest along with a healthy dose of suspicion. Dane throws the cream cheese in his basket, right next to the not-appropriately-seasoned-seasonal creamer.
“Yep.” He pops the last letter of the word.
“And I should stop by?”
Dane gives me a look. “Are you having trouble hearing, Beckett?” But his eyes are smiling, a twitch at his mouth that is as close to a grin as Sheriff Dane Jones gets. “Yes, I think you should stop by.”
Except there isn’t anyone at the house.