“Fine.” I want to fling his plate across the bakehouse, if only to get a reaction out of him. I wait for him to say something else and when he doesn’t, I sigh. “Stella is taking me on a tour through the fields later.”
He makes a vaguely interested sound.
“It really is beautiful here.”
Another sound under his breath.
Alright, fine.
I collapse back in my seat and cross my arms over my chest, busying myself with looking out the floor-to-ceiling window to my left. From this angle, I can see a couple of kids weaving in and out of the trees—a tiny squirrel hiding in the brush, digging a hole in the dirt. The bakehouse is hidden in one of the fields, a surprise for visitors to stumble upon when they’re out hunting for the perfect tree. Inside, condensation gathers at the bottom of the windows, a perfect frame of gray-white. Tree branches brush at the windows. It feels like I’m in one of those vintage Christmas cards, and I bet it’s damn near magical when it snows.
“You know, I was walking past the strawberry fields earlier.”
I dart my gaze back to Beckett, still staring at that stupid plate. “Yeah? I didn’t know you had strawberry fields here.”
He ignores me, a bob in his throat as he swallows tightly. Stoic. Insulated. A million miles away.
“I heard some of them crying, I think.”
“What?”
“The strawberries,” he explains. “I heard some of them crying.”
I blink at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s because—” a small smile curls at the edge of his mouth, right at the corner. It tugs at his bottom lip as he shifts in his seat and I remember, viscerally, what that smile feels like tucked in the place between my shoulder and neck. He looks up at me through his lashes and it's the moment after a storm when the sun decides to peek out from behind the heavy clouds—rain still dripping from the edges of the roof, the trees, the mailbox on the corner. “It’s because their parents were in a jam, I think.”
It takes me a second to understand.
A joke.
Beckett just made a joke.
A really stupid one, too.
A surprised laugh bursts out of me, bright and loud. Several people turn to look.
But I’m too busy staring at Beckett, the grin on his face wide and unrestrained. A little bit wild. A lot bit beautiful.
I press my fist to my lips, delighted by his shining eyes. He ducks his head down and takes another bite of his zucchini bread.
“That was a dumb joke,” I tell him.
“Yeah.” His smile settles into something soft. Something I’ve felt before with the palm of my hand in the dead of night. His eyes shine bright in the afternoon sun. “Yeah, it was.”
I’m pulled out of my daydream with a sharp kick to my shin.
I jump in my seat, my knee hitting the underside of the shiny wooden table that stretches the length of the room. Josie gives me a look from her place across from me, both eyebrows raised high. I haven’t been able to keep my thoughts from drifting since I sat down at this meeting, and given the bruise forming on my leg, she’s noticed.
“How do you feel about dance?”
My agent-of-the-day, Kirstyn, taps her pen against a pale pink notepad. Peony pink. The sky right before the sun hits the water pink. Sway doesn't believe in assigning one specific agent to a client. Instead, I have a rotating fleet of young, attractive, and trendy consultants at my beck and call. Kirstyn and her severe cloud of perfume has me yearning for Derrick and his fluorescent nail polish. Shelly and her oversized blanket scarves.
Kirstyn pinches her lips together in annoyance. “Did you hear what I said?”
Josie’s teeth clamp down on her bottom lip and she widens both her eyes. Well, that looks says. Did you?
I did not. I was too busy remembering a quiet November afternoon in a sun-filled bakery. I wonder what Beckett would think of a place like this. I imagine him here, overwhelmed and confused, squinting at the chalkboard placards on the outside of each workspace. Glaring at the mason jars in the open kitchen. Scowling at the fresh cucumber water and complimentary warm hand towels.
I shake my head.
“I’m sorry,” I clear my throat and curl my hands around my mug. “Could you repeat what you said?”
Kirstyn flicks her shining blonde hair back behind her shoulder. She’s wearing oversized glasses with a thin, gold wireframe. A collection of bangles dance down her wrist. She lifts the mint green tea kettle off the tray in the center of the table and offers it to me. I shake my head.
“Dance,” she says, placing the kettle back down with a small pout. “You know, like those challenges you see everywhere?”
She gestures to her phone face up next to the tray—a cohesive stream of dancing influencers. I try to picture myself there, wedged in between all that content. I can’t even begin to imagine it and I feel a twist of anxiety. I’m pretty sure the last time I did any sort of choreographed movement, I was thirteen in my parent’s basement, singing to Backstreet Boys at the top of my lungs with Josie using an umbrella as a microphone stand.
“I know the challenges,” I offer, with no small amount of hesitation. I can see where this is going.
This isn’t where you’re supposed to be, a voice in the back of my mind whispers. It’s been getting louder and louder, that voice, a steady trickle of doubt. But if I’m not supposed to be here, where am I supposed to be? What am I supposed to be doing? I’ve spent my entire life curating this platform, building this audience.
I blink away from the phone and look out the window at the bustling sidewalk below, distracting myself with the people on the street. I watch as everyone moves past one another without looking up—a mindless, endless drive forward. A gust of wind tunnels down the sidewalk and lifts the edge of a bright red scarf. For a second, the woman clinging to it looks like she’s flying, her hand grasping at the ends. She manages to catch it just as she stumbles past a tiny empanada shop—a bright pink building with string lights across the top, sandwiched between a national box store and a glossy bank. A small woman with olive skin laughs in the window and snaps her towel at someone on the other side of the counter. A smile kicks up the corner of my mouth. I can hear her joy from here.
“Evie,” I feel Josie’s boot under the table, nudging against mine. “You okay?”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. I shake my head and force my attention back to Kirstyn. I’m all over the place today. I need a strong coffee and a six day nap. “I’m here. I’m listening. Explain to me what you’re looking for.”
“We think you should add some choreography to your videos,” Kirstyn repeats slowly, enunciating each word. I would hazard a guess that I won’t be seeing Kirstyn again after today. “Sway believes movement and dance would make your content more approachable.”
Josie slowly turns her head to look at Kirstyn. If looks could kill, I’m pretty sure Kirstyn would be a pile of ash. Movement and dance. I tap a fingernail against the lip of my cup.
“What do you suggest?”
The light pinching of her lips turns into a tightening between her eyebrows. “Dance,” she repeats, the first hint of frustration spilling out of her lightly-lined lips. “Movement—“