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.
Perfect.
“Morning,” she says back, voice a little scratchy at the edges. I remember it gets like that when she first wakes up, body lazy beneath the sheets. I clear my throat and continue fastening my shirt, her gaze stuck on where my hands work at my buttons, the thin strip of bare skin that is exposed. I feel the touch of her eyes like a fingertip against my skin, starting below my collarbones and teasing slowly down. A pulse of heat pounds once at the base of my spine.
“What’re you doing up?” I make myself ask. My voice sounds like I’ve swallowed a bag of rocks.
Her tongue swipes at her bottom lip as she turns her back and grabs the two mugs from the countertop. I wish she would keep staring at me, wish she would press her hands beneath this flannel and dig her nails into my skin.
She hands me a mug, her fingertips brushing mine as I curl my hand around warm ceramic.
“I’m coming with you today.” She brings her mug to her lips. “I’d like to see what you do. Would that be alright?”
I nod. She could tell me to put on a hot dog costume and do the merengue down the front steps and I’d probably agree.
“Yeah, that’s alright.”
“You’re sure?” I ask for what feels like the eighty-seventh time since we left the cabin twenty minutes ago. She gives me a look over her shovel like she’s been counting too, entirely unamused.
“Why do you think I can’t handle manual labor?”
I scratch at the back of my head roughly, squinting out over the fields. The transplants will be here soon for planting, and we’ll be all hands on deck for dig day. I prefer to dig by hand (like a lunatic, as Layla likes to say) and of course, Stella has made it into a thing. Music, snacks, a bunch of people who are frankly unhelpful with the whole process. Caleb might be a good deputy, but he digs the most lopsided holes I’ve ever seen in my life.