The house is dark when I pull into the driveway, but Beckett’s truck is in its usual spot, a dull glow from the greenhouse in the backyard letting me know where he is. I smile as I slip from my car and leave my things for later. I’m eager to see Beckett, to wrap my arms around his waist and squeeze.
I skip from rock to rock down the stone pathway that hugs the side of the house, counting the wooden signs in the garden as I go. More herbs than blooms on this side of the house. Basil. Thyme. Mint and rosemary. I wonder if he’ll make that chicken soup again. If he’ll taste like sage when I sit sideways in his lap and press my mouth to his.
I see him as soon as I turn the corner, his head bowed over a shelf of plants near the front. Messy hair. Strong arms. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looks like one of those old statues—the ones that sit lonely in the middle of bustling city squares, their crisp edges worn down by time. My smile falters and I trip over the edge of a tree root, sticking out at the edge of the path. The ones that look so sad.
I’m quiet as I lean up against the frame of the glass door, my fingers itching with the need to smooth my palms over those tight shoulders. Press my face in the space between until he releases a deep, relieved breath. I want to make it go away, whatever it is.
“Hey,” I tip my head against the door and watch as his entire body goes rigid, half-bent over a pot of fledgling poinsettias. He’s frozen where he is, my arrival clearly unexpected. Unwelcome, by the looks of it. A cascade of nerves flutter in my belly and I pause. “What’re you up to?”
It’s so good to see you, I want to say. Two days and I missed you like crazy.
He straightens out of his crouched position and sets his watering can to the side, his movements slow and hesitant. It’s like he’s forgotten where he is, what he’s supposed to be doing. He glances at me slowly, a thin tremble of confusion twisting at his lips.
“I’m finishing up a few things,” he tells me, voice rough. He wipes his palms against the front of his jeans, clenches them into fists, and shoves them into his pockets. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m staying here, aren’t I?” I laugh. He doesn’t. The smile slips right off my face. My heart jumps to my throat and everything in my body tightens. “Is everything alright?” He remains quiet. The space between us feels like a chasm. “Did something happen with the trees?”
“No,” he shakes his head and glances out one of the big windows. The sky glows behind him, a bright and fierce orange. One last burst of brilliant color. “No, nothing happened with the trees.”
“Your family okay?”
He nods.
“Alright, good.” I glance over my shoulder at the back porch, the two chairs that look like they’re a little bit further apart than the last time we sat in them. “Why are you out here so late?”
Why is the house dark?
Why won’t you look at me?
Why haven’t you kissed me yet?
“Evelyn,” he sighs, exhausted. He drags his gaze up from the floor to blink at me slowly. “What are we doing?”
Evelyn. I feel that like a pinch. A tiny prick to my heart. He hasn’t called me by my full name in weeks.
“Well,” I rub my fingertips against my heart and urge myself to settle. “Right now, it sounds like you have something to say to me.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know that’s not what you meant,” I sigh. Maybe I should go back to the car, do a lap around the farm, and we can try this again. I had been so excited to see him, so relieved to be back in this place. And he’s treating me like my arrival is the worst thing that could have happened. “What’s going on? Why are you upset?”
“I’m not upset.”
“Beckett. You can barely look at me.” His jaw clenches and impatience grabs me by the throat. “If you have something to say, I’d wish you’d just—”
“What are you doing here, Evie?” He asks in a rush. I take a half-step forward and he takes two steps back, his hands gripping the metal frame of the shelf he’s backed into like he needs the anchor to keep himself grounded. In all this frantic motion, he’s sure to keep his body away from mine. We don’t touch anywhere, and I feel that absence like a hand to my chest, demanding distance. His eyes search mine, desperate and a little bit hurt. “What’s your plan? Are you coming or are you going?”
“What are you talking about? I thought I was coming home.” His face crumples and I have no idea what’s going on. “Do you want me to leave? I don’t understand.”
He pushes off the shelf but I reach out and grip his t-shirt in both hands, hauling him close. “No. No, you explain what the hell you’re talking about. Right now, Beckett.”
“You left.”
“Yes.” I left for two days. I came right back. I bought him a stupid gas station t-shirt and a koozie for his beer.
He curls his hands around my wrists and squeezes gently, urging me to let go of his shirt. I do, and he takes three steps across the small space, his back against the same table he propped me up on two nights ago. I can barely make out the shape of the man who pressed a kiss to my neck and tangled a flower in my hair.
“You didn’t bother to tell me,” he says. “I thought you left for good.”
“I left a note.” Right in the middle of the table. Next to a thermos of coffee and a stack of mail.
“There was no note.”
“But I left one.” I think about the scribbles at the bottom of the page, how I agonized over what to write. Guess that didn’t matter. “I drew flowers on it. Tulips.”
He doesn’t move an inch, not even a flex of his fingers at his side. “There wasn’t a note on the table when I got home. There wasn’t anything.”
A lead weight sinks in my chest.
“I left all of my stuff in the spare bedroom.”
“I didn’t check.”
“Well, maybe you should have,” I snap. All he had to do was crack open the door to see my laundry thrown all over the place.
“I didn’t want to see an empty room.” His response thunders out of him, a fist against the table. “I didn’t want to look at the place you were and find you gone.”
“You think I could just leave?”
He shrugs and I know exactly what he’s going to say the moment before he says it.
“You’ve never had trouble leaving,” he accuses, and I feel the words like a slice against my skin.
That was before, I want to tell him. Before I stood in your kitchen and watched you make pancakes. Before I sat on your back porch and listened to you talk about the stars. Before you trusted me with all of your smiles. Before you let me know you.
Before I fell in love with you.
“You’ll leave again,” he adds as an afterthought, his shoulders curling in. He looks exhausted, completely spent. Dark circles under his eyes and a strain in the lines of his body that I haven’t seen since that night at the bar, when everything was too loud around him.
“You’re gonna keep leaving, Evie.” His face twists in naked longing.”Why wouldn’t you?”
Oh, I think quietly. There it is.
“Then ask me to stay.” The words are out of my mouth before I can consider them. They hold in the space between us, impatient. Pleading.
His eyes meet mine and he shakes his head once.