Page 38 of In The Weeds
“I wanted to be a journalist, you know? I thought I’d work for National Geographic or maybe The New York Times. Something amazing.” The confession trips off my tongue easily enough, loosened by wine and the smell of fresh earth. Spring rain and dirt. “I wanted to travel so badly. See all the places from those features. I got into the media studies program at Pratt and I thought I’d made it. I was so sure I’d be able to land a good job after graduation. But I didn’t. I kept going to interviews with my portfolio and it was always the same. Too whimsical. Too lighthearted.” I shrug and remember one painful interview, where a woman with a high collar flicked her eyes up and down my arms and told me I didn’t have the rightlookfor on-camera work. “Too brown.”
Beckett shifts in his seat, the wood creaking under his weight, but I don’t look at him. I can’t.
“I went home to lick my wounds and my parents were having trouble with their shop. They own a boutique in Portland. They sell—all sorts of stuff, really. All locally sourced and produced. I had a YouTube channel with a decent following that I played around with. But I made some videos for my parents and it just—took off. The rest is history.”
It all snowballed from there. Traffic increased for the store. My accounts began to attract attention. I started bopping around my old neighborhood, talking to people. Asking about their business and what they were doing. Their passions. Their interests. Just everyday people doing incredible things.
I don’t know when I stopped. Or why.
I glance at Beckett out of the corner of my eye when he doesn’t say anything. “I know you think it’s stupid, but social media helps me connect. It’s like having a conversation on a massive scale. I really am trying to help people.”
He looks startled. “What?”
“I’m not just posting pictures all day. There’s a strategy behind it. Planning.” A never-ending cycle of content. A crushing desire for more, more, more. Unsolicited opinions and criticism.
“I know that.” He’s looking at me like he doesn’t understand the words coming out of my mouth. Like I just jumped out of this chair and slapped a chicken suit on and started doing the Macarena. “I don’t think what you do is stupid.”
I blink at him. “Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You said so.”
“When?”
“When I was staying here in November. When I was here to evaluate the farm.” When he figured out who I really was and looked at me like I wasn’t worth his time.
He frowns. “I never said anything about your job being stupid.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Evelyn. No, I didn’t.” He drags his palm down his face. “How could I think your job is stupid? Look what it did for us. For the town.”
“Oh.” Alright then. I have no response to that.
I stare out at the yard and try to remember the specifics of that conversation. Beckett interrupts with a question.
“Where are you looking?”
“For what?” I want to thumb between his eyebrows until that line disappears. He spends too much time frowning.
“For your happy. Where do you think you’ll find it?”
“I don’t know.” I curl my hand around my glass until the condensation tickles my palm. I’m busy thinking about my answer when he finds one for me.
“Cause I think it’s still in there somewhere.” He gestures in my general direction with his bottle. “You wouldn’t glow like that if it wasn’t.”
He finishes his drink and places it down by his feet, and then tilts his head to look back out at the fields like what he said didn’t slam me right in the chest. “It’s okay if it takes you some time to find it again. And it’s okay if you find it just to lose a bit of it here and there. That’s the beauty of it, yeah? It comes and goes. Not every day is a happy one and it shouldn’t be. It’s in the trying, I think.”
I clear the cobwebs out of my throat. “Trying to be happy?”
“No.” He shakes his head once. “That doesn’t work. Trying to be happy is like—it’s like telling a flower to bloom.” He crosses his ankles and drags his palm against his stubble. “You can’t make yourself be happy. But you can be open to it. You can trust yourself enough to feel it when you stumble on it.”
I stare at him. Stare and stare and stare.
“You’re not what I expected, Beckett Porter.” Not now. Not the last time I saw him. And not that hazy evening in Maine, when he walked in a door like he’d been looking for me forever.
One of the cats wanders out from the house and jumps into Beckett’s lap, settling on his thigh with a wide yawn. He drops a heavy hand over her back and smooths it gently down over soft fur. His smile is almost shy when he looks at me.
