Page 35 of In The Weeds
Handwritten notes next to the coffee machine.
He gives me a critical look. “You don’t sound sure of it.”
“Because I’m not,” I say. I still don’t have answers to the questions buzzing in the back of my head. I still don’t have a solution to my burnout problem. “But I’m not going to have you sneaking around your own house while I figure my stuff out.” I shrug up one shoulder. “The place in Delaware is fine.”
Beckett tosses his towel back on the metal shelf and props his hands on his hips. I know he’s not doing it on purpose, but his arms flex with the movement, his inked biceps straining at the sleeves of his t-shirt. I have no idea what he was doing that caused him to sweat so much, but I’d like to pen a thank you note.
“Stay here,” he says in his gruff voice—his bossy voice—a voice that’s used to getting what it wants out here on the farm. His hand rubs at his jaw, his fingertips fanned out under his left eye. He looks tired. “Stay at the house. I’ll stop—“
“Avoiding me? Being weird?” I think for a second, voicing a suspicion. “Sleeping in your greenhouse?”
“I haven’t been sleeping in my greenhouse.”
Okay, well. He’s been doing those other things.
“I won’t stay here if it’s like this,” I tell him quietly, the fight draining out of me. “I didn’t come here to mess with your life. I wanted a little perspective and this seemed like the best place for it.”
Now I’m not so sure. I’ve been topsy-turvy since I set foot in Inglewild.
“Stay,” he says again, and he nods towards the open door. Some of the apprehension melts out of his eyes. There’s a softness there, a bit of understanding. For a second, he’s that man from Maine again. The one that tangled his fingers in my hair and pressed his lips so sweetly to mine. But then he blinks and the recognition is gone.
He grabs his hat off the shelf.
“I’ve gotta wrap up a few things and then I’ll come up to the house. I won’t be—” a smile twitches at the corners of his lips. “I won’t be weird.”
True to his word,Beckett appears about an hour later. I hear the roll of gravel in the driveway and the heavy stomp of boots up the porch steps before he swings through the front door, a guarded look on his face when he spots me sitting at his kitchen table. I rest my chin in my hand and watch as he toes his boots off and places them carefully next to mine.
“I’m making soup,” he tells me.
He says it like he expects a fight.
“Okay.”
He takes two slow steps down the hallway, closer to the kitchen. “It’s Maryland crab.”
“That sounds nice.”
He eyeballs me as he opens the fridge, one arm braced on the door, palm flat against the freezer. I try not to notice the stretch of his t-shirt. “You’re not allergic to shellfish, are you?”
It’s strange that I know what this man sounds like when he comes and the shape his fingertips leave on my hips, but when it comes to the simple things—allergies, coffee-to-creamer ratio, sock folding preference—we’re both flailing in the dark.
A different kind of intimacy, I suppose.
“I’m not allergic to shellfish.”
“Good.” He ducks his head down into the fridge and begins to pull things out—tomatoes, onions, chicken stock, two containers of crab meat, a stalk of celery—and stacks them on the counter. He drops a cutting board, a knife, and an onion in front of me.
“Can you cut this?”
I nod and let our silence fill the space between us. A pot sizzles on the stove. My knife snicks against the cutting board. Beckett mutters under his breath aboutpiss poorcelery quality.
“For the record,” I offer, in between chops. “You’re being a little weird.”
A smile quirks on his mouth and his eyes cut to mine. It feels like a peace offering, like a step in the right direction.
“For the record, I’m not trying to be.”
We find our rhythm.
