Page 43 of In The Weeds
“I’ll stay. I think I’m finding some happy out here.“ She looks at her hands with a grin, the dirt caked over her knuckles. Her eyes find mine and her smile tips wider. “Out here in the weeds.”
I take the longest,coldest shower of my life.
Watching her in the fields today had been torture. She fits here, with her boots in the dirt and her hand shading her eyes against the rising sun, calling out to me over the wide stretch of land. She fits on my back porch with her legs curled under her, chin on her knee, asking seventeen questions a minute.
Evelyn is not here for you,I tell myself as I stand beneath the stream of cold water. I close my eyes and ignore the pull of wanting—the rising warmth in my chest that’s a whole lot more dangerous than any feelings of lust.She came here for something that isn’t you.
She probably fits everywhere she goes. That’s the magic of Evelyn. She can find a comfortable nook for herself in every coffee shop, food stand, and hole-in-the-wall she visits.
Me, meanwhile. I fit here. Only here. On this stretch of land where I can go entire days without talking to a single person.
My phone begins to buzz on the counter by the sink and I groan, knocking my head against the shower wall. I had plans to disappear into the greenhouse tonight, lose myself in trimming and planting until the image of Evelyn laughing next to the tractor fades out of my mind. Until I can look at her and not … notwantso damn much.
I slam my hand on the shower handle and it gives an answering croak of protest. If I’m not careful, this house will be in pieces by the time Evelyn decides to leave. That thought doesn’t do anything to ease my dark mood and when I finally manage to answer the phone, I’m thoroughly agitated, a shiver working over my body from the icy water.
“What?”
A beat of silence. “Is that how you answer the phone for your sister?”
I hang up the phone and slam it down on my dresser. It immediately starts ringing again. I suck in a deep breath through my nose as I pull on my clothes and answer on the third ring.
“Hi, Nessa. What can I do for you?”
She hums. “That’s better.” I hear the low melody of a piano in the background. She must be at the studio. “You never answered my text about trivia.”
I grunt and continue to not answer her about trivia. I grab a t-shirt from the top drawer of my dresser, an old faded one with an angry badger stretched across the chest. Luka’s mom is head of the PTA at the high school and I buy a shirt every year. I’m afraid of what might happen if I don’t.
“What’s going on with Harper?” I deflect, wrestling myself into my jeans. I jam my knee into my dresser and curse under my breath.
“We’re not talking about Harper. We’re talking about trivia.”
I ignore her. “What’s going on with Harper?”
There’s a lengthy pause. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“She’s been quiet at dinner and now she’s not going to trivia.”
“She hasn’t been feeling well lately,” she answers in a rush. The music in the background cuts out abruptly. “Woman things.”
“Nessa.”
“What?”
“You can’t just saywoman thingsto get me to stop asking questions. When has that ever worked?” I slam my dresser drawer shut, frustrated with this conversation. Myself. The universe. “What’s going on with Harper?”
“Okay, well,” she breathes out a heavy sigh. “You can’t get mad.”
I look up at the ceiling and beg for patience. I’m already mad. So it’s not a lie when I say: “I won’t get mad.”
“You can’t do anything about it.”
“I won’t do anything about it,” I grit out from between clenched teeth.
“Really? Because the last time you said that—“
“Vanessa.”
She pauses and I pull my shirt over my head. “She was seeing Carter again,” she says slowly, dragging out each word with reluctance. A hot flash of anger immediately grabs me by the throat. “And he broke things off with her over the weekend.”
