Page 90 of In The Weeds
“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.
