Page 95 of In The Weeds
I drop all the wood gathered in my arms as my dad wheels around the side of the house, a grin on his face. I press a closed fist to my pounding heart and frown down at my supplies scattered at my feet. “What the hell, dad?”
He laughs. “When are you going to realize I’m always around, kiddo?”
“Never, apparently,” I grumble. He meets me at the back of the truck and leans forward in his chair, leveraging a piece of wood I’ve dropped up into his arms. He stacks it neatly next to my toolbox and gives me an amused look.
I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” he responds with a chuckle.
I roll my eyes to the sky. “Why are you home? I thought you were working.”
About seven years ago, my dad took on a different job at the produce farm. Now he works at the front office, helping manage shipments and agreements with local markets and grocery chains. He also occasionally steals the tractor when Roger Parson leaves the keys laying around.
“I took today off.”
“For what?”
“Are you my keeper now?” Another rough, amused chuckle tumbles out of his barrel chest. “What are you doing at my house in the middle of the day? With enough supplies to build your own Unabomber den, mind you.”
I glance at the haphazard stack of wood. The handsaw I borrowed from the farm. “It’s not that much,” I hedge.
“It’s enough.” He looks up at me in that way he has. Eyes squinted, one eyebrow slightly higher than the other, his lips in a thin line but tilted up at the edges—like he’s got some private joke. Every time he looks at me like that, I feel like I’m seven years old again—lying to him about what happened to the window in the back shed, my baseball bat hidden in one of the shrubs. His hand reaches for my arm and he squeezes there once, the same exact place Stella did not two hours ago. “You doing okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, not quite lying.
Because I am. I’m fine. Everything is—everything is fine. I wish everyone would stop asking me that. I just need a few hours to not think about Evie. To not replay that last conversation and see her arms curled around herself, her eyes blinking too fast.
I’m tired of seeing her every time I close my eyes. I’m tired of missing her when she’s barely been gone at all.
I blow out a breath and brush my hands off against my knees. “I just want to fix your ramp.”
My dad searches my face. “You want help?”
It’s a fight to not to clench my teeth. I really don’t. I school my features into something nice and neutral instead, organizing some of the tools by my feet. I begin to gather some of the wood, my body grateful for the task. “If you want.”
“What do you want?”
I pause with my arms full of two-by-fours. “What?”
“What do you want?” He rubs his fingertips against his bottom lip in thought. “If someone held a gun to your head right now and asked you what you want, what would you say?”
“Uh,” I look over my shoulder to make sure one of my sister’s isn’t standing nearby with a phone in their hand. He seems way too serious for a question about porch assistance. “I want someone to not be holding a gun to my head over a porch railing.”
My dad is not amused. “Beckett.”
“What? This is—” a weird conversation. “What are you asking me?”
“You’re always letting us do what we want,” my dad says after a lengthy pause. “When have you ever done what you want?”
“Like what?”
“Trivia,” he says immediately. He holds up his finger. “We all know you didn’t want to go and you went anyway.”
“Because Nova and Nessa asked me to.” And sometimes I need to be dragged out of the house or I’ll never leave it. I can acknowledge that about myself.
He flicks up another finger and digs his phone out of his pocket, tapping around and then reading from the screen. “January 16. We all ordered pizza and you ate the one with mushrooms even though you don’t like mushrooms.”
It was the only option and I had been hungry.
