Chapter 7
7
CHARLIE
“Where are you?”
I glance around Stella’s office. There are haphazard stacks of paper on every flat surface, manilla envelopes in precariously leaning piles. Four days here and I still haven’t figured out what system this is all organized by. I’m starting to think it’s more of a toss it up and hope for the best situation.
That’s not what my dad is asking though. There’s one question on his mind, though he’d rather meander through pointless small talk than just ask it.
Why aren’t you in New York?
“I’m working remotely,” I tell him, shifting my laptop three inches to the left and almost sending a stack of pine-scented air fresheners to the ground. I wedge my phone between my shoulder and ear and collect them, opening the top drawer to shove them inside. Except there are about seven thousand more air fresheners in this drawer, and I couldn’t wedge in another if I tried. I drop them in my lap. “Where are you?”
He hates when I’m deliberately vague. He also hates when I’m conversational. I’m pretty sure he hates me on principle, but that doesn’t stop me from answering his phone calls, some stupidly hopeful piece of my head and heart wondering if this time might be different.
“I’m at the house,” he says, sounding distracted.
The house he shouldn’t have a key to because my mother kicked him out almost two years ago before starting her rediscovery journey. She’s been traveling all over the globe for the past year, some sort of Eat, Pray, Love thing happening.
I’m happy for her. I’m also…frustrated that I’m the one left dealing with this dumbass.
“Why are you at the house?”
“Relax. Your mother is in Cape Town. Or something.” I hear the clink of glass on the other end of the phone. I guess eleven in the morning is a fine time to start drinking.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re not supposed to be there, whether mom is there or not. She wouldn’t like it. I don’t like it. You have a house. Go there.”
He makes a huffing noise that more or less conveys the sentiment I don’t care what your mother does or does not like. He’s made that abundantly clear. He dragged his feet through the entirety of the divorce proceedings and fought my mother on every little detail.
And apparently, has not returned his house key.
I make a note to change the locks.
“I came to grab a few things from the office. Her lawyer is here, making sure everything is to her satisfaction.”
My shoulders relax. A chaperone makes me feel slightly better. Still changing those locks though.
“And you decided to make a stop at the liquor cart?”
He doesn’t answer me. “Where are you, and why are you not at the office?”
“I’m working remotely,” I say again. My dad and I have never had a good relationship. My entire life, I’ve been running to reach his insurmountable standards. I’ve always thought if I could just work a little harder, be a little smarter, he might notice. He might be proud. But every time I jump, he cuts me at the knees.
But I can’t stop myself from trying. For whatever reason.
“I heard you the first time you said it,” he grunts. “I’m asking why.”
I sigh and rub my palm over the back of my neck, reclining in Stella’s chair. It squeaks ominously, then jerks me to a completely prone position with a quick jolt. I blink up at the ceiling. “I’m helping Stella out for a few weeks.”
He’s silent for so long, I have to glance at my screen to make sure we’re still connected. I crank the desk chair back to a reasonable position.
“A few weeks?” he finally manages. “What could she possibly need help with for weeks? You need to be here, managing your clients. I heard from Wes Billings, you know. He isn’t happy with your performance.”
Wes Billings hasn’t been happy with anyone’s performance for the past six decades.
“Did you forget you have responsibilities here?” he continues. “A job?”
Because that’s always what’s been most important to my dad. Not family. Not relationships. But the job, the clients, and how much money he can rake in. His reputation and what the industry thinks of him.
“I am aware I have a job, which is why I made arrangements to work remotely.”
Beckett appears in the doorway, rapping his knuckles against the frame, one of his cats draped over his shoulder. I pull my phone away from my ear and place it flat on the desk, the tinny faraway sound of my father delivering a lecture weaving in and out. I tap mute as Beckett slips into the chair across from me.
“Everything okay?” he asks as my father’s voice picks up volume and speed. I want to fling my phone through the window. I want to bury it beneath all of Stella’s air fresheners.
“Everything is fine. He’ll be going on for a bit. Thanks for coming over.”
Beckett nods, kicking out his legs. The cat on his shoulder nudges the side of his head with her nose and then scampers down his arm to his lap. Prancer, I think. Or maybe Comet. It’s hard to tell which cat is which between the four of them. She curls up in a tiny ball, and he rests his palm on her back. He looks relaxed, content.
Maybe I should get a cat.
I pick up my phone again.
“…your job is what you should be focusing on. Your legacy. Our legacy.”
He didn’t seem so concerned with his legacy when he was acting like a giant asshole around the office. “Got it. Listen, Dad. I’ve got to go. A work thing just popped up.”
Beckett’s face scrunches in confusion.
“What sort of work thing?” my dad bellows.
An intervention between the tree farmer and the baker because they’re still not speaking to each other, and my toxic trait is wanting everyone to get along all the time.
“I can’t share client details,” I deflect.
He sighs. I can picture the exact face he’s making. Disappointment and exhaustion, the baseline of our relationship.
“You need to get yourself together, Charlie. You’re embarrassing me.”
I press two fingers to the bridge of my nose and ignore the familiar burn of frustration. That’s nothing new either. It’s the role I’ve always managed to fill perfectly for my father. The family embarrassment. The wayward child. It doesn’t matter how much money I make or how well I do, he’ll always just see me as his too-loud kid that got in trouble with teachers for talking too much and could never quite figure out how to hand in his homework on time.
I’m a grown man. The fact that my father can still reduce me to second-guessing and overthinking is ridiculous.
“Noted,” I manage. “Luckily that’s something we’re both familiar with. Next time you need to reach me, get in touch with Selene. She can slot some time on my calendar.”
“Charlie, you need to—”
I hang up the phone and toss it in the same drawer as the pine-tree air fresheners. Only to pull it out again and set it face down on top of a stack of papers marked PUMPKIN SZN . I don’t want to miss a text from Nova. If she decides to text.
She hasn’t in the past four days, but like I said, I can be patient.
Beckett clears his throat on the other side of the desk. The cat kneads her tiny little feet into his thigh.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, only managing to sound slightly hesitant.
“Not particularly.” I cross my ankle over my knee and almost knock down another stack of files. This office is going to give me hives. “It was my father’s weekly check-in to make sure I’m not a smudge on the family name.”
Beckett gives me a look and adjusts his hat so it’s backward, dark blond hair peeking through the snapback. “Your dad sounds like an asshole.”
I laugh. “Not only does he sound like an asshole, he is one. You have impeccable hearing, by the way.”
“A lifetime spent listening,” he says easily enough. “Or a lifetime spent with three sisters.”
One of which I’ve been flirting with. Very poorly, if her lack of communication is any indication. Luckily, I’m saved from responding by Layla appearing in the doorway, a tray clutched in her hands. She stops abruptly at the threshold and looks at Beckett. Her eyes narrow.
“You,” she seethes.
So much for this meeting going smoothly. “Come in,” I say easily. “Sit down. We’re having a meeting.”
“What sort of meeting?”
“A necessary one.” I point at the empty seat next to Beckett. “Take a seat.”
She remains standing, hands tightening at the edge of her foil until it’s bent beneath her grip. “I’ll stand.”
Beckett sighs. “Layla, come on.”
Her head snaps in his direction. “Do you have something you’d like to say to me?”
He swallows heavily. “We’re still doing this?”
“Yeah. We’re still doing this.” She rips back the top of her container and extends it in my direction, not looking away from Beckett for a second. “Here, Charlie. Would you like a slice of zucchini bread?”
Zucchini bread happens to be Beckett’s favorite. He makes a pained noise as the tray passes in front of his face, fingertips at the bridge of his nose. I shrug and decide this really can’t get any worse. I might as well have a snack. I pluck out a piece with what must be ten thousand chocolate chips and take a bite.
Beckett looks offended.
“All right,” I say around a mouthful of crumbs. “This is your opportunity to get it all out in the open. No more fighting after today.” I gesture toward Layla. “You first.”
She drops her tray on the empty chair and crosses her arms over her chest. “No, thank you. I have two more batches of apple cider donuts to make this morning—”
Beckett shifts in his seat. Layla doesn’t even glance at him.
“—and I’ll know if someone sneaks into my kitchen to steal them. I’m too busy to have this conversation.”
“Layla,” Beckett sighs. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you make my wedding cake. You could—” He drags his palm along his jaw with a long-suffering look. “You could make it now, if you wanted? I’m sure it would be amazing.”
The compliment falls flat. Layla turns her head slowly, narrowing her eyes. “You think you deserve my cake? After everything?”
He drops his head back against the chair and sighs at the ceiling. Prancer hops off his lap and darts beneath the desk. “I’m trying here, Layla. I really am. I hate fighting with you.” He glances at the discarded zucchini bread and swallows heavily. “What can I do to make this better?”
She watches him for a long minute. Tension blankets the room. Part of me wants to leave, but another part of me is afraid of what might happen if I do.
Finally, Layla’s shoulders curl forward, defeated.
“I didn’t even know you were thinking of proposing,” she says. “You didn’t tell me. You told me about Clarabelle biting through her fourth leather leash, and you told me about the duck’s feeding schedule, but you never once mentioned that you planned to make Evie your wife.” She sniffs. “I should have been there. With a cake and a very tasteful speech. But instead, you snuck off in the middle of the afternoon and got married by some—by some hot dog cart vendor.”
Beckett blinks, shifts in his chair, and then clears his throat. He looks uncomfortable and for good reason. No one likes to see Layla cry. “He didn’t marry us. He was just the witness.”
“Who was?”
“The hot dog cart vendor.”
“Whatever.” She turns her face away. “I don’t care.”
She very much does care. It’s why the three of us are sitting in an awkward silence that’s only interrupted by Beckett’s cat digging her nails into the wood beneath Stella’s desk.
“Layla,” Beckett says. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. It was…it was a spur of the moment decision.” Layla snorts, but Beckett sits up in his seat, hand messing with his hat again. “Really. It was. I didn’t even propose, I just—I woke up and saw her in the kitchen making coffee. Her socks were mismatched, and she had this line from her pillow on her cheek, and I don’t know, I asked her to marry me. I didn’t even have a ring. Or a plan. Obviously.”
Layla glances at him, weighing the truth of his words. “Where did that fancy emerald come from, then?”
I reach across the desk and pull the tray of zucchini bread on my lap, captivated.
The tips of Beckett’s ears turn red. “There was a pawnshop down the street from the courthouse.”
I groan. “You got your wife a ring from a pawnshop?”
Beckett shrugs and looks down at his boots, fingers plucking at some of the stuffing that’s squeezing out of the beaten-up cushion he’s sitting on. Stella really needs to replace the furniture in here. “Neither of us wanted to wait. She said it didn’t matter.”
Layla reaches out and smacks him in the arm.
Beckett curls his body away from her. “What the hell?”
“Goddamn it, Beckett! I can’t be mad now! That’s romantic.” She rounds the chair and collapses in it, the velvet material making a weird wheezing noise. “It’s also perfect for the two of you. I’m just upset I wasn’t there.” She points her finger in his face. “I should have been there.”
He slaps her hand away. “That’s fine.”
“I still want to make the cake.”
He perks up. “That is definitely fine.”
I clap my hands together behind the desk. Mending bridges. Repairing relationships. Ordering…hay. This meeting is officially a success. I am ten thousand miles away from my other life, where everything is shiny, and my phone doesn’t stop ringing, and my brain hops from one thing to the next without taking a damn second to breathe. Where I sit alone in an office and watch the world spin out below my feet.
There are things I like about New York. I like the anonymity and the looming expanse of it all. I like my apartment and the way it’s never truly dark, the glow of the city at night like a million fallen stars just outside my window. I like the subway beneath my feet on cold mornings and coffee in little blue paper cups, warm between my palms. Hot dogs in wax paper and the press of the crowd during the morning rush, everyone moving together. I like losing myself, but sometimes—
Sometimes I think I miss being known.
I miss having a place I fit. People who remember that I like zucchini bread with extra chocolate chips. An overstuffed chair covered in horrendous green velvet, one of the arm rests wobbling every time I try to rest my chin in my hand. A cat weaving between my legs while I try to figure out how I can get Beckett to agree to a dinner where he may or may not be the center of attention.
Layla pats the top of my hand. “Hey. Where’d you go?”
I drag my hand over my face. “Nowhere.” Everywhere. “Sorry, I’m here. I’m listening.”
I was diagnosed with ADHD as a kid after my parents dragged me to a staggering amount of doctors to “fix the problem.” My dad’s words, not mine. If my dad could have paid money for all of it to go away, he would have. He still sees it as his biggest failure as a parent, this thing that means my brain works a little bit differently than everyone else’s. As a kid, I was overactive. Talked a mile a minute. Had trouble focusing and engaging with others while my brain was going at a sprint. I’d forget where I put my stuff and forget where I was supposed to be at certain times. I’d get anxious and then sad and then sad about being anxious.
As an adult, it’s easier. I’ve learned to work with my brain instead of against it. But I still drift from time to time.
Layla smiles at me. “Do you want me to repeat what I just said?”
“Yes, please.”
“We were discussing the harvest festival.”
I frown. “What harvest festival?”
Beckett leans forward, and Layla finally allows him to scoop up some crumbs from the tray with his fingertips.
“Every year the town throws a harvest festival,” he explains. “But they’re trying to make a big thing of it this year. Make it a destination event or something. Stella is on the committee.”
My knee works up and down beneath the desk. Prancer darts out and finds her spot back on Beckett’s lap. “Neither of you mentioned this during our planning. Did you?”
We had several weeks of covert meetings over FaceTime as we tried to figure out the logistics of me taking over management of the farm while Stella and Luka went on their honeymoon. I don’t remember hearing about a committee, but sometimes it’s hard for me to keep track of the details.
Beckett shrugs. “It slipped my mind.”
Layla fusses with the edge of her skirt. “Mine too.”
I dart my eyes between them. “Why are you guys being weird?”
Layla’s “We’re not being weird” overlaps Beckett’s “You’re the one who’s being weird.”
I frown at them. They exchange a glance.
Layla sighs. “Neither of us…want to be on the committee.”
Beckett crosses his arms over his chest. “If you make me be on this committee, I will quit on the spot.”
“Please don’t do that.” I scratch at my jaw. I have no idea how to plant…anything. And Stella would be pissed if she came back to a farm without any farmers. “What’s wrong with the committee?”
“They meet on Thursdays,” Layla explains. “Thursday is deep-dish pizza night at Matty’s. Caleb doesn’t like to miss it.”
That makes sense. The man loves his deep-dish pepperoni.
I look at Beckett. “And you?”
He arches a single eyebrow. Ah. Of course. Beckett doesn’t like talking to most people. I can imagine a town committee meeting might push him right over the edge.
“Does this mean…” Hope flares. “Can I be on the committee? Can I take Stella’s spot?”
Layla blinks at me. “You want to be on the committee?”
“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
Fuck, I’ve been trying to get on an Inglewild town committee for years. The drama is always excellent, and I’m tired of hearing about it from the phone tree.
My phone blinks with a message on the desk. I pick it up, expecting a schedule update from Selene along with a string of colorful commentary about fielding calls from my father. But I almost fumble the damn thing when I see Nova’s name. I glance up at Beckett, but the tray of zucchini bread in his lap has his full attention. And Layla’s occupied with her phone, probably texting Caleb something pornographic about croissants.
It’s a good thing too, because I almost fall out of my chair when I see what Nova’s sent.
A picture of her in front of a long mirror, one hand on her phone and the other on the buttons of her shirt. She’s clearly undone a few for the sake of the photo, the rose between her breasts on full display. One shiny black fingernail traces the stem of it.
NOVA: You gave me a new wallpaper. It seemed fair that I send you one back.
I immediately save the picture to my phone. And then glance at Beckett again.
He’s talking to Layla about adding more chocolate chips to the zucchini bread, not concerning himself with the wheezing sound that probably just left my mouth.
Thank god.
CHARLIE: Have we unlocked sexy texting? Is this a thing we do now?
NOVA: You started it.
Didn’t realize that the picture I set as her wallpaper did it for her, but good to know.
CHARLIE: I’m enjoying this development.
NOVA: I bet you are.
CHARLIE: Anything you want to ask me? While we’re both here?
NOVA: Yeah.
I watch the three dots on my phone with laserlike focus.
NOVA: Did you see Ms. Beatrice is doing brown sugar lattes?
I hide my smile in my fist, knuckles rubbing roughly against my jaw. Nova Porter is a tease.
CHARLIE: Cruel woman.
CHARLIE: And no, I didn’t. Appreciate the info.
NOVA:
“Everything okay?” Beckett asks.
I keep my head ducked. I’m grinning like an idiot. “All good.”
I’m better than good.
Nova is flirting back.