Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Joey
“I slept with him.” I cover my face with my hands and groan.
“I knew it!” my sister shouts, startling a sleeping Vera.
“You dirty little harlot,” Marnie says. “I’m proud of you, Jojo.”
Charlie gives her best friend a devious look. “You know what to do.”
With a curt nod, Marnie jumps out of her seat and sprints toward the front of A New Leaf, flipping the open sign to closed.
I sigh. They want uninterrupted gossip time.
In a matter of seconds, Marnie is back, plopping herself down onto the stool and settling her chin in her hands like someone impatiently waiting for presents.
Shrugging, I pick up a stray leaf from the countertop and spin it between my fingers. “We had sex. That’s all. No big deal.”
Me and the phrase It’s no big deal rarely go together. With me, it’s always a big deal. In fact, despite having just said otherwise, I’m thinking this is a ginormous deal.
My sister sits back, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. “Joey, you’re on the verge of breaking out in hives.”
I tuck my chin, and sure enough, there are already pink splotches forming on my chest.
God dammit. Whose bright idea was it to give me a nervous system that exposes my lies? It’s impossible to keep secrets with a built-in lie detector like this.
I tip my head back and groan. “Fine. I’m afraid that I’m going to catch feelings. Or maybe I already have. I don’t know.”
Eyes wide, Marnie shakes her head. “Wow. Now that you’re back in Hemlock, you really came, saw, and conquered. . .and then came again. Didn’t you?”
“Marnie,” Charlie and I yell.
Wincing, she gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry. Okay, in all seriousness—”
My sister scoffs at that.
Marnie shoots daggers in her direction. “As I was saying, I didn’t think you’d fall in love so fast after getting your donut glazed.”
I slap my hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh.
“I’m firing you,” Charlie deadpans.
“Have you two thought about attending couples counseling?” I tease.
“No,” Charlie huffs.
“I keep asking her to go,” Marnie nearly shouts.
Chuckling, I rest my arms on the wooden counter. “It’s not love. It’s just affection. He’s so nice and thoughtful. And he doesn’t ever get annoyed with me.”
“Even when you failed to mention watching the dogs? I was sure he’d be looking for a new place to live after that,” Charlie says.
“Even when I failed to mention the dogs.” I nod. “He also volunteers at the animal shelter and watches movies with his mom on Friday nights. The man bakes bread, for crying out loud. And it’s really fucking good bread.”
Marnie giggles, though she covers her mouth like she’s trying to rein herself in.
Inhaling deeply, I look at her. “Go on.”
“What?” Her mouth turns down at the corners.
“Come on. Get it out of your system. It’s bubbling out of you.”
Lips pressed together, she eyes me, then Charlie. “Is he going to knead your buns tonight?”
My sister and I groan in unison at her ridiculous humor.
“May I?” I ask Charlie
She sweeps an arm out in front of her. “Be my guest.”
I lock eyes with Marnie. “You’re fired.”
Accepting her fate, she bobs her head. “I deserve that.” Her lips twitch as she straightens. “Bread baking is a definite green flag.”
My sister hums. “Yeah, that would do me in. I love a good carb.”
“Yeah,” Marnie says, “I do love a steamy dough daddy, that’s for sure.”
“So,” my sister drawls. “What are you going to do?”
My stomach sinks. “Pretend everything is fine and ignore my feelings, hoping they’ll go away.”
“Ah, yes. Because that always works out so well in the end,” Marnie jokes.
I let out a resigned sigh. “There’s an expiration date. One that could easily take us to opposite sides of the country. We lead totally different lives. I can’t see us having a successful relationship outside of Hemlock. We’re too different.”
Eyes narrowed, Charlie scrutinizes me. “Maybe you two aren’t as different as you think.”
Throughout the drive back to the cottage, Charlie’s words replay in my mind.
On the outside, we couldn’t be more different.
Yet, on the inside, there are undeniable commonalities.
In a short amount of time, we’ve discovered that we feel safe enough around each other to be ourselves.
I don’t judge him for his social anxiety; he doesn’t judge me for.
. .well, anything. All my apologizing and forgetfulness don’t faze him one bit.
At his core, Beckett’s a good guy. The type of guy a girl could bring home to her family. The kind said family would fall head over heels for. The type of guy who makes all the old ladies swoon because he holds the door open for them with a smile and a blush.
The type of guy who makes me smile and blush.
When I pull up to the cottage, the only light on is the one over the front door. Beckett must be working late tonight. It’s been a few days since we’ve seen each other. And I kinda miss him.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been alone on the road for so long, but it’s refreshing to have someone to come home to at night. There’s a sense of comfort in having a person I can joke around and share a meal with after a long day.
Inside, I turn on the lamp on the entryway table, then lock the door behind me with a sigh. The place is silent, so tonight it’s just me, myself, and. . .
Meow.
And Barbara.
The persnickety cat saunters down the stairs, her tail flicking back and forth.
To be fair, we have been getting along better. So she is growing on me.
Once I’ve dropped my bags at the front door, I make my way to my room to slip on my pajamas and a bathrobe. I made the grave mistake of wearing jeans today, and I lost circulation in my lower extremities about three hours ago.
In the kitchen, there’s a sketchpad and an assortment of sketching mediums on the island. Graphite pencils, charcoal, colored pencils and even a few ink pens. Confused, I step closer, and that’s when I see the note.
I know you use crossword puzzles to decompress, but I read an article a couple of days ago that mentioned drawing can reduce stress hormones.
You mentioned that you used to sketch and weren’t sure why you stopped, so I thought this might help.
(Although, I’m not sure I was supposed to hear that because you mumbled it.) Regardless of my accidental eavesdropping, I saw these today and thought of you.
I hope you like them and don’t think I’m overstepping.
PS Barbara told me she wants a portrait of her.
PPS Barbara also said she wants you to draw Norma. She said something about clawing it up once you’re finished? Not sure. You’ll have to take it up with her.
PPPS There’s also a new crossword puzzle book on the coffee table as an apology in case I overstepped with all of this.
-B
Heart in my throat, I read it again.
And again.
I take in each word carefully, at a complete loss.
Appreciation swells up inside me at the thought of Beckett going out of his way for me.
That he remembered such a simple detail I mentioned offhand weeks ago speaks volumes.
This is a true reflection of his character.
Always watching. Always listening. Always observing.
With a trembling hand, I pull my phone from my bathrobe pocket and send him a quick text.
You didn’t overstep.
I know you’ve been worrying.
Beckett
Thank fuck. I’ve been checking my phone every thirty minutes. The charge nurse was about to take it away.
Wow. You’ve been a bad boy at work, haven’t you?
Beckett
Josephine. . .
Not the time nor the place.
And why is that?
Beckett
Scrub fabric isn’t very forgiving.
Fair enough.
In all seriousness, thank you for the sketchbook and wide assortment of drawing materials. It’s so thoughtful.
Beckett
You’re very welcome.
I know work has been tough lately, and I wanted to put a smile on your face.
*Hopefully put a smile on your face.
You know, because I was worried about overstepping and all that.
Lucky for you, you succeeded.
Grinning like a fool, I peer over at Barbara, who’s laser-focused on me.
I wander over to her and scratch her head. “If I feed you, do you promise not to bite my fingers off?”
Barbara purrs into my palm in response.
I’m taking that as a good sign.
After I get her settled with her dinner, I flop onto the couch with my crossword puzzle, only to discover that the little black-and-white squares don’t hold their usual appeal tonight.
Attention drifting to the kitchen island, I bite the inside of my lip.
Then, with a long breath in, I walk over and grab the sketchbook and graphite pencils.
It’s been years since I’ve drawn anything more than a silly doodle on scrap paper. When I was younger, I would draw so much that my parents ran out of room on their fridge to display my work.
Jack was always annoyed that my art got prime real estate on that fridge while his below-average spelling quizzes got tucked behind my drawings.
Charlie, on the other hand, couldn’t have cared less. If anything, she would snatch one of my drawings and use it as a bookmark. In fact, that sentimental curmudgeon of a woman still has a few in her favorite books.
Settled on the couch again, I tuck my legs beneath me and flip open the sketch pad. For several minutes, I stare at the empty page, not knowing where to begin. At first, as the tip of my pencil hovers hesitantly over the page, I’m convinced I’ve forgotten how to sketch altogether.
Gripping my pencil firmly, I press it to the paper and, with deliberate strokes, sketch the thing I love the most.
Wildflowers.
Petals and leaves unfurl before me, creating bountiful blooms that fill every inch of the paper.
I’ve always loved the untamed beauty of wildflowers.
How no two blossoms are alike—each imperfectly perfect but beautiful all the same.
It’s captivating, the way their vibrant colors paint rolling green hills and decorate rugged seaside cliffs.
Or how they sway in the breeze, steady and confident.
They’re all special in their own alluring ways.