Chapter 18
BECKETT
“We don’t have to eat fish and bugs and leaves forever!” Lennon cheers, hopping up and down on her tiptoes in a little joyous circle.
“I told you, silly girl!” Clover laughs, ruffling Lennon’s hair. My mom pretty much throws herself at Clover, hugging her neck and kissing her cheek.
“Let me look at you, my Clover girl,” she fusses, and Clover looks at me with ‘help me’ eyes, but I don’t. I know she actually loves it.
My dad and I hug, clapping each other on the back.
“Thanks for coming out to help, Pops,” I tell him.
It’s genuine appreciation, but at the same time, it fucking sucks.
I know that at the end of the bridge we just rebuilt is Clover Jane’s life .
. . without me. I clear my throat and straighten up.
“Did some damn fine work, if I do say so myself,” I boast.
“Hey, the Hollis men are nothing to scoff at,” my mom says, finally hugging me.
“Oh, hey, Mom! You remembered I’m here, too! I know with your favorite kid here, it’s easy to forget,” I tease, motioning towards Clover. Mom punches my bicep while Clover beams a smug smile my way.
“It’s easy for her to be the favorite when she’s competing against two people who turned my hair gray too young,” she responds.
Lennon stops jumping and gets a very serious look on her face. “I gotta put back them worms,” she says, running back to the house.
Mom looks at me questioningly, and I shrug.
“Who knows. She was convinced that we were going to be stuck on the farm forever and went full prepper mode,” I try to explain.
“It’s those shows you watch,” I accuse jokingly.
“She probably knows how to can just about anything by now. Lucky we finished the bridge when we did, she would’ve probably tried to can the worms, too. ”
The four of us pile into Pops’ truck and head back up to the house.
I fire up the camping stove and make a pot of coffee that I know only Dad and I will drink since we don’t have any of the fancy creamer Mom and Clover like.
Lennon decides she’s going to give the worms to the chickens and head out to the coop.
“Called the light company about your transformer,” Dad says after taking a big sip from his mug. “They should be out ‘round one or two, they said.”
“Thanks, that’s one thing less on my plate to deal with,” I tell him gratefully.
I hadn’t even thought of all the things I have to do to get everything back into some kind of order, and I’m suddenly a bit overwhelmed.
Call my guys to let them know they can come back tomorrow, wait on the linemen, work on mending a couple of parts of the fenceline that looked sketchy when I ran them the other day, check on all the cattle, check in on the bakery downtown to see if they need eggs this week since I missed a few days . . . and take Clover back to her house.
I rub my knuckles against my chest and mentally prioritize things in the order they need to go.
Taking Clover home is selfishly the last thing on my list of priorities, and probably the first thing on hers.
I stayed in the bed with her all night, listened to her soft snoring until I fell asleep too.
The girl sleeps like a log. When my alarm went off in my room this morning, she didn’t even wake up.
I didn’t want to move. She was fit against me perfectly, the top of her head tucked right under my chin, my hand on her curvy waist fit naturally, like we were puzzle pieces.
Our legs were tangled together, and my other arm was dead asleep when I regrettably pulled it out from under her.
She had made the cutest little noise, adjusted herself, and kept sleeping.
When she woke up and came downstairs, Lennon and I were cooking breakfast. I piled our plates full of scrambled eggs and bacon, we sat at the table, and ate.
We talked about finishing the bridge, why fish eat worms instead of chicken, and then how Lennon is glad they don’t eat chicken because she loves her chickens.
There wasn’t any awkwardness, just genuine laughs and conversation.
It felt so normal, so easy. It felt like home, and not an empty one.
“So we will stay here while y’all run out and get some time away.
I’m sure you’re all done being cooped up, and I’m surprised the girls haven’t tied you up somewhere by now,” Mom is saying, and I’m brought back to the conversation.
My chest is sore from trying to regulate my heartrate.
My anxiety has definitely gotten worse over the years, and overstimulation sucks.
This is one of my typical stims, and Mom has picked up on it.
“I’m sorry, Mom. What’d you say? I was trying to put together what all I need to do and zoned out.”
“That’s okay, Beckett. I said me and your Pop will stay here while you take the girls to town.
Get you some groceries for when the lights come back on, go get away from the house for a bit.
We will be here for when the power company shows up, so you don’t have to wait around,” she says, smiling kindly.
I don’t know what I did to deserve such good parents, but I’m damn glad I have them.
“Are you sure you don’t mind? I don’t want y’all to be out here if you have other stuff to do,” I ask, wanting to make sure she wasn’t just trying to be polite.
“Son, get off the ranch for a bit,” Pops huffs. “Get my grambaby some ice cream,” he insists.
Okay, I was trying to make sure they weren’t just being polite . . . and I was trying to delay leaving. I guess I have to get over it and realize that there’s more out there for her than this.
Clover has been quiet, which is unlike her. She seems zoned out, but snaps back when she realizes that we are looking at her. “Oh, sorry,” she laughs awkwardly. “I should probably go get my stuff,” she says, standing up from the table.
“I’ll help,” I say, scooting my chair out too, and following her upstairs.