Chapter 4
Chapter Four
BECK
What the hell is wrong with me?
I flip on the bedside lamp and groan at the ceiling. It’s only ten-thirty, but my alarm goes off at five.
I told myself I would forget all about this afternoon once I got back to my deliveries. And then again once I got back to the farm and checked on Pop.
And then once I took a shower and cooked dinner for us—which turned out to be a waste of time since neither Pop nor I had much of an appetite.
But after dinner, while I cleaned up the kitchen, I told myself I’d forget this day once I fell asleep.
Yet sleep is proving to be an evasive little wanker.
I’ve re-lived the twenty minutes I spent with Hattie about a dozen times. And I still don’t know what to think.
The way her mom looked at me? Like I was some kind of predator?
God, I felt sick.
I mean, it only took a few seconds after meeting her for me to clock that she was neurodivergent, but her mom made it sound like… like…
Like she couldn’t look after herself.
Is that true?
Because I hadn’t sensed that—not at all—until her mother burst out of the restaurant in a panic and dragged Hattie away from me like I was a pervert.
Can’t you see she’s vulnerable?
Oh, God.
And when she said it, Hattie had objected, yeah. But not much. Not the way, say, I would object if Pop or anyone treated me like a child and informed me we were going home.
So, was I completely wrong about her?
Did I just see a beautiful woman and project all the rest? The way it felt like I’d met the human equivalent of an uncorked bottle of champagne?
I’ve never been around anyone who frothed over with… with a life force like hers.
Because before Hattie had even said one word to me, when she opened her eyes and found me staring, I thought I was looking at the most beautiful thing in creation and I’d never want to stop looking.
And then she spoke, and it was like stepping from solid ground onto a waterslide. A slippery, high-speed, cork-screwed plummet that spun me ass over ankles before dunking me into the deep end.
She was unlike anyone I’ve ever met.
Guileless.
Open.
Unafraid.
But did I completely miss something critical about her? That she… can’t be independent? And I’m… I’m some kind of creep?
I groan again, nauseated at the thought.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I ask the ceiling.
Because what would’ve happened if her mother hadn’t come out when she did?
I snort because I know exactly.
I was seconds away from asking for her number. Her name. Her Instagram handle. Anything that would’ve allowed me to find her again.
Anything that would have given me more of her.
So, what is the matter with me? How could I have missed something so fundamental? Am I going crazy, living in this silent, angry, bitter house? Was witnessing someone who experienced a full spectrum of complex and genuine emotion enough to blind me to the obvious?
Am I that pathetic?
I try like hell to swallow the disappointment, but damn. I’m disappointed.
Talking to Hattie felt like a privilege.
A gift.
Hell, it felt like air.
And, not only am I back to suffocating, I’m also questioning my judgment.
My integrity.
“Fuck—” I groan, thumping the back of my skull against the wooden headboard.
My silenced phone buzzes on my nightstand, saving me from further head injury.
I check the screen before answering but see that it’s Griffin.
“Hey.”
“Hey, did I wake you?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“You okay?” my twin asks, the concern in his voice clear over the long-distance call.
I scrub my face with one hand and make myself sit up in bed. “Fine. Just a long day.”
“Yeah, I saw your text. Dad fell again?”
Shit. Was that today? That feels like ages ago.
“Yeah. He was in a hurry to call me in from the fields and left his walker inside.”
“Shiiiit,” Grif draws out.
“Where are you? Back at the hotel?”
When he speaks next, I can hear the grin in his voice. “Yeah, we just got back from Hamilton. Kennedy’s in the shower. We’re doing Greenwich Village tomorrow. I just wanted to check in.”
Guilt twists my gut. “Pop’s okay. I shouldn’t have messaged you. I—”
“Forget that. He’s my father, too. Just because we’re on vacation doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be in the loop. What if you’d had to take him to the ER? You just wouldn’t tell me until we got back?”
I blow out a breath. “It was an option.”
“Nope. Bullshit. You and I share the load.”
“If he’d just use the damn walker and not fall so much—” I gripe. “I mean, I get that having to use a walker has gotta suck, but eating dirt has to suck worse, right?”
Griffin grinds out a scary-accurate imitation of our father. “What’re you talkin’ ‘bout, boy? I grew up on dirt. Nothin’ wrong with a little dirt.”
“Does Kennedy know you’re gonna sound just like him one day?”
“Uh, no, and you’re not telling him.”
My laugh is half-hearted.
“Beck. You sound like shit. What’s wrong?”
Griffin and I have never had any real twin telepathy, but he has no trouble reading me. Just like I know as soon as I hear his voice if he and his husband have just had an argument. This is why I text him more than I call him if I can help it.
I draw in a breath. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind telling him about my encounter with Hattie today. I’d trust his take. Griffin would straight up tell me if he thought I’d crossed a line into creep territory. But it’s late. Later in NYC than here. And he’s on vacation.
“I’m fine. Really. Nothing’s wrong.” And technically nothing is. Nothing new, anyway. “The new harvester is great. Just a long day.”
Silence stretches over the phone. “Javier and his guys are doing their part?”
I sniff a laugh. “Javier and his guys are life savers, and you know it.”
“Just checking, little brother.”
I roll my eyes. He’s three minutes older than me, and he never lets me forget it.
“Listen, Kennedy and I fly back to NOLA on Thursday. I’ll drive up on Friday and stay the weekend. Help with the curing and the Farmer’s Market Saturday and see what else we can modify at the house to make it easier for Pop to get around—or harder for him to bust his ass.”
“Ambitious.” But he has a point. Some more handrails inside and a ramp off the porch might help. And I won’t turn down an extra pair of hands at the Farmer’s Market.
Maybe Friday night would be a good time to let Griffin in on my vodka visions. And, of course, offer him a taste.
“But that sounds good. I have some things I want to tell you about anyway—after I hear all about the trip, of course.”
“What kind of things?” Grif presses, and I swear I can hear him frowning.
“Nothing bad, man. Just some ideas I’d like to run past you.”
“Uh-oh,” he teases. “You and your ideas.”
Griffin is only too aware that since I’ve taken the helm at the farm, I’ve made changes. Most that Pop has hated. Many we both know are necessary.
“Like I said, nothing bad.” But I know that “bad” is relative.
The security a distilling business could buy for us won’t come cheap.
It’s an investment. And investments come with risks.
But no need to get into that over the phone.
“We’ll talk Friday. And in the meantime, enjoy the rest of your trip. Tell Kennedy hey for me.”
My brother and I say goodnight, and I lie back down, grateful to him. The knowledge that he’ll be here this weekend unwinds a little of the ever-present tightness in my gut.
I should have thanked him for calling.
And then, out of nowhere, I hear her.
Farm Boy! Thanks for staring at me!
I can picture her there at the end of the alley, looking back at me over her shoulder the instant before she disappeared.
Even now, the memory lights me up like a Christmas tree.
Farm Boy.
She was referencing The Princess Bride, right? She had to be.
The look she gave me held so much.
Embarrassment. Regret. Frustration.
Longing.
Was she thanking me for noticing her? For giving her room to feel her pain? For listening? I can’t help but feel that what she meant was nuanced. Complex.
They were only seven parting words, but turning them over in my mind—along with that look she wore—it all pushes back against her mother’s declaration.
Can’t you see she’s vulnerable?
Yes.
She’d shown me she was vulnerable. But I think she showed me a whole lot more, too.
Sunday and Monday are peak harvest days. Clear weather. Few hiccups. We only stop once to grease the gear box and another time to adjust the scraper clearance. But the hauls are so big that we don’t leave the cure shed until around seven both nights.
By the time I see to Pop—and guiltily serve him up a ham sandwich and potato chips for dinner—I’m wrecked.
I stand in the shower until I sway on my feet. I’m dying to climb under the covers and sink into sleep, but I haven’t checked the website for orders in two days, so I take my laptop into bed with me.
It’s the right call since there are orders from Fresh Pickin’s grocery and Scratch Kitchen. I confirm deliveries for the tomorrow—relieved that we’ll have a reason to wrap up harvesting a little earlier—when I see a notification for our online form submission.
Hardly anyone uses the Contact Us form on the website. No one real, anyway. Our web hosting package is pretty good at weeding out the bot spam, but crap squeezes through every once in a while.
I’m already mousing over the delete button when the truncated subject line stops me cold.
Subject: IF YOU ARE THE FARM BOY I MET IN THE ALLEY BEHIND THE FRENCH PRESS ON SATURD—
My heart squeezes so tight, I swear it’s being sucked through a straw.