Chapter 6 #2
And nosing—very slowly, very carefully—into my hard-won parking spot is an easy call to make since I left my house more than thirty minutes ago, and I’m dreadfully late for my Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date.
It occurs to me as I make my way through the rows of the Farmer’s Market that Beck is a wonderful person.
In my book, clear, non-vague instructions are the sign of strong, moral character.
The text he sent last night is a prime example:
My booth will be in the middle row, four down from Johnston Street, two up from the coulee, and it’ll have the Olivier Family Farms sign on top of the canopy.
See? No ambiguity. No chance of confusion or getting lost.
He is a paragon of virtue.
This is my exact thought when I spot the stall precisely where I expect it to be. No problem at all, despite the clogged walkways and lines three-deep at nearly every stall.
Two people are ahead of me in line for Beck’s booth, and I will myself to wait patiently. I’m watching him, but he hasn’t looked up from the Square reader he’s using to ring up his customer.
Which is fine, because from this angle, his hair looks different from what I remember. Darker? More browns than the golden palette that dazzled me.
I shake my head because that doesn’t make sense. Maybe it’s because the canopy is casting shade on him.
But, honestly, it’s a little shorter than I remember, too.
Of course, he could’ve gotten a haircut.
That must be it.
Only, it’s not quite as cute.
But it’s hair. I tell myself. And hair is hair.
The customer in front of me is a guy with a man bun, ripped jeans, and flip flops. When he moves to the front of the line, Beck’s gaze sweeps from him to me, back to him again…
With… nothing.
My stomach’s freefall is really inconsiderate.
Almost ableist.
Because I’d expected him to lock eyes with me and see a spark of…
Well, something.
Joy. Relief. Interest.
And I’m the last person in the world who should expect neurotypical behavior.
Beck is working. He’s focused.
It doesn’t mean this was a mistake and I should have listened to my doubts when he said he wanted to see me again.
When I’m piecing a sleeve and hyper-focused on keeping my seams at exactly ? inches, don’t expect language, much less social niceties.
So as I wait in line, just feet away from my Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date, I scold my ableist stomach, my catastrophizing brain, and my lily-livered heart to calm the fuck down.
And it’s then I realize the man-bun guy in front of me isn’t buying sweet potatoes. He’s buying—
Vodka?
Wait. What?
I look up. Yep, that’s the Olivier Family Farms sign.
Bushels of sweet potatoes line the folding table in front of Beck. Along with a tidy display of cling-wrapped sweet potato breads, muffins, and one scrumptious-looking sweet potato pie.
All evidence suggests I’m in the right place.
Except—
“Can I help you?” Beck asks.
A jolt zips down my spine when I realize he’s talking to me.
Me.
His Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date date.
And, just like that, my stomach, brain, and heart scream in unison:
SEE!!! WE TRIED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING WAS WRONG!!!
My shoulders creep up and sounds from the surrounding stalls somehow grow spikes. The moment telescopes and sort of splinters and too many thoughts compete for my attention.
Because I had expected him to smile at me. And the absence of his smile is like the dissonant clanging of a warped bell. Is this how others feel when I greet them with my own distracted stare?
Is this why people are supposed to smile when they meet each other?
Is this why the soundtrack of my childhood was Mom saying, “Smile, Hattie. Where are your manners?”
So, I arrange the muscles in my face into something I think might resemble a smile.
“I’m here,” I tell Beck. Which is the lamest greeting imaginable because my presence is the one thing that should speak for itself.
Beck blinks at me before a little amused frown marks his brow.
Except, I remember the color palette in Beck’s hair. The wheat, flaxen, and gold woven into blond glory.
But now there’s chestnut and cinnamon where there wasn’t before.
Did I miss that?
“Yep. You’re here.” He gives a little nod like, Duh. Then he grins a lopsided grin that makes me feel like I’ve tripped on broken pavement.
The grin isn’t for me.
The grin is for him. Like an inside joke.
And I’m on the outside.
Oh my God.
Is he laughing at me?
My stomach yo-yos. And, again, I glance around, trying to get my bearings. To make sense of why he is laughing at me.
Why did I agree to this date? I should have known this would never work.
“What can I get you?” Then he gestures to a display of bottles and a stack of tiny plastic cups I hadn’t noticed. “Want a sample? We have two blends.”
“A… sample?” I croak.
His brows pinch, eyes narrowed on me and he nods again. “Yep. Original and Maple Pecan.”
I glance down at a pair of bottles on the table like they can offer any clarity, and when I look back at Beck, he’s wearing an expression I’ve seen on a thousand faces throughout my life.
One that says, What’s wrong with her?
I take a step back, a searing burn replacing my sternum.
My heart trips over itself, frantically looking for an emergency exit.
“I-I don’t drink alcohol,” I tell him. And then because I’ve felt comfortable telling him so much about me—though, right now, I’m the furthest thing from comfortable—I declare, “Spirits taste like poison. Beer tastes rotten and wine tastes sour.”
“A muffin then?” He waves a hand at the baked goods, and something in the gesture reminds me of the many times Dad tried to teach me how to drive. The stiffness in his body when he waited for me to put the car in gear or execute a turn.
He’s losing patience.
I swallow. “I’m not hungry.” Nothing has ever been truer.
He smirks at me.
At me.
And then—
HOLY CRAP!
His eyes aren’t amber. They’re brown.
And every cell in my body starts screaming that this is not the Beck I met a week ago.
Did I make him up? Has he been body-snatched? Have I tripped into an alternate universe?
I take another step back—right into the person behind me. I whirl around, panicked.
“I’m so sorry!” Yes, I probably shout it. The poor old man I bumped into looks startled. “I-I-I—This was a mistake. I need to go—”
And then I veer out of line and into the Farmer’s Market crowd.
“Oh, shit—wait!”
I hear the shout behind me, but it can’t compete with the bug-zapping buzz in my brain. The wrongness. The overwhelm. I need to get out of here. I need to get somewhere safe. Quiet. Enclosed.
I need to burrow.
“Mmmm—mmmm—mmmm—mmmm.”
Vocalizing doesn’t help. It just makes me feel like I can’t get enough air.
Clutching my own arms, hugging myself, I look left and right. Panic has turned me around, and I can’t remember where safety is.
“Beck! Hey, Beck!”
Bizarrely, I hear Beck calling his own name, and the freakishness of this sends me over the edge. I break into a run.
I hate running. My body has always rebelled against it. High school PE was state-sanctioned torture. But, right now, my nervous system is like an air raid siren.
And. I. Fucking. Go.
“Hattie?”
All I see are small gaps between people. When they don’t step out of my way, I barrel through them.
“Hattie! Wait!”
When I break out of the crowd, I realize I’m running in the wrong direction, heading away from the parking lot, and I need to get to my car.
I spin on my heels to course correct and—
Collide with a human wall.
“Hattie—”
Hands close lightly around my upper arms. I look up.
Into amber.
And golden.
And an expression that is both confusion and relief.
Beck.
For real this time.
My lungs fill, but, I swear, the breath is slim on oxygen.
“A-are you okay? What happened?”
He’s touching me, but it’s too light. Insubstantial and irritating like a loose thread, so I brush at his hands, and he immediately lets go.
Then he takes a step back, willingly giving me space.
And I’m both grateful and…
Disappointed.
And now that I’m panting in the middle of the park, and he’s standing right in front of me, looking a little worried and a lot confused, and—
I’m a total weirdo.
“I’m s-sorry—” I’m still breathless, so the words are choppy. I shake my head, put a hand on my chest and press hard, trying to calm my breathing.
Beck steps closer, erasing the distance he put between us. “It’s okay. Did you—did you think Griffin was me?”
Breath saws from me. “Who… who’s Griffin?”
The right side of his mouth lifts, the brackets of his smile re-establishing that:
This. Is. Beck.
“My twin brother,” he says, both warmly and a little abashed.
My eyes run over him, calling roll on all of his colors, and each one is present. And guess what?
No chestnut.
No cinnamon.
Amber eyes, not brown.
A full, oxygen-drenched breath fills my lungs, sending precious molecules to my veins and into every cell.
And I exhale in relief. “Oh… Your twin brother.” As the words leave me, I smile.
Then I laugh.
I really laugh. Because it feels good. Amazing, even.
And Beck laughs too, moving closer.
Then he stops. So close a sheet of paper could scarcely pass between us.
“May I hug you?” Laughter is still brimming in his eyes, in the golden contours of his face. It’s so pretty, I almost lose my breath again.
“Yes,” I say, nodding.
And then his arms are around me, only I can feel his carefulness, his measured lightness, and I almost shudder.
“Tighter,” I say, unwinding my own arms from my middle and snaking them around his ribs before squeezing tight.
And then his arms lock around me. Tight. Perfect. Our chests seal together, and I am bound in a fierce, warm hug. I press the side of my cheek into the mass of his chest that is both hard and yielding, his muscles solid, but not like rock.
Alive. Strong. And comfy.
“Like this?” His voice is close to my ear, husky in his attempt to soften it, and it sends chills down the back of my neck.
A sigh pours from me. “Mmm hmmm.”
It’s been years. Literally, years. Since anyone’s held me like this. In this just-right-tight that makes it easy—irresistible, even—to unspool.
I don’t make the decision. My eyes just drift closed, and when I inhale, I drink in his scent. Clean, male sweat. Cotton. And the subtle nip of something verdant. Not quite the scent of cut grass, but something botanical. Green.
The way Castleton green would smell.
It’s only when I hear and feel him sigh that I blink my eyes open, totally unsure of how long we’ve stood in the middle of the park, hugging.
But, damn, I don’t want to let go.
This feels really good.
His chest fills, and I grin as I sort of go along for the ride.
“It’s good to see you,” he says through another sigh.
And then he’s letting go. So I let go too.
“Yeah.” I nod, already grieving the loss of the best hug of my twenties. “It’s good to see you too. The real you, I mean,” I add like a dork.
Beck chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry about that. I should’ve warned you I had an identical twin and he’d be here.”
I frown. “But you’re not identical.”
The line of his mouth is bashful, and he rakes a hand through golden medley hair. “Pretty sure we are.” Then he tips his head toward the market stalls. “Can I introduce you?”
I swallow, remembering how it felt to have the person I thought was Beck look at me with indifference. My arms bracket my middle.
“He might not like me.”
“Doubtful, but if you aren’t ready we can—”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m ready. I ran away from him because his not-you-youness confused me. Running away from someone doesn’t make a good impression. I need a do-over. I’m just preparing both of us that he might not like me.”
Beck says nothing for a long moment, his smiling squint making his eyes sparkle. “He’ll like you, Hattie.” The words—especially my name—come out rich and slow, like butterscotch topping. I like the sound.
So much I’d like to hear more.
But he’s already angling his body back toward the stalls. Then he stretches out his hand, offering it to me. “Ready?”
I stare down at his hand, big and calloused and handsome. I snatch it like he might change his mind.
“C’mon. We’ll go say hi to Griffin and then do our own thing.”
I nod. “The Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date thing.”
Beck tips his head back and laughs at the October sky. It’s like an earthquake, and I’m guessing the heavenly host just gave him a standing ovation. It was that awesome.
“Yes—” He wipes the corner of one eye with his free hand. “That thing.”
We walk. I squeeze his hand, loving the way it wraps around mine. He squeezes back—and for the moment that his hold is firm, I feel a seismic wave of rightness.
But then his grip eases, and it’s like:
Whomp whomp.
I halt.
Beck pulls up short and glances back at me. “You okay?”
I peer down at our linked hands, and Beck immediately lets go.
“Hey!” I protest and then snatch his up again. “I was holding that.”
His eyes dance even as he studies me. “But you stopped and stared at it like it was offending you.”
My headshake is almost violent. “No, I just—”
I told him to hug me tighter, and he did. Boy, did he. I can tell him how to hold my hand too, right?
I jiggle his hand in mine. “I need it tighter.”
His eyes flash and his grip tightens. And both send a bolt of electricity straight through me. My nipples harden and heat pulses between my legs.
“Oh, wow…” I mutter.
This may be the best date of my life.