Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Maxinne
“Do you remember our old backyard?” I ask, glancing up at my dad.
“Mm,” he hums as his eyes find mine.
Dad is sitting on the ground at the edge of the tomatoes, one hand braced against the small wooden stake beside him, the other hovering over the leaves.
I crouch beside the peppers, pressing my fingers into the soil.
It’s warm already, soft from last night’s watering, and clings beneath my nails as I work around the base of the plant.
A small grin tugs at my lips at the memory of our small backyard from my childhood.
“It was barely big enough for that tiny greenhouse.” I pluck a weed free and toss it into the bucket beside me. “Mom swore you were crazy. She claimed we’d never have room for anything else, and yet we crammed in as many raised beds as we could.”
His brow furrows as his hand tightens against the stake. I wait patiently for him to say something, to try to find the words, until he exhales through his nose, frustration slipping through the sound.
“It turned into a jungle,” I continue, hoping the small talk will get him to open up. “We had tomatoes climbing over everything and planted way too many herbs. I swear I smelled like basil for that entire summer.”
That almost gets him to laugh. His lips part, a breath of a chuckle catching somewhere in his chest, but it doesn’t fully make it out. His shoulders shift instead, like his body remembers how, even if his voice doesn’t.
I drop my gaze back to the soil, because I hate seeing him like this.
I so desperately want to connect with him, but every conversation feels like we’re pushing against a locked door.
Part of that is because of the stroke—finding the words is exhausting for him—but another part feels like something else.
Like he’s still keeping pieces of himself tucked safely out of reach.
It’s hard not to wonder if the silence is an attempt for him to protect himself... or keeping me at a distance.
Still, this is progress, though, us spending time together in the garden, just like when I was a kid.
“I remember how you’d encourage me to taste everything,” I add, my voice quieter now. “Even the stuff I hated.”
The lines around his eyes deepen and he lets out a slow breath through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh he’s managed all afternoon.
“You were right,” I say, looking up and giving him a playful smirk. “Most of the time.”
The breeze picks up, rustling through the leaves overhead, and a wind chime on the porch clinks off rhythm. Being in the garden feels nostalgic, close enough to allow a calming peace to wash over me, but it doesn’t come because I can’t ignore the ache sitting between us.
I shift onto my knees and move farther down the row. The sun warms the back of my neck while we work side by side, just like we used to. Back then, silence meant comfort. Now it feels crowded with all the things I want to ask and all the things he won’t say.
Dad leans down to pinch a stray weed near the base of the tomatoes, his movements slower and more deliberate. His right side lags enough to notice if you’re looking for it, but I try not to. What I can’t stop noticing is how often he chooses the plants over my eyes.
A buzz from my phone breaks through the stillness.
After the storm, I finally talked Dad into letting us get satellite internet installed out here.
I pause, frowning as I brush my hands against my thighs and reach for my phone tucked into my back pocket.
Another buzz follows as I pull it free, and my stomach immediately knots, expecting the text to be from Mom.
Lately, every message from her has felt like another attempt to convince me that Covewood isn’t where I’m supposed to be.
I don’t have the energy for that conversation today.
But when I glance at the screen, relief washes over me because the text isn’t from my mom.
It’s from Zane. My stomach does this swooping sensation as I see his name, and my lips curve before I can stop them.
I look up at Dad and catch his gaze lifting from the garden and landing on my face, curiosity revealed there. I wonder what he might see written in my smile and how my cheeks blush, knowing that Zane is thinking about me.
I glance down at the screen again then back at Dad as I hold up my phone and reply, “It’s Zane.”
His eyes linger before returning to his task. I look back at my phone’s screen.
Zane
I hope you’re having a good day
How mad is Charlie about the satellite internet out there?
I look up at my dad, who doesn’t seem to mind that I’m sitting here texting instead of finishing our weeding.
Me
I think he’s coming around to it.
Zane
But Charlie loves living in the woods and being cut off from the rest of the world.
Me
Well, if the storm taught us anything, it’s that we need a way to communicate.
Zane
Fair point.
Me
Plus, having a million notifications blowing up my phone the second I get service was getting old.
Zane
A million?
Who would be texting you that much?
Me
My mom.
Zane
That checks out.
Is that the only reason why you got the satellite internet installed?
A thoughtful smile curves my lips as I contemplate what to say. Do I tell him the truth? That part of the reason for the internet install was so I could text with him while we’re away from each other? That even with us living next door to each other, I can’t seem to get enough?
Me
What other reason should I have?
Zane
I’m offended you didn’t do it because you missed ME specifically.
Me
Now, I didn’t say that.
Zane
Uh-huh.
Me
I may have checked to see if you’ve texted a time or two.
Zane
May have?
Me
Don’t get cocky.
Zane
Too late. I’ll ride this confidence boost all week
Me
You’re welcome. Try not to let it go to your head.
Zane
No promises.
By the way, we’re getting off work at a decent hour today.
Want to go to church with me this evening?
I pause, my thumb hovering over the screen.
I can’t remember the last time I walked into a church without feeling like I needed to brace myself first. I used to love it once.
Before the judgment and the pressure to be better, holier, made it feel less welcoming.
After that, I started to wonder if there was even a church for someone like me.
Since meeting Zane, though, I’ve had the urge to give church another chance, especially if these people are anything like him.
My gaze drops back to his message. There’s nothing performative about Zane’s faith, nor is there pressure or expectations from him.
He talks about God the way I talk about a garden—like it’s something you tend to every day.
I’ve admired that about him. I think some part of me has been waiting to meet someone whose faith made room for me instead of measuring me against it.
I exhale slowly and type.
Me
I don’t know. I haven’t been to church in so long…
His reply comes quickly.
Zane
I promise it’ll be different than you’ve experienced before. On Wednesdays, we have dinner together and then break off into our smaller groups. Ashton and I basically just sit around and give our pastor a hard time. I promise it’s very entertaining.
A small laugh slips out of me as some of the tension eases from my shoulders. I shake my head, a faint smile pulling at my lips as I type back.
Me
Of course the two of you would harass your own pastor.
Zane
It’s okay. He says it helps him build character.
Or patience.
Look, if you feel uncomfortable, we can leave early and do something else instead.
I stare at his message for a moment, and my grip on the phone loosens as I glance up from the screen. Dad is still carefully working at something in the soil. I watch him as a thought slips in.
Has he been to church since moving to Covewood? We used to go when he and Mom were still together, back before his accident changed everything. I try to picture him sitting in a pew now, humming along to hymns and listening to a sermon, but the image refuses to settle.
Faith never seemed to fit neatly inside four walls for Dad. It’s quieter, similar to the way he works the soil, the patience he has for growing things, and the way he shows up day after day whether anything blooms or not. Dad’s faith was never loud.
It wasn’t the kind that quoted scripture at every opportunity or had all the right answers.
It was steady. Even Ashton’s faith seems to have grown roots here in Covewood, while mine has spent years drifting between hurt and uncertainty.
I’d like to know how he’s held onto God through everything that’s happened.
Maybe I’ll ask him about it later, when the questions don’t feel quite so fragile…
and when I’m brave enough to hear the answers.
I glance back down at my phone, and before I can overthink it, I type.
Me
…Okay.
I’ll go. But I refuse to be embarrassed by you or my brother.
Zane
Deal. We’ll try our best to not embarrass you, but I can’t make any promises.
And for what it’s worth, I’m really glad you’re coming
The hallway hums with low conversations, chairs scraping softly against the floor, and laughter spilling out of the kitchen.
I hover near the wall, smoothing my hands down the front of my dress for the third time since I’ve arrived.
The dinner looks delicious. There are homemade casseroles, fresh rolls, and a dessert, but I barely touch my food.
My stomach is too wound up to handle more than a few polite bites.
Even through the nerves, being here isn’t as uncomfortable as I thought it would be.
My gaze drifts across the room, noticing how the people here don’t look polished or put together.
Some are wearing jeans and worn boots with flannels, while others, like me, are in summer dresses or shorts.
I spot a guy with tattoos winding down both arms, another with a small hoop piercing through his brow.
A woman walks past me with bright-pink hair pulled into a messy bun, balancing a tray of empty plates.