In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(56)

“Fern,” Beckett, his dad and I all answer the question at exactly the same moment. Beckett looks at me, bewildered.

“How do you know that?”

I shrug and sip at my beer. “I know things.”

He opens his mouth to say something else but Gus cuts in with that damned megaphone. “Second question! Which part of the rhubarb plant is edible?”

“Stalks.” Again, Beckett and I answer the question at the same time. He narrows his eyes at me as Nova furiously writes down the answers.

“How did you know that?”

“I told you, I know things.” I trace my pointer finger around the rim of my glass. Beckett’s gaze flicks to it and his eyes sharpen, his jaw flexing.

“It doesn’t matter how she knows it because she’s not registered and she can’t participate with answers,” Nessa supplies from the other end of the table. She gives me a shrug and a regretful grin. “Sorry. You can give moral support though.”

“We should have registered her on the team,” Nova says.

“Next time,” Nessa agrees.

A warm glow settles in my chest. I didn’t realize how much I was hoping they’d like me until just now. Nessa snaps her fingers in front of Beckett’s face. He hasn’t looked away from me. “Head in the game.”

My designation as team moral support is needed because two rounds later, Beckett is miserable, so tense next to me that I’m pretty sure I could break a bottle over his head and he wouldn’t notice. He participates only when he’s asked, offering one word answers and clenching his hands into fists during the breaks. He guzzles down his beer like it’ll disappear if he doesn’t down each glass in three gulps. At one point, Nova leans forward with a concerned look and quietly asks him if he needs his earmuffs.

“No,” he says, barely audible over the sounds of the bar. His cheeks pink as he glances at me quickly before blinking away. “M’fine.”

I try to engage him when I can, but he’s stiff and unyielding next to me, retreating further and further into himself. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to and flat out ignores me more than once. I sigh and glance over my shoulder to the far end of the room where the bathrooms are. I cuff Beckett’s wrist loosely with my hand and attempt to get his attention from where he’s staring blankly at the tabletop. He tilts his head slightly, flower crown tipping to the side. A white daisy brushes against his forehead.

“I’ll be right back.”

For a second it looks like he might try to stop me. He opens his mouth and his eyes trip over the planes of my face, considering. But whatever it is, he bottles it right back up. His jaw snaps shut. A quick, sharp nod.

I squeeze his wrist again.

I make my way through the raucous crowd, a group of people dressed as birds having a heated argument with ladies in long, pastel dresses and sun hats. Layla wasn’t joking when she said trivia night is serious business in Inglewild. Both Caleb and Dane are in attendance, sitting at the far end of the bar with a basket of jalapeño poppers between them. Dane has a long suffering look on his serious face. Caleb looks like he’s holding himself back from participating.

I get sidetracked by Jeremy and his friends as I travel through the tables, their heads bent over their cellphones and a pitcher of soda in the middle of the table. They ask for selfies and tips on lighting and then I’m shown 17 video drafts that they’re thinking about posting. It’s like a social media version of American Idol, and I slip away with promises of more tomorrow, if they come by the bakery in the morning.

Gus and Monty corner me next, proudly showing me the numbers on their dance video. When I ask them how they plan to follow up such a stunning debut, Gus gets a twinkle in his eye and stands from his stool, scooping me in his big arms and spinning me around the small square of floor space. I laugh loudly and hold myself steady on his shoulders, my heart so light it feels like I could float away.

This is what I was missing. Foundation. Belonging. People and stories and my name tossed out in greeting over half-eaten baskets of greasy french fries. All of my trips—I haven’t stayed in a place long enough for anyone to know me. I haven’t had Caleb waving at me from across the bar with a jalapeño popper held between thumb and forefinger. Ms. Beatrice screaming in someone’s face about the official name of New York’s Sixth Avenue while wearing a sun hat and holding a croquet mallet, a wink tossed over her shoulder. A chorus of whistles when I wave to the ladies from the salon.

Stella’s words drift back to me. People change. Maybe this is what I need now.

I’m still smiling, breathless, when I finally make it to the bathroom. I stop and stare at myself in the mirror—my flushed cheeks and a grin that makes my face almost unrecognizable. It’s been so long since I’ve felt like this. I touch my fingers to my cheeks and try to memorize it.

“You’re doing okay,” I tell myself quietly. My smile softens into something lasting and I let myself feel good about everything that’s brought me to exactly this moment. No guilt. No hesitation. Just a bubbling warmth right in the center of me. “You’re doing the best you can.”

That’s enough.

I wash my hands in the sink and edge my way out of the door, a wall of sound slamming into me. Music has somehow joined the mix, shrieks and laughter and someone yelling overtop of it all about a quesadilla. It’s chaotic, but lovely. A soundtrack of community and love.