In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(87)

It doesn’t matter that she left a note. It doesn’t matter that she had every intention of coming back. Keeping all her light for myself still feels like the worst kind of selfish. I won’t do it.

I tell myself that, anyway. And I put the note in the drawer next to my bed. Next to the damn dried-up blue flower and a crumpled receipt.

I sigh and scoop the duckling up in my hands, bigger already than the last time I saw him. Dr. Colson had called this morning and let me know there was no place for him at the local wildlife center. It likely had been too long anyway, for the little guy to make a successful transition back to the wild.

He hadn’t needed to say much more than that.

I didn’t want the little duck to be alone.

“Alright, everyone,” I shoot a stern glance at the cats lined up in a row behind the makeshift wall. “We’re going to be on our best behavior, yeah? No nibbles or anything teeth adjacent.” I swear Prancer frowns at me, a pout on her tiny, furry face.

I sit down on the floor and carefully—slowly—extend my hands out. With Dr. Colson’s recommendation in mind, I keep one hand hovering over the top of the ball of yellow fluff in my palm, ready to protect him if I need to. But all four cats seem calm enough to meet their new housemate, faces turned up in interest.

The duck pokes his head out from between my outstretched fingers, a tiny chirrup of greeting.

Prancer stares in avid concentration and then meows in response. She rises from her prone position on the floor and nudges gently at my hand, her pink velvet nose brushing my thumb and then the duckling. She meows again and the three kittens echo in kind. The duckling offers the beginning of a quack.

Alright. That seems … good.

Duck and cats continue investigating each other and I hear my front door swing open. For a split-second, a flare of hope seizes in my chest. But then I hear Stella and Layla bickering about cinnamon rolls and my heart rolls over, disappointment pounding out a slow beat.

I looked at Evelyn and told her I wouldn’t settle for the pieces of her. It’s how I feel, but I wish I said it in a better way. Softer, maybe. I can still see her face as the words tripped off my tongue. The way her whole body flinched, her hands clasped tight together. Her eyelashes against her cheek. A single, sharp inhale.

Regret is a funny thing. Self-preservation, too. I’ve been swinging wildly between the two and reached for my phone more times than I can count. But I can’t quite make myself dial her number, my thumb hovering over the screen.

Stella and Layla stumble to a stop at the edge of my kitchen. I don’t bother looking up.

“Christ,” Layla breathes. “It’s worse than I thought.”

I watch as Comet nudges once at the duck with her head, a happy purr tucked between them. The duck flaps his little wings against my hand. I’ll have to name him now. It’s settled. “I thought I locked my door.”

“I have a key,” Layla says mildly.

“I took your key away three months ago when you broke in and stole all of my pop tarts.”

“Like I’d eat store-bought pop tarts.” Layla is offended. “That wasn’t me.”

Stella raises her hand. “That was Charlie. He’ll buy you a new box.” She pauses for a second and drops to her knees next to me, holding her hand out towards the kittens. “Beckett, why are you sitting on the floor?”

Interesting question from a woman who just told me her half-brother broke into my house and ate all my processed sugar. I ignore it. I’m too tired for the details.

“I’m introducing them to each other.”

“Alright.” She blinks at me. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Sitting on the floor?”

“Yes.”

Layla busies herself with something on the counter. I hear the sound of foil crinkling, my drawers opening as she looks for silverware. Vixen is more interested in whatever she brought than her new family member and goes trotting off, winding herself between Layla’s ankles.

I glance at the clock. “I’ve only been sitting here for ten minutes. Why?”

Stella looks relieved. “Okay, good.”

“Why?”

“Because Sal told us he saw you on your back in the middle of the Santa barn yesterday for three hours,” Layla interrupts. She holds out a plate with a single blueberry muffin on it—a perfect, buttery crumble on top.

I frown. I hadn’t realized I’d been there that long. “I was checking the roof for holes. Some of the farmhands have noticed leaks.”

And then I fell asleep, flat on my back in the middle of the Santa barn. I woke up tired and disoriented, a hollow ache in the pit of my stomach.

Missing Evelyn is like missing the bottom step on a flight of stairs. I keep expecting her to be where she’s not.

It’s that expectation, I think, that’s the worst of it. I step into the kitchen and expect to see her sitting at the counter doing her crossword. I walk past the back door and peek out the window, looking for her long legs curled beneath her on the back porch. I check for her coat on the peg next to mine. Her boots tossed beneath the entryway table. I leave a space in the fridge for where she likes to put her coffee, right next to the iced tea.

I’m missing all the pieces of her.

I want them back.

Layla sits down on my other side with her own plate of muffins and extends one to Stella. I bring the duck closer to my chest—behind the protection of the fence—and deposit him carefully in my lap. He gives a happy quack, wanders in a circle, and then falls into a little clump of yellow fur against my thigh.