In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(88)

“Evelyn texted us,” Layla offers, like that single sentence doesn’t steal all the breath out of my lungs. I take a bite of muffin to keep myself from saying something stupid. When, I want to ask. Did she sound half as sad as I am? “She wanted us to check in on you.”

That’s something, I guess. I pluck a dried blueberry off the top of the muffin. I checked her social media profiles the other day, desperate for a glimpse. She hasn’t posted anything in weeks. Nothing since a picture of her flat on her back in the wildflower field, the shot angled to get only the top of her head. Smiling eyes lit up by the sun, her long hair spread around her head like a halo, flower petals twisted between the strands.

I stared at that picture for a long time.

“I’m fine,” I say. I want to ask more about Evelyn, but I can’t bring myself to say her name.

Stella sighs. “You can’t sit here all day.” She looks like she wants to walk out back, get the wheelbarrow, and dump me into it. “Come over to the house. Luka will make you gnocchi.”

He’ll also probably sigh his way through the meal, muttering under his breath the entire time. “No, thanks.” I take another bite of muffin and ignore the silent conversation happening on either side of me. I can feel their eyes like little lasers. “I’m going to my parents house later. I’m fixing the porch.”

What I’m doing is avoiding my problems. Getting out of this house that still has the ghost of her laugh and her smile and her big, brown eyes everywhere I look.

“Well,” Layla stretches out her legs on the floor of my kitchen and frowns down at her socked feet. She must have toed her boots off at the door. She drops her head against my shoulder just as Stella curls her hand around my arm, right above my elbow. She squeezes affectionately. “We’ll sit with you until you have to go.”

I let out a shaky exhale and watch the cats bat around an old cardboard box, something they must have pulled out of the recycling. Stella crosses her ankles and Layla lets out a yawn. The three of us sit there in silence, huddled on the floor.

Partners, in all the best ways.

“Does the duck have a name?”

“Hm?”

“The duck. He needs a name.”

He does. The three of us consider it.

“How about Pickles?” Layla offers. She peers over my shoulder at the duck fast asleep against my knee. “He kind of looks like a Pickles.”

“In what way does he look like a Pickles?”

“The little mark on his head sort of looks like one, don’t you think?” She glances at me and her eyes widen at the look on my face. “Alright. Not Pickles.”

“Eggbert?”

I make a noise low in my throat. I haven’t forgotten that Stella wanted to name Prancer—Raccoon.

“James Pond?”

“Squeak?”

I ignore them both. “I like Otis.”

My dad used to play Otis Redding in the morning while we were getting ready for school. He would blast it from the speakers in the living room. Turn it up loud enough that we’d hear it all the way in our bedrooms. It was the very first artist Nessa ever danced to. He still plays These Arms of Mine for my mom every Wednesday night after he thinks we’ve all left. She sits across his lap and he hums in her ear, a slow turn around the driveway with nothing but the porch lights on.

“I like that name,” Stella says.

Layla nods into my shoulder. “Yeah, me too.”

I rub my knuckle over the little guy’s head. “Otis it is, then.”



I bring Otis with me to my parent’s house and set him up in a small box on the front porch while I get to work unloading the wood from the back of my truck. The house and the gardens behind it are still and quiet, the narrow windows on either side of the front door reflecting the afternoon sun. A single beam of light cascades through, dust motes dancing in golden waves.

It’s strange being here when no one else is. I’m used to the front door cracked, my sisters spilling out into the front yard. Loud laughter and the smell of something on the stove. My dad pleading with Nova for a full back tattoo.

But I planned this specifically for the silence. I’ll fix the ramp, secure the railing, and be on my way without having to talk to anyone. It’s the perfect plan.

“You building me a new deck?”

I drop all the wood gathered in my arms as my dad wheels around the side of the house, a grin on his face. I press a closed fist to my pounding heart and frown down at my supplies scattered at my feet. “What the hell, dad?”

He laughs. “When are you going to realize I’m always around, kiddo?”

“Never, apparently,” I grumble. He meets me at the back of the truck and leans forward in his chair, leveraging a piece of wood I’ve dropped up into his arms. He stacks it neatly next to my toolbox and gives me an amused look.

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” he responds with a chuckle.

I roll my eyes to the sky. “Why are you home? I thought you were working.”

About seven years ago, my dad took on a different job at the produce farm. Now he works at the front office, helping manage shipments and agreements with local markets and grocery chains. He also occasionally steals the tractor when Roger Parson leaves the keys laying around.