In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(89)

“I took today off.”

“For what?”

“Are you my keeper now?” Another rough, amused chuckle tumbles out of his barrel chest. “What are you doing at my house in the middle of the day? With enough supplies to build your own Unabomber den, mind you.”

I glance at the haphazard stack of wood. The handsaw I borrowed from the farm. “It’s not that much,” I hedge.

“It’s enough.” He looks up at me in that way he has. Eyes squinted, one eyebrow slightly higher than the other, his lips in a thin line but tilted up at the edges—like he’s got some private joke. Every time he looks at me like that, I feel like I’m seven years old again—lying to him about what happened to the window in the back shed, my baseball bat hidden in one of the shrubs. His hand reaches for my arm and he squeezes there once, the same exact place Stella did not two hours ago. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, not quite lying.

Because I am. I’m fine. Everything is—everything is fine. I wish everyone would stop asking me that. I just need a few hours to not think about Evie. To not replay that last conversation and see her arms curled around herself, her eyes blinking too fast.

I’m tired of seeing her every time I close my eyes. I’m tired of missing her when she’s barely been gone at all.

I blow out a breath and brush my hands off against my knees. “I just want to fix your ramp.”

My dad searches my face. “You want help?”

It’s a fight to not to clench my teeth. I really don’t. I school my features into something nice and neutral instead, organizing some of the tools by my feet. I begin to gather some of the wood, my body grateful for the task. “If you want.”

“What do you want?”

I pause with my arms full of two-by-fours. “What?”

“What do you want?” He rubs his fingertips against his bottom lip in thought. “If someone held a gun to your head right now and asked you what you want, what would you say?”

“Uh,” I look over my shoulder to make sure one of my sister’s isn’t standing nearby with a phone in their hand. He seems way too serious for a question about porch assistance. “I want someone to not be holding a gun to my head over a porch railing.”

My dad is not amused. “Beckett.”

“What? This is—” a weird conversation. “What are you asking me?”

“You’re always letting us do what we want,” my dad says after a lengthy pause. “When have you ever done what you want?”

“Like what?”

“Trivia,” he says immediately. He holds up his finger. “We all know you didn’t want to go and you went anyway.”

“Because Nova and Nessa asked me to.” And sometimes I need to be dragged out of the house or I’ll never leave it. I can acknowledge that about myself.

He flicks up another finger and digs his phone out of his pocket, tapping around and then reading from the screen. “January 16. We all ordered pizza and you ate the one with mushrooms even though you don’t like mushrooms.”

It was the only option and I had been hungry.

“Do you have a list on your phone?”

He ignores me and scrolls down. “December 28. You drove your sister to three separate grocery stores so she could find Nutella.”

I kick at a piece of wood. “She said she wanted it.”

He drops his phone to his lap and looks at me. “You were about to let me help you with the damned ramp when you don’t want me to.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I counter. I can see the point he’s trying to make. He’s about as subtle as a brick through a window. “There’s nothing wrong with me doing things to help other people. Mushrooms aren’t that bad.”

My dad’s face turns into a thundercloud. “They’re terrible if they’re not what you want.”

I shrug. “Not really.”

“Fine.” The word comes out of his mouth like a gunshot. “I have two more for you.”

I sigh and roll out my shoulders. “Let’s hear them, then.” It’ll likely be something about the chicken coop I made in Harper’s backyard that still doesn’t have chickens, or the time I was Nessa’s standin dance partner for a week. I lasted two days.

“You let your teenage sister put tattoos all over your arms, just to help her out.” He swallows hard. “You dropped out of high school to support this family. You worked yourself to the bone.”

And I’d do it again. All of it. No hesitation.

I love the tattoos on my arms. Each one is a piece of my family—a piece of me. It feels like armor when I need it most and comfort when I need that, too. I love looking at the leaf on my wrist and tracing the wobbly edges, remembering the way Nova’s whole face lit up when I agreed to let her try.

And the farming thing. That wasn’t even a choice. Of course I was going to step up. It was the easiest decision I have ever made, that day in the kitchen. The Parsons had come to visit my dad once he got home from the hospital and the idea came to me like lightning in a summer storm. I had been itching for something to do—some way to help—and taking my dad’s place was the best way to do it. The only way to do it.

“Because I love you,” I say, stubborn. I don’t see anything wrong with the things he’s listed. “Because I love all of you.”