In the Weeds (Lovelight, #2)

by B.K. Borison

Evie is like a tide rolling in and clipping me at my ankles. A low, forceful tug. A blissful inevitability.

She’s warm under my touch, her skin a deep, flawless brown. Like a bottle of whiskey on the highest shelf, afternoon light dancing through.

He looks up at me through his lashes and it's the moment after a storm when the sun decides to peek out from behind the heavy clouds—rain still dripping from the edges of the roof, the trees, the mailbox on the corner.

This break feels less like an idea and more like a necessity. I wake up every morning with a hollow feeling in my chest, an anxious pounding that gets worse the longer I lay in an unfamiliar bed staring at an unfamiliar room. I spend more time in hotels than at the small apartment I rent. I check my social accounts and I feel ballooning pressure in my chest. I feel like a liar. A fake.

Smiling for the camera. Adding pithy captions. Making my life seem like it’s one big, wonderful, adventure when really I’m stuck in my head. I’ve become obsessed with numbers, how posts are performing. I’m more interested

in the aesthetic of a story than the actual story part of it. On my last trip, I forgot the name of the town I was in. Twice.

The blogging started as a hobby, something fun for me to do. I never intended to build a career out of it. Now though, I have everything I’ve ever wanted from a job. I’m successful, sought after. And terribly lonely. I feel disconnected, I guess. Muted. Far away from anything that feels real. The guilt kicks in and I avert my gaze to the tabletop. Poor social media influencer, sad she has too many followers and not enough friends. I feel like an impostor. Like the worst kind of fraud.

“I think you are being forty-five percent ridiculous. And that is primarily attributed to the way you’re talking about yourself. Nothing you have has happened by accident. You work hard and move at the speed of light. I think that’s the crux of your problem. You’ve been bee-bopping all around and haven’t found roots to dig in. Your cute little body is exhausted. Your brain, too.”

The carrots are from the farm, and the bread is from Nessa, and the music is a playlist Harper made over the summer, and the delicate bouquet of wildflowers drawn on the back of her arm is by Nova. My dad whittled the spoon she’s using, and this whole kitchen is filled to the brim with pieces of my family. The love between my parents and for all of us, mixing together with thyme and butter and pie until all the tension I usually feel in a room full of people is back in the hallway, shoved in the pocket of my coat. I’ll pick it back up later, I’m sure, but for now I’m settled. I’m home.

I’ve always struggled with noise. It sets my teeth on edge, makes me feel like needles are pricking at my skin. The earmuffs muffle the sound without wiping it out completely. I can still hear what’s going on around me without an overwhelming wave of tension.

It is exactly where I’m supposed to be. My hands in the dirt and my feet on the ground. I’ve never doubted that for a second. Rooted.

It’s not like I booked this trip in advance. Or put any thought into it other than— I was happy standing in that field with my boots sinking into the mud and maybe I should go back and see if I can find my happy again.

I’d probably still be stuck in this same rut, this endless loop of numb ambivalence.

I have no idea how long I plan on being here, but I do know that this feels like my best chance at getting back to myself. At figuring out what’s wrong.

I didn’t come here for him. I came here for his fields. I want to sit in the tall grass and stare up at the sky and try to find the place within myself that's locked up or rusted over or whatever the hell that's been going on with me lately. I want to fix it. I’m tired of feeling like this.

He looks like every decadent thing I’ve ever indulged in. Flannel and scruff and a box of baked goods in his hand.

The last time she was here, she had a permanent grin on her face, her laugh loud and bright as it slipped through the trees. But that’s the thing about happiness, I guess. You can show whatever you want to the world and not feel a lick of it inside yourself.

“It’s okay if it takes you some time to find it again. And it’s okay if you find it just to lose a bit of it here and there. That’s the beauty of it, yeah? It comes and goes. Not every day is a happy one and it shouldn’t be. It’s in the trying, I think.”

Trying to be happy is like—it’s like telling a flower to bloom.” He crosses his ankles and drags his palm against his stubble. “You can’t make yourself be happy. But you can be open to it. You can trust yourself enough to feel it when you stumble on it.”

Evelyn is like a spring storm. She appears without warning, makes everything around her bloom, and then leaves with the wind.

“You wanna stay here or come back with me?” I take off my hat and scrub my hand against the back of my head, making a mess of my hair. Come back with me pounds a beat in my skull and presses sharp right behind my eyes. If I could pull that thought right out of my head and bury it under these beans, I would.

“I’ll stay. I think I’m finding some happy out here.“ She looks at her hands with a grin, the dirt caked over her knuckles. Her eyes find mine and her smile tips wider. “Out here in the weeds.”

Evelyn is not here for you, I tell myself as I stand beneath the stream of cold water. I close my eyes and ignore the pull of wanting—the rising warmth in my chest that’s a whole lot more dangerous than any feelings of lust. She came here for something that isn’t you.

She probably fits everywhere she goes. That’s the magic of Evelyn. She can find a comfortable nook for herself in every coffee shop, food stand, and hole-in-the-wall she visits.

That’s twice today I haven’t been able to keep my hands off of her. I feel trapped between holding her at a safe distance and tugging her closer. A pendulum swinging endlessly back and forth.

against my ear. I’ve always felt a pull towards Beck. That’s no secret. But it’s worse now. Deeper. I like spending time with him, seeing the bits of himself he does his best to hide. His routines and his order and begrudging commitment to a family of orphaned cats. His loyalty and his quiet caretaking. I like him.

“You took your dad’s place at the farm?” He nods. “Yeah, when I was fifteen. It’s been farming since.” Beckett must see the look on my face because his whole body softens, a thoughtful look on his handsome face. “Nah, don’t look at me like that. It’s alright.” “You were just a kid,” I manage around a throat that’s too tight. A pressure burning behind my eyes. I think about that little boy in a space suit, looking up at the stars. “You had a dream.”

“Found a new one,” he answers, smile kicking up the corner of his mouth. He leans back in his chair and tilts his face to the night sky, the stars beginning to wake. “And I got to keep the stars with me.”

I crest another small hill and then I see it. Exactly what Beckett intended for me to find. A field of wildflowers, rolling out from the base of the hill in a patchwork quilt of color. Blue and purple and a smattering of rich gold, the sight of it so quietly beautiful that I don’t hesitate to walk right in the middle of it all and lay flat on my back. They must have bloomed to life during the last string of warm days, still standing tall despite the cold. Resilient. Stunning. Flower petals tickle my cheek and I close my eyes with a sigh. A quiet, perfect miracle, hidden behind the hills. SOME HAPPY, Beckett had written. I curl my fingers around the edge of the paper and hold it tightly to my chest.

I don’t know if it’s the sliver of my childhood, or the field of flowers, or Beckett’s hand drawn map, or my time away from everything I thought was important, but I feel the wayward pieces of myself sliding back into place. It’s not quite there yet, not the perfect fit, but isn't that what Beckett said that night on the back porch? Some of it comes, some of it goes. It’s about the trying. Settling into the happy when you find it, being okay when you don’t. Feeling all the misshapen bits and pieces and where they fit together. The delightful, ordinary blank space in between. I finally feel like I’m trying.

I wish I could be softer, more comforting, but my body feels pulled tight, everything a second away from collapse. I can’t stop replaying the moment

she appeared over the hill, the way her body swayed and then fell out of view. Like a flower wilting on the vine. I can’t stop seeing the way she pulled into herself as I turned her over, hands grasping at nothing.

Social anxiety. Sound sensitivity. Fancy terms for my general discomfort around other people. My parents sent me to a therapist when I was ten years old, overwhelmed by all the noise around me. The worst of it was in school, when I couldn’t get the damn noise to … stop. All the chatter around me felt like the worst sort of buzz under my skin, settling into a deep ache that pounded like a metronome through every inch of my body. I couldn’t focus. I could barely speak. It was miserable.

“I’ve always had trouble talking to people. I try to avoid large groups if I can.” I’m most comfortable with people I know. Outside, if I can be. Something about seeing the sky above me loosens something deep in my chest and makes everything … easier. I don’t think so hard about what I have to say. I don’t trip over my own thoughts.

She glances out the window to the trees beyond, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not great at listening to myself. Some days I push myself too hard. Some days we don’t get a single customer and I panic about losing everything. Some days I make up an elaborate story with my best friend and pretend we’re in a relationship so a social media influencer likes us more.” She gives me a rueful grin. “Some days I’m so tired I can hardly remember my name. And that’s what’s expected, right? When you own a business. I think—I think we’re told that we should embrace the grind. The work. That everything will be worth it in the end. But sometimes we need rest more than we need another thing on our list. And that’s okay. I’m learning that’s really okay.”

“It’s okay to want different things,” she says. “People change. You’re allowed to change. Doing less doesn’t make you less.” Seasons change and so do we. I wonder if Stella made the banner that hangs in the center of town.

“Have you talked to him?” “He knows I have his shirt.” “That isn’t what I meant and you know it.” I haven’t. What could I possibly say? That night in Maine was one of the best nights of my life. I want to keep sitting on your back porch. Every day we spend together, I only like you more.

“I have earmuffs,” he tells me, an earnest expression on his face. I glance at him and then back to the road. I want this version of him in my memory always. Cornfields flashing by the windows, magnolia leaves in his hair. Eyes hooded but glowing, his knuckles resting under his chin. Handing me his secrets like he wants me to hold them for him.

I’ve thought about her every day since that morning I woke up alone, a storm thundering in from the east, thick gray clouds hanging low over the water. I’ve thought about the exact sound she makes when my body is over hers, the way her breath hitches and then releases, a breathy sigh around my name. I’ve thought about her laugh and her smile—prettier than all the wildflowers in the meadow and every star in the sky.

All of the versions of Evelyn I’ve gotten to know flicker through my mind like the frames of a filmstrip.

I feel like I’ve unpacked the memory of that kiss enough over the last couple months for the edges to run smooth, like stones at the bottom of a river bed.

She kisses me like she’s hungry for it, like she’s been dreaming of me the same way I’ve been dreaming about her. I smooth both of my hands over her hips and grip tight. “There you are,” she breathes into my mouth. I squeeze again and she lets out a husky chuckle.

This has always been the easy part​​—letting the sparks between us catch and burn. It’s everything else we need to sort out. I like her body, but I like everything else more. And I don’t want her to think this is all I want.

“I like you, Evie,” I straighten her shirt and drop a single, chaste kiss to the tip of her nose. My heart begins a gallop in my chest. “I like you a lot.” Her smile lights up every damn corner of this room. The shadowed parts of me, too, and all the pieces I keep to myself. “I like you, too,” she tells me. She kicks me lightly and chews on her bottom lip. “Now put your shirt on or we’ll have sex on this table.”

“I want that date,” she tells me, voice soft. A little bit dreamy. “Maybe this is our do-over. A chance to do things differently.” There’s simple honesty there, a thin thread of hope from her heart to mine. I reach for her hand and tangle our fingers together. I’m pretty sure I’d do things any which way with Evelyn, as long as we ended up like this. My chin resting on her chest and a smile on her pretty face. “Yeah?” She nods. “Yeah.”

He had watched me quietly with his shoulder propped against the door and asked: “Did you find your happy today?” I ground my teeth and shook my head. A quick jerk. “No.” He had hummed once, head tilting to look out over the fields. “You want a hug?” And that had been its own sort of magic, hadn’t it? He hadn’t tried to fix it. Just … asked if he could hold me through it.

He’s wrong though. I have had my happy today. I’m practically drowning in it—in simple, quiet joy. The warm comfort of a perfect moment with a good man.

I stop right in front of him and he stares down at me. I trace the lines of his face and I feel like one of those meteors he loves so much. Tearing through the atmosphere, a giant ball of light.

Beckett looking at me like I hung the damn moon myself. It’s so different from the last time we were together. Different, but exactly the same. He still looks at me with a ferocious heat—careful eyes mapping out exactly what he wants to do and where. What touch to give me first. But there’s wonder, too. Like he can’t quite believe I’m here with him, in this place. Affection and amusement and a bubbling warmth, deep in my chest.

“I want you to see the stars,” I tell him. Something behind his eyes flares and burns bright. Brighter than anything in the sky. My own private supernova.