22
“I SHOULD’VE KNOWN you’d be out here,” I say, crossing the garden to the stone bench where Hayden sits beneath the starlight.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.
I lower myself beside him. “I’m so far off this schedule. Early to bed, early to rise—not really my thing.”
“And I’m just early to rise,” he says. In the distance, a barn owl hoots.
“Have you always been bad at sleeping?” I ask.
“Always,” he says.
“What is it?” I ask. “Afraid of the dark?”
The way he glances at me, I can tell he’s gauging whether I’m teasing him. I’m not.
“No, not that.” He leans back, scanning the sky. “You know what I think
it really is?”
“What?” I ask.
“I think I don’t like people looking at me,” he says.
“Oh.” I turn my gaze purposefully forward, across the dark garden, toward the lone lit bulb beside the door to the house.
“Not like that.” He nudges my thigh with his, his eyes sweeping back to my face. “Not you.”
“Oh.” A pleasant warmth vibrates through me.
“I think…” He begins again. “I think as a kid, I felt so much pressure.
To act a certain way, be seen how my dad needed his sons to be seen. And I was bad at it. Clumsy. Rude. All day long, I think I sort of felt like I was
flexing every muscle in my body, or something. And then nighttime would roll around, and my family would be asleep—the whole world would be asleep, and…” He cocks his head to one side, his eyes sparking when they catch mine. “I started sneaking out when I was like ten.”
“And what exactly was there for a ten-year-old to do in the middle of the night in rural Indiana?” I ask, letting myself lean against him, my head tipping to rest on his shoulder.
He laughs a little, one soft rasp, and presses a kiss to the crown of my head that makes me feel volcanic, like lava is coursing down me.
“Nothing,” he says. “Nothing at all. I’d just walk around our neighborhood, listening to music on a Walkman my mom gave me, and absolutely everyone would be asleep, or at least inside with the lights off. And I just remember feeling…light. No one was looking at me.” He seems a little bashful as he says, “I’ve always felt most myself when I’m alone.”
It reminds me of something Margaret would say, of things she has said, and I wish I could tell him that. But I can’t, not without breaking our most important rule.
“You want me to leave you to your alone time?” I ask instead, and hurry to add, “I won’t take it personally, I promise.”
“Nah,” he says. “This is better.” He rearranges his arm across the back of the bench, and I move closer, his head resting against mine. “Does your
mom know? What you’re working on?”
“I didn’t break the NDA,” I assure him.
“No, it’s not—that’s not why I was asking,” he says. The same owl hoots in the distance. “She hasn’t asked you about it. About work. Why you’re here.”
I shift uncomfortably. “I already told you. She doesn’t care about most of the things I write about.”
“But she cares about you,” he says. “That much is obvious.”
Is it? I almost ask. But I know he’s right. Mom’s love has always been an action, rather than words. Making that hideous quilt, teaching me how to bake my favorite peach cobbler and my favorite cast-iron cornbread casserole, and serving one or the other every time I come home. “I think…”
I’m not sure how to say this. I feel guilty saying it, because I think it would break her heart to hear, even if it’s true. “I think she loves me because I’m her daughter. But I’ve never felt sure she loves me because I’m me. Does that make sense?”
He pulls away and ducks his head to peer into my eyes, his expression torqued. “I’m sure that’s not true,” he says quietly.
“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” I say. “Maybe the fact that she does love me is all that does.”
She made me who I am, in so many ways—not just the skills she passed on, but the strength. When we were all scared shitless about Audrey’s health, Mom was as steady as a metronome, day in and day out, working our land, making our meals, providing what we needed, driving my sister to and from doctors’ appointments, and helping Dad homeschool us. She taught me to think of life not just in terms of how many executioner’s blades were poised over our proverbial necks at any given time but in terms of how we could use our time before that ax fell, or didn’t. And a lot of the
time it didn’t.
Keep working, keep moving, keep hoping.
He wraps his arms more tightly around me, pulls me in against his side, and tucks my head beneath his chin. I take a deep inhale of his almond soap and feel my chest loosen. My eyes flutter closed, his even breathing soothing me.
When I next open them, the sky is deep purple, the chickens just starting to move around, clucking in their enclosure. I pry myself away from Hayden and he stirs awake, his eyes slitting open on a sleepy smile.
“Hey,” I croak.
“Hey,” he croaks back.
“Did my snoring keep you up?” I ask.
He runs a hand over his face, wiping the sleep from himself. “Weirdly, no.”
We smile at each other a beat, a silent acknowledgment of how strange this all is, and—at least for me—how strangely normal it feels.
“We’re going to be covered in mosquito bites,” I say.
“Not me,” he teases scratchily, “I’m wearing pants.”
“Well, your arms have double the surface area of mine, so things will probably shake out pretty evenly.” I fight off a yawn. “Want some tea?”
“Tea sounds good.” He groans a little as he unfolds himself from the bench, giving me a hand to pull me upright and straight into a hug I wish I could wear like an almond-scented coat, morning, noon, and night. “I think my neck is stuck at an angle,” he murmurs against the side of mine.
I reach up and knead the tight muscles there, and the way his groan travels through me makes every little hair on my arms and legs stand up, like they’re reaching toward him.
Behind us, the door creaks open, and we lurch apart, but Mom hardly looks our way as she trudges toward the coop, a basket over her arm.
“Anyone want to help me collect the eggs?” she calls to us, the mist seeming to nibble away at her voice like thousands of tiny fish pouncing on a piece of bread.
I look to Hayden. “Tea can wait,” he tells me.
“Yep,” I shout back to Mom as we start toward the coop.
• • • SLEPT WITH HAYDEN, I type to the group text, and when a flurry of !!!
And WHAT and tell me everything chimes in from Cillian, Bianca, and Priya respectively, I send a clarifying follow-up: As in, we fell asleep on a stone bench outside my mom’s house.
Priya replies with an unimpressed ellipsis.
Cillian writes, I still can’t believe you took him to your mama’s house. I’VE never even been there.
I have, Bianca brags. Best spoon bread of my life. I dream about it
sometimes.
RUDE, Cillian says.
Next time you’re in GA, let me know, I tell him. It’s an open invitation. I promise.
Let’s back up to you sleeping on a stone bench with a (hot) man, like you’re not two grown adults, Priya says.
They’re at her PARENTS’ HOUSE, Pri, Bianca says. What do you
WANT them to do?
Priya sends through a winky face.
How are you guys? I ask. I miss you all.
Pretty good, Cillian says. Except my editor is breathing down my ass about this profile on the team making the new E.T. miniseries.
I have never and I will never breathe “down your ass,” Bianca says. The piece needs work.
Can you guys handle this privately, Priya says. I come here for the goss, not to feel like I’m at work.
I can literally see the top of your head poking out of your cubicle from here, Cillian says.
Wait you’re at the office today?!? Priya says, and then the messages go silent, probably as they reconvene in real life, at the water cooler or office Nespresso.
I go back into the kitchen to wash the rest of the breakfast dishes, then join Mom in the garden. I’d assumed Hayden was still out on his run, but he’s actually back, drenched in sweat, and working by her side.
“Hey,” I call, trudging up. “Could you use another set of hands?”
“Actually, I was about to shower,” Hayden says, pushing himself up and handing the spare gardening gloves over.
“Lunch in about two hours?” Mom asks, without looking at either of us.
Hayden’s eyes and mine connect. He gives me a small nod.
“Sure,” I say. “And then we should head out.”
Mom nods, still digging with a trowel, focus buried in the dirt. “Nice kid,” she says after a minute.
I ignore the flip-flop my stomach does and take up my post beside her.
“He’s great. Really good writer too.”
She sneaks a glance at me, then goes back to digging.
Is she picking up on my crush, or is it something else? I’ve brought lots of friends here over the years, but never a boyfriend or love interest of any
kind.
In fact, imagining Theo here in my childhood home makes me feel like I’m three seconds from breaking into hives.
I’d always been too afraid she’d disapprove. If she knew about my dynamic with Theo, I’m sure she would. And that would bother me in a way that her disapproval of Hayden, I’m fairly sure, wouldn’t.
I’m still trying to figure out why when she says, “I read his book.”
I feel, instantly, like I might burst with pride. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say there was a fair bit of jealousy mixed in there. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“I liked it very much.” That’s high praise coming from her. “You want the hat?” she asks, pulling the drawstring loose under her chin. “You’re going to get fried out here.”
“I’m wearing sunscreen,” I promise her, but she ignores me and pops the wide brim over my face.
After another minute or two of silence, she says, “He showed me that story you wrote. About the child star. Bella whatever?”
I sit back on my heels, absorbing the shock. “Oh.”
Still digging, still focused earthward, she says, “Your writing’s come a long way.”
I know—in my heart of hearts—she means this as a compliment. It still feels couched in an insult. “Thanks,” I say.
“You’ve always been talented,” she goes on, the pressure easing from me, only to push down again when she adds, “You could be doing anything.”
I don’t want to fight with her—that’s the last thing Dad would want— but I suddenly feel too thorny and raw to accept any subtle digs about my career without snapping.
It’s not just about me, I remind myself. My mom’s got her own stuff she’s dealing with. I take the hat back off and hand it to her, determined to maintain a breezy smile. “I’m going to see if the shower’s free yet,” I say.
She nods once, without meeting my eyes. I stand and go inside.
• • • AFTER LUNCH, WE pack the car and say our goodbyes. “Feel free to come back anytime,” Mom says, to both of us, and I know she means it.
In lieu of hugs, she gives us a stack of leftovers in Tupperware, and walks us partway to the car, lingering at the point where the walkway spills into driveway.
“Safe travels,” she calls from there, like she can’t come any farther, and waves over her head.
“Thanks,” we call back in unison as we climb inside. “Love you,” I add through the rolled-down window.
“You too,” she says, and then we’re pulling away.
It’s strange, how no place on earth feels like home to me like this house shrinking in the distance, and yet, every time I’m there, I can’t help but feel it’s too tight around me, like a sweater that shrunk, or the house in Alice in Wonderland that Alice ends up wearing like a dress after she eats the magic cake.
“You okay?” Hayden asks from the passenger seat as we reach the intersection of the driveway and the road.
For once, I’m not in the mood to talk. “I’m good,” I say, pulling onto the road.
He nods, but after a few seconds, clears his throat and says, “You can
talk about it, Alice.”
“I’m good,” I repeat.
In my peripheral, he shakes his head. “You’re not good. You’re upset.”
“What am I upset about?” I say.
He gives a frustrated laugh but doesn’t answer right away.
“What?” I press.
“Your mom,” he says. “You’re angry with her.”
My face warms. “Why are you acting like you’re mad at me now?”
“I’m not trying to—I just don’t understand why you won’t say something.”
“About what?” I ask, my own irritation mounting to match his.
“About how she just made you feel.” He throws his hands up like it should be obvious. “About how she doesn’t ask you about your job or your life, and when it comes up, she can’t wait to move on. About how it hurts you that she doesn’t read your stuff, and how when you reach for her, she literally pulls away. And instead of telling her you’re angry with her, you’re just bottling it up and pretending it’s fine. Even with me. Even when I can
see it’s not fine.”
“Stop,” I murmur.
“I just don’t understand why you won’t admit you’re—”
“Stop,” I say, louder than I mean to, but not steady. Shaky, trembling, overwhelmed. “I’m sorry you think it’s some moral failing that I choose to focus on the good things in life, but not everyone sees things like you. Not everyone wants to just—just go through life like a steamroller.”
“This isn’t about me,” he says quietly.
“It is about you.” My grip tightens on the steering wheel. My eyes burn.
“I’m sorry you felt like you had to be the perfect, happy little mayor’s son, who had to hide all of his feelings—”
“That’s not what this is,” he snaps back.
“But that’s not me,” I go on. “I’m okay with my life. I’m happy with it.
I don’t know why you need me to be angry with her, but—”
“Because you’re lying to yourself,” he says. “You’re pretending the whole world is rainbows and butterflies, like I can’t see what’s right in front of my face. You’re a journalist. You’re smarter than that.”
Now the anger surges through me. Not at my mother. At him, and at myself for bringing him here with me, for putting myself in this situation to be seen in a way I’ve never wanted to be, by someone who, by nature, doesn’t leave well enough alone.
“You’re right!” I cry. “I am smarter than this. I should’ve known better than to take a man I barely know to my home. But I guess it’s like you said: I was just lying to myself, pretending you were someone else.”
The car falls silent.
I’m shaking, my breath shallow, and hot from my forehead to my toes. I try to talk the anger back into its tunnel deep inside me. I keep myself from looking over at him, from imagining the hurt or frustration that might be on his face. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
I just need to get back to Little Crescent.
To finish this audition.
To get this job, and write this book, and everything will be okay, like it always is.
I turn on the radio, and Diamond Rio’s “Meet in the Middle” plays, the irony nearly as thick as the tension.
We don’t say another word for the rest of the drive.
By the time we pull up to the Grande Lucia, night has begun to descend, and the ice between us is no closer to thawing. I half expect Hayden to invite me in for a minute, but one glance at his steely face tells me that’s not going to happen.
It’s probably for the best. For once, I don’t really have the energy to socialize.
I need to be alone, to refocus on the job, to figure out how to handle these last two weeks of interviews.
He averts his gaze as he unlocks the passenger door and gets out. He pulls his bag from the back seat, pausing for a beat. “Goodbye, Alice.”
He swings the door shut and heads for the stairs without a glance back.
It’s only once he’s out of sight that I realize: He said goodbye, not good night.
• • • “YOU DON’T SEEM quite like your usual overly chipper self today,”
Margaret says.
We’re sitting across from each other at the table in her workshop on Tuesday morning, each of us polishing off our own latte from Little Croissant, while she arranges shards of sea glass into a rough pattern in front of her.
“I’ll be okay,” I say with a reassuring smile.
Her forehead lifts skeptically. “This process not going how you hoped?”
“It’s not that,” I say quickly. “It’s just family stuff.”
She sets down the two pieces of green glass she was arranging. “You can talk about it, if you’d like.”
I laugh a little. “No, that’s okay. We should get back to you.”
“He’s the same way, you know,” she says.
“What? Who?”
“Hayden,” she says. “Hates talking about himself.”
I stuff down a laugh. “You’re trying to make him talk about himself?”
Despite his and my fight, I’m still charmed picturing it: this feisty woman trying to trick her staid interviewer into dishing about himself.
She gives a small shrug. “It only seems fair. I’m airing out all my dirty laundry—”
At the not-quite-believing look I give her, she changes course: “Fine, a lot of my dirty laundry. The least he could do is let down his guard a bit.
But that boy is basically an animated suit of armor, as far as I can tell.”
“I think he’s just private,” I say, surprised by my defensiveness. “I think you can understand that.”
“Have you two spent much time together?” she asks.
My eyes dart to the recorder, aware that everything I say will be captured. It’s one thing to make myself vulnerable with her, but it’s another to drag Hayden into it. Even if he and I aren’t on the best terms right now. I settle on, “A little, yeah.”
“And what do you think?” she says bluntly.
“About?” I ask.
“Hayden,” she says. “Do you still think I can trust him? You think there’s a warm, beating heart under all that ice?”
The flicker of memories that licks across my mind is tawdry. I pray I’m not flushing. And even as the hurt and irritation of our last conversation push up through those other flashes, the truth is, I mean it when I say, “You can trust him.”
At the return of her suspicious eyebrow tilt, I add, “He’s got his reasons for being guarded, but he’s always honest. You can trust him.”
I trust him. There’s no talking myself out of it. I just do.
That’s why what he said bothered me so much. Because if he’s saying it, I can’t shake the idea that there might be some truth to it.
Margaret looks at me for a long moment and then, quite suddenly, drops her eyes and hands back to the glass shards. “So,” she says. “Where did we leave off last time?”
