Page 23 of Pick Me
He hesitated. “I’ve had some health issues—”
“Okay, then, the last three years. How many partners?”
“I don’t know. Three?”
“Oh, dear God.” I ran a hand over my face. “This is more serious than I thought.”
A pillow whacked me on the forehead. “Shut up. I told you I prefer—”
“Guys who know the score, yeah. But you lived inBoston, man,” I wailed. “There have to be a bajillion delectablegay men there who legit don’t even wanna know yourname’cause they’ll be calling youDaddywhen you make them come, and you were all, ‘But mah high standards!’”
Knox buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook with laughter.
“I’m serious! This is a tragedy. It’s like you were living dead center of an all-you-can-eat buffet and spent three years saying, ‘No, I’m perfectly fine with this small fruit cup and this sprig of parsley.’ Nobody is handing out bonus points for how little enjoyment you derive from life, Knox. You do know that, right? But fine.Fine! We begin from where we are.” I waved a hand like I could magic away his short-sightedness and moved on with what I felt was considerable maturity. “Now, get out your phone, and let’s do this thing. Time for lesson one.”
He shook his head. “Not only no, but hell no. I’m not interested. Besides, why in the world would you want to help me with this? Forgive me if I don’t trust your sudden generosity.”
“For the good of humanity? Because I’m just that kind? No?” I sighed. “Okay, fine, it’s because I’ve been lazy about seeing what the dating scene around here is like, myself, and I’m going to regret it nearly as much as you will,” I told him honestly. “I deserve to have fun while I’m here. Also? Not to dredge up our painful history since you apologized so nicely and all, but you’ve been a bear to deal with the last two weeks, and frankly, things are only gonna get worse now that Stella got stompy and Sunday Orchard has to adjust their OSHA sign for ‘days since your last incidence of cow-related violence in the workplace’ back down to zero. Think of my helping you get a stress-relieving fuck as a form of self-preservation.”
More laughter—that easygoing, happy laughter—bubbled out of him, seeming to startle him as much as it did me. “Goodman, you are…” He broke off and shook his head.
“A fool?” I said darkly. “Yes, so you keep saying.”
And he wasn’t wrong.
I had it bad for this man, I could admit that to myself, and that was beyond foolish because Knox was the literal definition of Never Gonna Happen.
But at least now I knew there was no point in walking around the barn-apartment wearing my fuck-me jeans, which, in retrospect, were not very comfortable. And I definitely didn’t need to stop annoying him constantly, which was handy since I’d kinda gotten into it.
I just needed to approach this ceasefire with Knox the same way I’d gone intoGame of Throneswhen I’d started watching it last year, approximately a billion years after the rest of the world had seen it and spoiled it all over the internet. When you knew there wouldn’t be a happily ever after, you knew not to let yourself get too invested.
“I swear to God, I’m gonna make sure you get laid one of these days. And when you’re stress-free and smiley, I’m going to be smug as fuck.” I threatened Knox sunnily. “Watch. It. Happen.”
Chapter Four
Knox
I walked across the frosted grass to the farmhouse the next morning with my hands in my sweatshirt pockets and a spring in my step.
This lightness was not, it was important to note, because of Goodman’s ridiculous offer the night before—which I would not be taking him up on, since I had been sourcing my own hookups ever since MaryPat Fishbaugh and I had spent three minutes in the janitor’s closet outside the gym at Averill Union Junior-Senior High School on a dare back when I was thirteen,thank you very much.
Instead, my good mood had everything to do with an early morning email I’d gotten from my boss at Bormon Klein Jacovic, saying my leave extension had been approved through the end of the year, and they’d be sending me forms to sign to make it official.
“Work will be here when you get back,” Rick had written. “Take all the time you need to get healthy.”
If you’d told me last spring that receiving an email from my boss saying “Nah, we won’t need you for three months” would make me happy, I’d have called you a dirty liar. Even now, there was a definite undercurrent of anxiety underscoring my relief, because I hated being seen as the unhealthy weak link.
But it mostly felt like a stay of execution. That email meant I had three more months to get myself back to a hundred percent mentally. Three months to get my family back on their feet. Three months to remind my siblings that we were all better off with me living a few hours away.
Plenty of time.
Breakfast was already underway when I opened the door from the porch into the back hall, the air thick with the smell of coffee and cinnamon and the sounds of laughter and silverware scraping plates. My whole family—everyone I loved in the world, minus Reed and Porter—was gathered around the big table laughing at something Hawk was saying, and I took a minute to stand there in the doorway and watch it. Aiden, squeezing a thick layer of honey on his oatmeal. Webb smiling over at Em, while also typing something on his phone and pretending not to notice what Aiden was doing. Uncle Drew, dressed in bright blue leggings and an oversized tie-dye shirt, surveying everyone with the loving, semi-bewildered, and semi-paternal air of a guy who’d spent ten years acting as guardian to his brother’s kids and still wasn’t sure what the heck he was doing there.
And then there was Goodman, sitting right in the middle of the fray today, Sally Ann by his side waiting for him to accidentally-on-purpose drop some oatmeal where she could get it. His eyes pinged from one person to the next, that sunshine smile on his lips, as he put away enough oatmeal to feed four Olympic athletes.
It was strange how easily he’d slotted into place here at the orchard, while I was still trying to remember how I fit.
“Poor Cinder-Hawkins!” Em ruffled Hawk’s hair, and tiny sparkles fell like rain onto his shoulders. “Your fairy godmother didn’t explain that at midnight you’d turn into a human glitter bomb?”
