Page 9 of The Way We Score

A bag of ground oyster shells is inside it along with a scoop for refilling the chicken feeder. The feeder is designed like a picnic table, with a trough on top. It has high sides to prevent waste.

Garrett is back with the hose to carefully refill the water troughs while I prep the food, scatter the oyster shells, and check their litter.

It doesn’t take long before we’re done and standing around, hands on our hips watching the small birds prance around eating and squawking.

Some of them have soft feathers that remind me of little alpacas, while others have flat feathers that are black or brown with white tips that make them appear lacy. Their eggs range in color from light blue to dark brown, and they usually lay about one a day.

“Those are some fancy chickens.” Garrett walks back slowly from where he finished wrapping the garden hose around the wheel again.

“Mom could tell you the different breeds.” I keep my eyes on the hens. “I have no idea what they all are. She’s added some new ones since I was here last.”

Garrett stays outside the small house, reaching up to slide his hand over the back of his neck. “Are you just in town for the wedding?”

“I’ll probably stay until Mom’s a little stronger.” My nose wrinkles as I look up at him. “You?”

“I don’t know.” He drops his arm, looking down at his boots.

The chickens cluck and peck, and the wind ruffles their feathers. I look up at the house, wondering what Mom and Dylan are doing. I imagine them standing at the window spying on us.

“This is weird.” Garrett’s voice is low. “Things have never been weird between us.”

My shoulders lift in a shrug. “Things change.”

“Not this much. This is new, and I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it much either.”

Henny Lane hasn’t gotten out of her nest to eat, so I walk over to lift her off the straw. She lets out a low, fussy cluck, and I carry her to the picnic table. “Let’s see if she’ll eat a pepper. Dylan seems to think they’re the cure for everything.”

“Want me to hold her?” He lifts a hand as I approach.

“Sure.” I carefully pass the small bird to him, and we go to the table.

She looks like a stuffed toy compared to him, and I open the paper bag, peering inside to where the pepper scraps are all mixed up. Instead of reaching inside, I tilt the bag and shake out a few pieces. I know better than to get capsaicin oil under my fingernails.

“Hello, Miss Lane.” Garrett holds the chicken up to his face.

“Oh!” My hand flies out to clutch his arm. “Don’t get her too close to your eyes.”

His brow furrows, and humor narrows his gaze. “You think she’ll peck my eye out?”

“I don’t know what she’ll do.”

“She’s not a BB gun, Liv.” Still, he lowers her to the table near where the pepper scraps are waiting. “She’s a sweet little bird.”

“Mom said she’s been acting weird.” I use a stick to slide a deep reddish-green tip closer to the chicken.

“She’s no Henifer Lawrence.” He nods. “Or even Henifer Aniston.”

“What…?” I’d been watching as Henny Lane carefully inspected the pepper pile, but he got me with that one.

“I mean, if we’re handing out awards for acting.”

My smile tightens, and I nod. “She’s very noisy. She might be more of a singer than an actress.”

“She’s the Yolko Ono of the group.” I can’t hold back any more, snorting a laugh, which makes him smile. “That’s better.”

His tone is a mixture of pride and warmth, and my chest squeezes. “You always made me laugh.”

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