Page 87 of Wild Flower

“Becca, be reasonable, I—”

“I’m in love with Archer and Finn,” I declare again. “That’s not changing. And I love my job, too. I love it enough that I will move this farm to keep it alive and thriving. This is who I am. Didn’t you understand that when I put tattoos all over my skin? These are permanent, Mom! This is who I am. It’s who I’m always going to be, and I love me.” An ugly laugh escapes my throat and I shake my head. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable to never want to see you look at me like you are right now—ever again. So yes, I’m leaving.”

I walk out of the greenhouse.

I do my best to keep my chin held high and not look back. I will stand up for who I love, and what I love, and I won’t apologize. I climb into my van and gun it down the driveway, knowing this is the right decision, even though there are a thousand unknowns ahead. But I’m proud of myself, despite the terror that blossoms in my chest, for love will always win out in the end. That’s what all the romance novels tell me, right? Choose love? Go all in? Because I literally just bet the farm.

52

BECCA

My phone is blowing up.

There are six missed calls from my sister and now she’s begun the onslaught of text messages. I even got a text earlier from Miranda telling me Helena stopped by Birds of Paradise since I wasn’t answering my phone. Good thing I’m at Archer’s place.

I’m curled at the end of Archer’s couch—or whoever’s couch this is—organizing documents for the bank. I need this loan to move my farm or I’m screwed. Archer sits quietly on the far side of the sofa reading a Stephen King novel and tangling his bare feet in mine.

It’s nice. Comfortable.

I need to focus, but Helena’s going Chernobyl on my texts and messages keep illuminating the top of my screen like a two-year-old with a thousand questions. I should delete them without reading a single one, then block her number. Problem solved. Only, I know that would simply actualize her (and my mother’s) opinion that I always act like a thirteen-year-old child.

I click open the thread.

Helena:What the heck, Becca! Mom is freaking out.

Helena:Are you really moving out and moving your farm?

Helena:What’s happening with you right now?

Helena:Mom thinks you’re having a mental breakdown.

Helena:And I saw the billboard.

Helena: Everybody did.

Helena:You’re not going to like what people are saying. It’s ugly.

Helena:Call me. I need to know you’re okay.

Call her? Why? So she can tell me all the crappy things she—and all her country club friends—think of me? No, thank you. I text instead.

Becca:I’m fine. It’s my life. Butt out.

My phone rings.

My sister’s name flashes in block letters like she’s standing in front of me gearing up for a dissertation.

“Is that the bank?” Archer asks, looking up from his book with a hopeful expression. I show him Helena’s name on the screen instead. “Oh.” His face tightens, probably remembering how she treated him at my family’s fish fry. “She is your sister,” he offers with a weak shrug. “Maybe she’ll be on your side.”

All my muscles tense as Helena’s name flashes with impatience, but Archer’s kind eyes remind me that he has a sister, too. A sister who, last I knew, was waiting for a possible cancer diagnosis. What’s wrong with me? I’ve been so wrapped up in my own crap that I never even asked him about the results. If my sister had cancer right now, I’d be freaking out.

I promise myself I’ll ask him about it after I talk to Helena. I have a sister who’s healthy, and I shouldn’t take that for granted. I click the accept button and stand up from the couch, flashing my phone at Archer and pointing to the deck through the window.

“I’ll be right back.” I lift the phone to my ear and my sister is already talking a mile a minute. “Wait a second,” I say, trying to be patient. “I need to step outside so we can talk in private.”

She harumphs on the other end of the line as I walk onto the deck. The sun hits the large windows behind me, turning them into a mirror. Archer’s hidden inside, leaving me in a circle of reflected jungle like an animal in a cell.

I take a deep breath. “Helena, look …” I try to keep my voice steady, even though I’m already triggered by her messages. “This is none of your business. I’m moving out. It’s happening. It should’ve happened years ago. You don’t need to get into the middle of it. Okay?”

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