The Belle and the Beard by Kate Canterbary (carter reed TXT) 📗

"Not about that." Magnolia swung a glance between us. "I was wrong about my brothers and who they needed. I mixed it up. I guess that's a good reminder that I have no business in matchmaking."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She dropped a hand to her belly as she took a sip of water. After a pause, she said, "I had a vivid idea in my head of the people my brothers would end up with—"

I dropped my fork into my salad bowl. "Oh, we haven't—I mean, we aren't—I'm still—"

"I know," Magnolia said carefully, "I do. I know that and I understand. And I know it doesn't change the fact I was wrong about them. I had the right ideas"—she pointed one hand toward Zelda, another toward me, and then crossed her arms at her wrists—"for the wrong brothers."

I didn't know what that meant and I wasn't content with the apparent finality of it but Zelda rescued the moment, saying, "Enough about the men. We don't need them to make us interesting."

"We do not," I agreed with far more zeal than necessary.

"Not at all," Magnolia agreed. Then, "Oof. They don't appreciate those comments." She rubbed a hand along the side of her belly, her eyes glowing. "You have to feel this. Come on, both of you. I swear, they're break-dancing. Or wrestling. Oh my god, they're going to wrestle all the time, aren't they?" She patted the bench. "Humor me, please. You have to feel this. It's like a legit stampede."

Zelda and I shared a glance before joining Magnolia on the banquette side of the table. She grabbed our hands and pressed them flat to her bump.

"Just wait," she murmured.

A moment passed, and another, and then I felt very silly sitting here, waiting for something to happen inside Linden's sister's body. Just as I decided to politely pull away, a swift kick connected with my palm. "Oh—oh my," I stammered.

"That was an elbow," Magnolia said. "He's always throwing those elbows around. I think he's the instigator."

"Holy bananas," Zelda yelped. "How are you, I don't know, living through this? It's like big, bony popcorn popping but it's inside you."

"It only hurts when they get curled up under my ribs. Or wherever they are that feels like they're under my ribs and having a competition to see which of them can crack one first. Or when they're stomping my bladder. I barely got any sleep last week because they were having such a good time."

"That sounds dreadful," Zelda cooed. "I want to have a baby. Not right now, obviously, but someday. I want a little someone who likes to rumble around and throw elbows."

As another jab connected with my palm, I thought to myself for the very first time, Me too.

I wasn't keeping score but I was certain I'd measured this porch at least forty times and still couldn't come up with the same numbers twice. As was the theme for this moment in my life, I didn't know what I was doing wrong or the right way to fix the issue but that didn't stop me from trying like hell.

Since the most recent measurement made no sense whatsoever and I refused to cut the wood until I had these figures correct, I set down my notebook and tape measure, and walked away.

Midge's yard was just like Linden's in that it extended back to the edge of the forest but he didn't have a dozen-odd wooden planter beds in various sizes, shapes, and states of disrepair. When I'd visited Midge in the summers, she'd put me to work weeding the vegetable garden. She'd grow everything back here. Zucchini, beans of all sorts, ten different types of tomatoes.

There was always one plant that didn't work out. One year it was the cucumbers. They'd send out tendrils and coil around the support lattice, they'd flower, they'd sprout a spiky little cuke, and then…nothing. We had spiky little cukes, far too immature to harvest, and nothing else. The whole crop turned out that way.

Now, the beds were tucked under a blanket of fallen leaves. Some were warped and weathered, so much that a heavy rainstorm was all they needed to collapse at the seams.

I hadn't given the garden much consideration because the growing season had mostly ended for the year when I moved in. It would be fun to bring the garden back to its original glory come spring. I didn't remember the specifics of Midge's planting strategy—and she always had a strategy—but I knew I could come up with something. It would be a good project and one that wouldn't require quite so much precise measurement as the porch.

There were at least six months between now and the spring growing season. I'd have to be here in six months to rebuild this garden, which was ridiculous. I wouldn't be here come April. I couldn't be. If I was still here in April, still picking up random projects and making a mess of them, something had gone terribly wrong.

I stopped, turned to face the house and the sad skeleton of the porch. What if I was here in April? What if I had a garden? What if I was right here, growing sweet little tomatoes and huge zucchini that required constant comparison to penises? What if I did all the things Linden suggested and just let myself stop worrying about what came next? What if I stayed with Linden and it wasn't temporary?

Walking backward, I took a few steps into the deepest corner of the garden. From this distance, I could see slumps in the roof and irregular tilts in the gutters. It all needed to be replaced if I had any intention of staying.

Did I want that? Did I know how to do that? How to stay and stop worrying about the next thing? Not knowing had never stopped me before.

I could stay here and we could do this. It was an option, one that