Page 68 of Not Until I Found You

I drop my gaze back to the soil, because I hate seeing him like this. I so desperately want to connect with him, but every conversation feels like we’re pushing against a locked door. Part of that is because of the stroke—finding the words is exhausting for him—but another part feels like something else. Like he’s still keeping pieces of himself tucked safely out of reach. It’s hard not to wonder if the silence is an attempt for him to protect himself...or keeping me at a distance.

Still, this is progress, though, us spending time together in the garden, just like when I was a kid.

“I remember how you’d encourage me to taste everything,” I add, my voice quieter now. “Even the stuff I hated.”

The lines around his eyes deepen and he lets out a slow breath through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh he’s managed all afternoon.

“You were right,” I say, looking up and giving him a playful smirk. “Most of the time.”

The breeze picks up, rustling through the leaves overhead, and a wind chime on the porch clinks off rhythm. Being in the garden feels nostalgic, close enough to allow a calming peace to wash over me, but it doesn’t come because I can’t ignore the ache sitting between us.

I shift onto my knees and move farther down the row. The sun warms the back of my neck while we work side by side, just like we used to. Back then, silence meant comfort. Now it feels crowded with all the things I want to ask and all the things he won’t say.

Dad leans down to pinch a stray weed near the base of the tomatoes, his movements slower and more deliberate. His right side lags enough to notice if you’re looking for it, but I try not to. What I can’t stop noticing is how often he chooses the plants over my eyes.

A buzz from my phone breaks through the stillness. After the storm, I finally talked Dad into letting us get satellite internet installed out here. I pause, frowning as I brush my hands against my thighs and reach for my phone tucked into my back pocket. Another buzz follows as I pull it free, and my stomach immediately knots, expecting the text to be from Mom.

Lately, every message from her has felt like another attempt to convince me that Covewood isn’t where I’m supposed to be. I don’t have the energy for that conversation today. But when I glance at the screen, relief washes over me because the text isn’t from my mom. It’s from Zane. My stomach does this swooping sensation as I see his name, and my lips curve before I can stop them.

I look up at Dad and catch his gaze lifting from the garden and landing on my face, curiosity revealed there. I wonder what he might see written in my smile and how my cheeks blush, knowing that Zane is thinking about me.

I glance down at the screen again then back at Dad as I hold up my phone and reply, “It’s Zane.”

His eyes linger before returning to his task. I look back at my phone’s screen.

Zane

I hope you’re having a good day

How mad is Charlie about the satellite internet out there?

I look up at my dad, who doesn’t seem to mind that I’m sitting here texting instead of finishing our weeding.

Me

I think he’s coming around to it.

Zane

But Charlie loves living in the woods and being cut off from the rest of the world.

Me

Well, if the storm taught us anything, it’s that we need a way to communicate.

Zane

Fair point.

Me

Plus, having a million notifications blowing up my phone the second I get service was getting old.

Zane

A million?

Who would be texting you that much?