Page 177 of Spicy Ever After
There he is. Merrick Milton.
His account is public, and his profile pic is on the steps of the cathedral with Margaret in his arms. I drop my sandwich and topple the kitchen chair when I leap to my feet.
“YES!”
“Good God, son. What’s gotten into you?” Pop is clutching the edge of the table like I might send it flying. He glares at me over the rims of his glasses. “You’ve been acting like a kicked wasp nest all week. What the hell is wrong?”
I pick up the chair and force myself to sit back down. Sitting is one thing. Keeping still is entirely another.
My thumbs fly over the screen.
Me: Merrick, this is Hattie’s boyfriend, Beck. We met at the wedding. I’m sorry to reach out like this while you and Margaret are on your honeymoon?—
Pop’s big hand closes around my bicep like a vise. “Goddamn it, Beckett. Tell me what’s wrong.” He doesn’t let go, so I have to meet his glare. “Is it the crop? Is it Paul? What’s got you so rattled?”
My jaw clenches. For a split second, I hesitate to spill.
“Fuck the crop. Fuck Paul. Fuck everything else.”
Pop’s eyebrows climb halfway to his hairline. Then he releases me and leans back in his chair, frowning. “It’s Hattie then.”
Shit. He gets it.
The relief that hits me is almost cruel. The sudden knot in my throat is like a fist.
“I don’t know where she is.” The words might as well be gravel in my throat.
Pop’s frown deepens. “What do you mean, son?”
I tell him about her last message. The radio silence. The read receipts. The empty house.
“Why would she text me so late like that? And then nothing?”
My father clears his throat, flattens his shaking hands on the table, and leans closer. “Is it possible she’s trying to end it, and this is the only way she knows how?”
The fact that Pop is trying to be gentle—when I only ever saw him be truly gentle with Mom—sets my eyes stinging.
I squeeze them shut and will myself to breathe.
“It’s possible. Of course, it’s possible.” Then I shake my head and look back at him. “But it’s not like her. She doesn’t hold back when she has something to say. She doesn’t because she can’t.”
I swallow hard. “It’s one of the things I love about her.” The confession is so bald and raw, I want to curl into a fetal position under the table.
This time, when Pop’s hand lands on my shoulder, the squeeze is different. Unrushed. Loving.
Christ.
I grit my teeth and will the wave of emotion to ebb.
“I think something’s wrong,” I admit finally.
Pop releases my shoulder but studies me. “Like what?”
I press my lips together. Is this going to sound crazy? Am I crazy to even be thinking this? My pulse beats harder.
“Her parents are—her mom, especially—really protective.”
Pop stares at me for a moment. “Well…” He tips his head to the side, a silent acknowledgement. “Understandable, isn’t it?”
