Then I text my sister, assuming she will happily drive me to the doctor since I hauled her around to appointments for many years. She immediately shoots me down with some nonsense about Porter’s nap routine.
I text the Bedds one after another, eventually resorting to a fucking group text and offering money, but the negative replies come faster and more furiously.
Ethan
No can do, bud. Big delivery coming in.
Gran
Oh, sorry, dear. I’m taking a pottery class with Wesley. We’re recreating that scene from Ghost.
I stare at that message for a good while, realizing I’m half jealous and half proud that Gran is still this jazzed about physical intimacy at her age.
One by one, the Bedd siblings decline my ask, telling me they’ve all got goats to milk or conferences in Albany or books to edit. Each of them uses multiple exclamation points in their stingy refusal to take me to the doctor.
Then they all send my calls to voicemail.
I stare at my phone, the horrible realization dawning. My entire community—my meddling, interfering, apparently coordinated family—has conspired to make me ask Eva for a ride.
I could cancel the appointment. I consider this seriously for about ten minutes. I’m about to call Tiddy and Diego or even Latonya, but the Bedds have very likely activated some sort of town-wide spy network after Ginny upped her game with a casserole.
I need this appointment. My ankle has been aching differently the past few days—less sharp, more dull—and I don’t know if that’s good healing or bad healing or something in between.
And there’s work. I can’t focus on code when half my brain is calculating how long until I can walk without crutches.
I need this appointment. Which means I need a ride.
Which means I need to ask Eva.
I wait until evening to hobble over there, recognizing that this requires an in-person ask. I fruitlessly hope she will be less likely to be sweaty and flushed in her work clothes, and I might succeed in not staring at her ass.
More chance of me surviving this conversation with my dignity intact.
I try to look casual. Like I’m just popping over for a friendly chat and not because my entire family has staged an intervention via schedule conflicts.
I knock, and the sound echoes in the quiet evening. Somewhere in the maple grove, an owl hoots, potentially mocking me. I swallow a lump as I hear footsteps, a pause, and the creak of the door opening.
Eva looks… not great. Not bad—she couldn’t look bad if she tried—but tired. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun; she’s wearing an oversized sweater that swallows her frame, and there are shadows under her eyes.
Did I cause that? Her exhaustion and wariness?
“Asher.” She says my name like it’s a word she’d rather not use. “What do you want?” No “hey.” No “come in.” No warmth at all. I deserve that.
I try to lean on her porch wall, but the crutches get in the way. “I need a favor.” The words come out rough. I clear my throat. “A ride. Tomorrow morning. To Climax.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “What happened to your sister?”
“She’s busy.”
“Ethan?”
“Busy.”
“Gran?”
“Pottery class.”
Something flickers across her face. It might be amusement. It might be disbelief. “Pottery class…”
