I spent one extremely long, hot summer building both structures. I was pretty sure I smashed my finger with the hammer at least ten times. And once, I nearly passed out after losing track of time and not drinking a single ounce of water the entire day. But really, who needed water? Apparently, I did.
When it was all said and done, the chicken coop was a collage of mismatched two-by-fours that looked like one strong gust of wind could knock the whole thing over—but it did its job, and that was all that mattered. The greenhouse construction wasn’t much better, built from the same collection of uneven, mismatched pieces. The old green panels patched together with warped wood and salvaged screws were more functional than pretty. Not a single thing about it was perfect, but somehow it still managed to grow some of the juiciest tomatoes you’d ever tasted.
Between keeping up with my garden and corralling my chickens back into their coop, I stayed pretty busy when I got home after closing Molly’s down each day.
But tonight, it wasn’t a big enough distraction. No matter how many weeds I pulled or eggs I managed to fill my wicker basket with, I still felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest.
Last week, I mentioned my panic attacks to Clara after nearly having another one while I was decorating a wedding cake.
She’d listened quietly, nodding like she always did, like she was filing the information away for later. I should’ve known that look meant trouble.
The next day, she showed up with a solution.
Marijuana. The roll-it-up-and-smoke-it kind. She offered it up like it was a stick of gum.
I must have looked at her like she’d lost her mind, because she laughed and waved a hand at me. “Back in my day, this did the trick just fine,” she’d said.
Don’t get me wrong, adult Molly was a free-spirit, willing to try anything once, which meant you’d better believe teenage Molly was the exact same way. Anyone who read between the lines would know this wasn’t my first time being around such substances. But I hadn’t exactly expectedthisto be Clara’s answer to my anxiety.
I still didn’t say no.
So now I stood in the yard, watching the chickens peck at the grass like the world wasn’t ending inside my chest. The rolled-up paper still sat in the pocket of my white cardigan, and the pressure behind my ribstightened more by the second. No matter how many deep breaths I took, it wasn’t going away.
Screw it.
I turned on my heel and marched to the tool shed, yanking the door open. The familiar smell of oil and sawdust wrapped around me as I scanned the workbench, drawers, and shelves. Surely I had a lighter out here somewhere.
I knocked over a jar of nails, cursed under my breath, and finally found one that had been shoved into the back corner of a drawer. Knees weak, I shut the shed door behind me and leaned against it, heart pounding like it was trying to escape my chest.
Pulling the joint out of my pocket, I stared at it for a moment before lighting the opposite end.
The first inhale burned more than I remembered, sharp and unpleasant, making my eyes water. I coughed, bent forward, and laughed weakly at myself.Real graceful, Molly.
I tried again—slower this time. The smoke filled my lungs, warm and thick, and when I exhaled, I pretended I was blowing out the negative thoughts.
After a few more minutes, my shoulders softened, and the tight band around my chest loosened just enough that I could take a full breath without feeling like I might shatter.
“Okay, Clara,” I whispered. “Maybe you were onto something.”
“Onto what?” someone said from behind me.
I jumped, spinning around and instinctively dropping into a fighting stance—one I hoped might be intimidating despite my five-foot-two stature. That hope vanished the second I looked up.
Of course.
Not only had I been caught smoking a joint for the first time since high school, but the person who caught me was a man of the law.
“Umm—nothing,” I said, jerking the still-lit joint behind my back and praying Liam somehow hadn’t noticed.
He held his hand out, palm up. “Give it to me.”
“Give you what?”
“Don’t play dumb, Molly. I can smell it.”
I eyed him suspiciously but didn’t move.
“Now,” he said, his hand still outstretched.
