Page 28 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

"You say all it would’ve taken was a phone call," Beckett’s soft voice stopped Dahlia’s retreat. She turned to stare back at him, her eyes devoid of emotion now. "How many calls of mine did you pick up when I did call throughout the years?"

He watched Dahlia stiffen and raise her chin a little higher, defensively.

"I..." Dahlia began, but Beckett, barely keeping his emotions under control, cut her off.

"Not just my phone calls," Beckett reminded her. "Your sisters' calls. Their calls—and yes, even hers."

"That’s not fair," Dahlia countered. "I always got back to everyone."

"Yes, when it suited you," Beckett pointed out. "On your schedule."

"I called home once a week, sometimes more," Dahlia defended her actions.

"How gallant of you," Beckett mocked, knowing he was being deliberately cruel, but her words had cut and he was still bleeding from them. "Dishing out some of your spare time like throwing scraps to a starving dog. How many times did she have to ask you to come home to visit, only for you to make it clear in no uncertain terms that you were too busy, or that the farm was not your responsibility? What was it you said?" He threw her words back at her. "Sell the farm, you said; it’s just a weight around everyone’s neck."

The weight of her own words—the ones she’d uttered the last time she’d visited when her mother was still alive—hit her with the force of a sudden gale, threatening to tear her from the fields. Her emotions and mind spun in a chaotic tumble of pain, anger, and confusion.

“How dare you!” Dahlia hissed, instantly going on the defensive. “The city is not like this valley, where you get to dictate your own time. The city moves at a pace ten times faster. To keep up, you have to live on a schedule or fall behind.” She tried hard to control her hands, which were now shaking at her sides. “And I always made time for everyone here.” She cleared her throat and forced a tight, self-mocking smile. “Here’s the thing. While I may have had a schedule of when I called home or the farmhouse... at least I called regularly, like clockwork.” Her eyes narrowed. “So, who exactly is it that had a breakdown in communications, or was hard to get hold of?”

With that, she turned away, her chest heaving as she began a rapid retreat toward the stone wall.

“So you’re just running away again?” Beckett called out before she could reach the property line, his voice making her halt and turn back to glare at him. “You like to do that a lot.” His eyes were hooded. “Stalking off in the middle of an argument instead of staying to resolve things.”

“Maybe I do it because trying to argue with you is like arguing with a brick wall!” Dahlia didn’t mean to, but her voice rose as she growled out the words. “All you do is judge me for leaving. Yes, I left. But...” She caught herself and clamped her jaw closed.

“But?” Beckett closed the distance she’d put between them, coming to a stop so close she could smell the clean, cedar scent of his cologne.

She swallowed, unable to hold back the truth any longer. “You said the other day that you wanted to... to admit how you felt about me right before I left.”

“Yes, I did,” Beckett openly admitted.

“But you didn’t,” Dahlia told him, her eyes filled with accusation. “You didn’t, did you? You say it was because you didn’t want to hold me back...” Her voice softened, and she fought to control her breath. “I think it was because you didn’t want me bad enough.”

There—she’d finally said it. A strange calm washed through her, quenching the burning anger and the stinging pain of feeling like the problem, like she was never enough. It was the same pain she'd carried when she believed her mother had let her go to the city without putting up a fight, unlike the way she had clung to the others.

While they’d all thought she held herself above them—that her dreams made her fly too close to the sun—all Dahlia had ever wanted was to fit in. To feel that she was needed. That her gift for numbers and problem-solving was of some value to the family legacy. Instead, she'd been pushed toward the city, her sisters always going on about how she was heading for bigger and better things. They believed she held herself above them, but it was their expectations that had pushed her to where she’d gone.

In that moment, Dahlia realized that leaving Harvest Hollow hadn’t been one single choice; it had been many she’d made over the years. Every time she’d come home, it was with the hope that she would finally feel needed. Instead, she’d felt like more of an outsider, to the point where she was already planning her departure before she’d even arrived.

Beckett

Beckett stood in stunned silence, his shoulders tensing, his chest rising as her parting shot hit its mark. Not wanting her bad enough. The accusation hung between them like a physical strike, sharper and colder than the wind cutting down from the hemlock ridge.

He stared at her, his eyes narrowing as he felt the blood rush to his ears. To stand here in the dirt he had labored over for three years, on the farm he had kept from foreclosing with his own sweat and quiet care, and have her claim he hadn't wanted her enough; it was a boundary line he wouldn't let her cross.

"You think I didn't want you?" Beckett murmured so quietly that it barely carried across the damp grass. His throat felt dry, choked by the decades of silence he’d forced upon himself. He took his hands out of his coat pockets, letting his arms hang loose at his sides, completely exposed to her glare. "I spent thirty-two years wanting you. Loving you with all I am. I wanted you when we were fifteen, standing by this very stone wall. I wanted you when you left for college, and every single autumn you returned only to spend the entire visit looking at the highway."

He took a quiet breath, his jaw tightening until his teeth ached.

"I didn't say anything because you made it clear that you wanted a different world," he continued, his eyes locking onto hers, refusing to let her look away. "You wanted Chicago. You wanted the skyscrapers, the meetings, and the clean schedules where nothing was messy. I kept my mouth shut because I wasn't going to be the anchor that dragged you back to the mud when you were trying to fly. I cared more about what you wanted than what I needed. I chose to stay behind my fence so you could have your freedom."

Dahlia flinched, her shoulders dropping slightly, but Beckett didn't stop. The years of quiet care, the cold winters clearing the orchards, the silent hope he’d harbored; it all poured out, stripped of any neighborly politeness.

"I wanted you enough to let you go," Beckett admitted, his voice cracking on the raw edge of the truth. He felt the cold air sting his eyes, but he kept looking her in the eye. "I wanted you enough to keep my mouth shut so you wouldn't feel guilty for leaving me behind. But I have some pride left. I won't be your temporary distraction. I won't be a comforting fall interlude to keep you warm before you open your laptop, check your city inbox, and leave me behind in the dust again." He swallowed. “I won’t be your excuse to run away or the noose around your neck that forces you to stay.”

He looked at her one last time, taking in the pale outline of her face in the gathering twilight.

“I love you, Dahlia,” Beckett admitted. “I loved you when we were kids. I fell deeper in love with you each year as we grew up, and I have never stopped.”