30. Greer
Greer
For the first time, it’s not this unique brand of butterflies flapping their wings alongside the beats of my heart where it sits in its cage before I knock on Beckett’s door—it’s hesitation and the sound of the screeching brakes of my brain.
Not because I’m nervous to go inside. I probably should be after today. After I sat with my father while the antibiotics emptied into him and I listened to his lungs crackle on the other end of my stethoscope.
It seemed like, maybe, the idea that the consequences to my actions were this abstract sort of thing because no one was literally asking for another organ.
That’s one of the beautiful things about the human heart—they serve this literal, life-giving purpose in your body. But there’s this abstract function of love, and I think that’s meant to give us life, too.
But the crackles on the other end of that stethoscope, the oxygen mask, the antibiotics, and the fever burning along my father’s skin remind me there are consequences, and they’re real.
I shouldn’t be as comfortable with Beckett as I am, I certainly shouldn’t be as intimately familiar with his apartment as I am, those butterflies can’t fly so close to the bars, and my heart needs to stay in its cage. It can’t serve this abstract function for me, it needs to keep me alive, because I still need to keep my father alive, too.
I’m late getting here. My father was discharged like Dr. Rawdat promised, and he’ll be fine in a few days. But I’m feeling a bit exposed, and I think Beckett might be, too.
I told him this thing I never tell anyone—mostly because I’m scared that when they hear the whole ugly truth of it, they’ll never look at me the same.
That they’ll judge me, they won’t be able to understand why I did it even though I didn’t want to, and they certainly won’t understand how I ended up here.
There were a lot of things in the lines of Beckett’s face that night, behind his eyes. But none of them were those.
And then I saw it, in real time—all these things he’s alluded to that made him into this person who just sort of ... was.
I think I’m a little sad that we can’t be anything more than we are, but my brain speaks louder than whatever whispers my heart wants me to hear.
He can stay, but he has to stay where he is.
I roll my shoulders back, and I do knock, but it takes him a minute to open the door.
“Sorry, I had these stupid things on my legs for recovery. Took a minute to get them off.” He smiles, but his eyes linger on my mouth before he swallows, muscles in his neck tensing, and he rakes a hand through his hair. “I can make you a copy of the key. I have the keycode to your place.”
He jerks his head back into his apartment before turning back inside, and I follow.
“A physical key isn’t—”
“Very friendly?” he calls over his shoulder, voice dry.
I nod, trailing after him into the living room. “Precisely.”
He raises his eyebrows when he drops down onto the end of his couch.
It’s quieter in here than usual. He usually has the TV on, or at the very least, music coming from somewhere.
He seems quieter than usual, too.
I sit beside him, tucking my legs underneath me.
“Are you sore?” I point to the abandoned puffy black boots, sitting haphazardly on the floor by the couch. “You don’t usually wear compression boots, do you?”
“What? Oh.” He’s distracted, but his eyes follow my finger to the floor. “No, I don’t. You know the new dynamic kickoff rule I told you about?”
I nod. I do, and even though he prefers that we don’t talk about football, I looked up all the rules and tried to learn everything so I could, if he changed his mind.
“It was meant to help increase the chance for a kickoff return. It’s an opportunity to score, a more exciting play. It’s not likely a team I’m kicking against is going to get the opportunity. I can—could—” He flinches when he corrects himself, and I can feel it in my chest. “I could put the ball anywhere after a kickoff, and definitely far enough away from the opposing team’s best returner. I’m not consistent right now, but I’m fast because I spent half my football career running, so Coach has us practicing drills where the kickoff gets returned and I’m tackling. A unique way to put some of my other skills to use, so he says.” Beckett shrugs. “I ran more in practice this week than I have in all of last season’s games combined.”
“Do you like it?”
“I’m not sure what I like anymore.” He tosses me a rueful grin, but there’s this thing his eyes do—they track over me and they lighten for a minute. But he clears his throat, and I can tell what he says next has been bothering him. “Don’t think poorly of them.”
I tip my head, ponytail falling across my shoulder. His eyes go with it. “Of your family?”
Beckett nods, a wave curling over his forehead.
“I don’t. If anything, I feel more sorry for them.” I prop my elbow on the back of the couch and drop my chin to my hand. “Their child was sick. They almost lost her. But in the process, they lost sight of you.”
You , I think. This happy, wonderful, funny, endlessly kind, patient, and enduring person who looks in the mirror and sees nothing.
Beckett makes a noise in the back of his throat and jerks his chin. “I was there the whole time.”
“Have you ever—” A laugh bubbles in my throat. It’s terribly ironic, this thing I’m about to say. “Have you ever set a boundary with them? Told them no when they wanted or needed something? Maybe told them how you feel?”
“Have you ever told your sister? The whole story. How you feel now, what it makes you feel about being a surgeon?” he counters, but his words aren’t harsh.
“I’m not even sure how I’d start that conversation,” I say truthfully.
Beckett smiles. “That makes two of us.” He leans forward, and I’m keenly aware of how much space he’s taking up, the shared oxygen we’re breathing, and how I feel a bit like I’m wearing my earmuffs again. Protected against a world that can be loud and can hurt. But like it can’t get me while I’m in here with him. Beckett holds his pinky up, hand so much bigger than mine, and he isn’t smiling anymore. Everything about him is serious. “Promise me you’ll think about telling her. As long as it’s right for you.”
I hook my pinky with his and whisper back, “Promise me you’ll try setting a boundary. Only if it feels right.”
He smiles at me again, but he brings our joined fingers to his mouth, brushing them briefly before letting go.
He leans back, but not as much as before. He’s close enough that I can see the amber nestled in the green striations of his eyes.
“You make more sense to me now,” I tell him, drumming my fingers along my cheek. “An unfortunate missing piece to the puzzle of you. I understand why it’s all”—I wave my hand around, like the entirety of professional football and all his achievements surround us—“all-encompassing. You were their caretaker. A parent, a provider. And then you were Beckett Davis, NCAA record smasher and kicker extraordinaire. But still a parent. Still a provider and never quite ... you.”
He gives me a wry grin, eyebrows lifting. His hands find my thighs, thumbs pressing down. His voice drops when he speaks. “You make sense to me, too. I wish you didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
Beckett swallows. “I understand why you don’t—why you can’t—it’s okay. Why you only have friends . Why you need to keep everything you have left.”
He doesn’t like the word friends anymore, I can tell. But it’s all I have to give.
And it’s never been more important it stays that way.
He clears his throat, one hand coming up and gripping my chin. He tips it upwards, so our eyes are level. His voice is rough, and I feel it all over me. “We can be just friends. But I’m not sleeping with anyone else. I haven’t, and I’m not interested. And you—”
I don’t know what he’s about to say but I shake my head. “I’m not. I haven’t. I don’t want to.”
“You don’t have any other friends?” His eyes flash, and if we were in one of my books, I’d say he was feeling possessive.
But we aren’t in one of my books. We’re in real life, and he knows I can’t give him what he wants, that it’s only this tiny, little piece of me, and he’s never asked for anything before, but he’s asking for this. “No. I don’t have any other friends like you. I don’t think—”
“They could fuck you like I do?” His eyes lighten and he gives me a lazy grin.
I jerk my head back, pull my chin from his grip, and push his shoulder. “Okay!” I laugh, and he looks at me like it’s his new favourite sound.
I straighten my shoulders, even though they shake with laughter, and wipe at the corner of my eyes. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
“I think I can fill in the blanks.” Beckett holds his hands up and nods, face entirely alight, dimple curving in his cheek. “No one else has fucked your brains out the way I have. I understand. It’s my cross to bear.”
My mouth parts, but my cheeks flush, laughter still caught in my throat. “Shut up. You are so full of yourself. Seriously, you should see someone. I can recommend several psychiatrists.”
His grin turns lazy again. “You can be full of me, if you want.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s smiling at me, and it’s this sort of smile he makes all the time. But there’s something else there, written in the lines of his jaw, the curve of his full bottom lip. Resignation and acceptance spelled out across the mouth I love to have all over me. And I think that means it’s okay, that this is all I can give him. That I’m enough for him even though I’m empty.
He understands , my brain whispers. It’s still safe for now .
I smile softly at him and concede, holding my hands up. “Alright, Beckett. Fuck my brains out.”
Beckett groans, rolling his head back like it’s all this big joke—an inconvenience. But he’s on me before I can say anything else.
I think we’re laughing more than we’re not, and he doesn’t really spend that much time inside me—it’s all wandering hands and mouths.
We fall off the couch. One of his compression boots digs into my back when he’s between my legs. Somehow, he smashes his head against the coffee table so badly we have to stop, and I need to test his ocular responses in the bathroom. I hit my knee against the side of his bathtub when I drop to the floor for him.
But it’s funny and lovely and wonderful and I hope he’s my friend forever.