26. BECKETT
BECKETT
Today, County General doesn’t smell like fear. It still has the usual cocktail of antiseptic and overworked air conditioning, but there’s also a cheerful hum in the lobby—volunteers in red vests and a folding banner with a cheerful blood-drop mascot.
For most of my life, hospitals meant bad news—stitches after dumb decisions, detox, and waiting rooms where the clock didn’t move. Today I’m walking in to do something good, on purpose, and that sits strange and clean in my chest.
Quinn is three steps ahead, moving like a small, efficient storm. She’s got her tote bag on one shoulder and her infamous checklist clipped to a hardboard, titled “THE LIST” in capital letters, underlined twice.
The blood drive is in the very last room, and I swear I can feel it glowing from here.
“Stop craning your neck,” she says without looking back. “They’re not going to put your name on a plaque, hero.”
“I mean, they could.” I fall in beside her, bumping her shoulder lightly. “Beck Morgan, model citizen. It has a nice ring to it.”
Her mouth twitches. “Mm. We’ll see if ‘model citizen’ still applies when a nurse points a needle at you.”
“I’m not afraid of needles.”
She scoffs at my defense. “You almost passed out when I had to pull a splinter out of your palm with tweezers.”
“That wood shard was basically a javelin,” I protest. “And you used pliers the size of a tractor. Totally different category.”
She finally looks up at me, the smile she’s fighting softening her whole face. “Whatever you say, cowboy.”
We roll up to the registration table where a volunteer named Irene slides us two forms. Behind her, a plate of cookies and tiny juice boxes are arranged with military precision. Irene has the calm, no-nonsense vibe of someone who could get a stampede organized into single file.
“First time donating?” she asks.
“For me, yeah,” I say, trying not to sound too proud. “I’ve been, uh... working toward this.”
Quinn’s hand finds my elbow and gives me a reassuring squeeze. Pride flickers across her face before she smooths it away and taps her pen against the form. “He’s been clean and consistent,” she says, her voice bright, professional. “He’s ready.”
My throat works around a thank-you that I don’t quite say. Instead, I scrawl my name, answer the boxes, pretend the pen isn’t slick in my fingers.
Quinn flips to her form with precision. She always does this—locks in, focuses hard enough to cut glass. If she’s nervous, she hides it under efficiency. I mistake it for the usual perfectionism and lean into teasing; it’s what we do.
“Grade my handwriting?” I ask, crooked grin ready.
She doesn’t look up. “You want honesty or support?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
“Honesty: a toddler with crayons could do better. Support: look at you filling in all the right boxes.”
I snort, relief loosening the knot under my sternum. “I like support.”
“I know.” Her eyes flick up, warm, then back down. “Drink some water. We don’t need you crumpling like a lawn chair.”
“I told you, I’m not—“
”—afraid of needles. Yes, yes.“ She reaches into her tote and hands me a bottle without breaking stride. “Hydrate, model citizen.”
I take it, because arguing with Quinn is like arguing with the tide.
Across the lobby, I clock the donation area: partition screens, vinyl recliners, nurses moving with practiced calm.
There’s a low buzz of conversation, a few laughs.
It’s normal and safe, reassuring me that I’m not here to take anything from anyone. I’m here to give something back.
Quinn finishes her form with a decisive dot of the pen and clips it to the board. “There.” She inhales, shoulders lifting, then turns to me and taps the final box on The List with the back of her pen. “Last item. After this, we’re officially done.”
“Done done?” I lean in conspiratorially. “Like gold star, parade, certificate?”
“We’ll negotiate your parade,” she says, deadpan, but the corners of her mouth are losing that battle again. “Maybe a cupcake.”
“Two cupcakes if I don’t faint.”
“Three if you don’t flirt with the nurse.”
“I would never,” I say, over-solemn. “I’m deeply committed to one terrifyingly organized woman.”
Her laugh slips out, quick and gorgeous, and it hits me in the ribs. She’s been my North Star through every hard left turn of the last two months, and I owe her everything good happening to me.
Irene reappears with stickers and wristbands. “All right, you two, screening questions first, then we’ll get you in a chair. Juice and cookies after.”
“See?” I murmur to Quinn as we follow Irene toward the curtained cubicles. “There is a parade.”
“Cookies are not a parade.”
“Speak for yourself.”
As we walk, Quinn slips her hand into mine. “I’m proud of you,” she says under her breath.
I don’t answer right away. My chest is suddenly too full, my throat too tight. I just nod, and when I can trust my voice, I manage, “Thanks for getting me here.”
“You got yourself here,” she says, almost stern, as if she’s correcting the record. Then softer, “I’m just happy to see it.”
We reach the curtain. Irene smiles, holds it open. “Step right in, Mr. Morgan. We’ll start with you.”
I shoot Quinn a look—mock bravado, the kind that used to cover the cracks and now just makes her roll her eyes in fondness. “Watch and learn,” I say.
“Try not to cry,” she fires back, and the tiny, private grin she gives me is better than any cupcake.
I push through the curtain, shoulders squared, heartbeat steadying to a rhythm I recognize. Not fear. Not shame.
Something better.
The vinyl chair sighs when I sit back, cool and sticky against the crook of my arm.
A nurse with quick, competent hands ties the blue tourniquet around my bicep, and the pressure makes the veins stand out like a roadmap.
For a second, my brain betrays me—I remember other times I’ve stared at those veins, hunting them for a different reason entirely.
I swallow hard, blinking that ghost away. This is different. Better. Way better.
“Big squeeze,” she instructs, offering me a red rubber ball.
I wrap my hand around it, flexing, and she nods approval. I can tell she’s done this a thousand times. She doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile, but doesn’t rush me either. Just steady, sure movements as she swabs my arm with cold antiseptic.
“You doing okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer, and to my surprise, it’s the truth. “More than okay.”
Because when she slips the needle in, it’s not a sting of shame.
It’s proof that for the first time in years, I’m clean enough to give something back.
I’m not poisoning my body anymore; I’m letting it do what it was meant to—help, sustain, maybe even save someone else.
Blood that once carried chemicals and regret now runs free and clear into that little plastic tube.
I glance sideways, and Quinn is standing a few feet away, arms crossed, biting the inside of her cheek as she tries not to hover too much.
But her eyes don’t lie. They’re soft, shining, the same way they get when she looks at a perfect sunrise or when one of her brothers surprises her.
She’s proud of me, and that look—I’d donate every pint I’ve got if it means she’ll never stop looking at me like that.
The bag slowly fills, warm and heavy, and I feel it like a tide pulling out of me—not weakness, but release. It’s as if every drop that leaves me is a piece of the old Beck siphoned away, making room for something cleaner. Something I want to be.
Quinn finally steps closer, close enough that I can smell her shampoo over the sharp tang of antiseptic. “You okay?” she asks, her voice low, private.
I grin at her, a little crooked. “Told you I’m not afraid of needles.”
She rolls her eyes, but her hand brushes my shoulder in a quick, grounding touch. “You’re doing good.”
Her words hit deeper than they should, because it’s not about the blood. It’s about her seeing me, really seeing the man I’m trying to become, and not flinching.
The machine hums, the bag fills, and I lean back in that vinyl chair with something I don’t feel often: pride. Real pride, the kind that doesn’t need a cover story.
And when the nurse finally unclips the tube and tapes a cotton ball to my arm, I think: maybe this is the first real proof I deserve a second chance.
I’m still flexing my arm when the nurse waves Quinn over. She hesitates for half a second, as if she’s thinking of making me rest before she goes, but then she shakes her head and takes the chair next to mine.
“You’ve done this before?” the nurse asks her.
“A couple of times, yeah,” Quinn says, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her voice is steady, but I can see her nerves in the way her foot bounces.
The nurse glances at the clipboard, then at Quinn, asking more or less the same questions she asked me earlier. “We just need to go over the standard questions again. Any recent illnesses? Medications? Have you had a tattoo or piercing in the last year?”
Quinn answers smoothly, calm, since she’s done this routine before. I watch her lips move and think about kissing them later, about how much she grounds me without even trying.
Then the nurse asks, “And just to confirm, no chance you could be pregnant?”
Quinn freezes. I mean really freezes. Her shoulders tense, her lips part, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she doesn’t have an immediate answer.
I sit forward in my chair, pulse picking up. “Quinn?”
She blinks, laughs a little too quickly. “Um... I-I don’t think so. I mean, I haven’t—“ She stops herself, color rising in her cheeks.
The nurse doesn’t look rattled. “If there’s even a possibility, we’ll need to do a quick test before we proceed. Just to be safe.”
I catch the way Quinn grips the armrest, her knuckles turning white. My chest tightens, because this isn’t the Quinn I know—the one who stands tall in front of anyone, who could stare down the devil himself and not blink. This is fear.
The nurse excuses herself to grab the test kit, and for a moment it’s just us.
“Darlin’,” I murmur, leaning toward her. “Talk to me.”
She shakes her head, eyes wide, whispering, “I-I missed my period.”
The words land like a punch to the gut. My brain blanks just as the nurse returns, cheerful and efficient, and Quinn disappears with her toward the bathroom, leaving me alone with a storm I can’t name.
I pace the tiny waiting area like a caged bull. My arm still stings where they stuck me, but I can’t sit still, not when Quinn’s behind that door with a test that could flip our entire world upside down.
My mind’s a damn stampede. She missed her period. We weren’t careful every time. What if she is?
I scrub a hand over my face, try to breathe through it. I’ve been through hell and back with my addiction, fought to earn trust again, clawed my way to a clean slate. I can handle a lot. But the idea of bringing a kid into this, into me—it terrifies the life out of me.
And yet, a part of me can’t stop imagining it. Quinn with a tiny baby curled against her chest. Me, holding something so small and fragile, swearing I’d never let them see the man I used to be. A family. Mine. Ours.
The door opens, snapping me out of it. The nurse comes first, her expression polite but unreadable, and behind her is Quinn, pale as paper. She won’t look at me.
“Mr. Morgan,” the nurse says gently, “the test is positive. Congratulations.”
The word hangs there—congratulations—as if it belongs in this sterile hallway, as if it isn’t about to turn my whole life inside out.
Positive.
My throat locks up. I can’t speak. I can’t move. All I can do is stare at Quinn, whose arms are wrapped tightly around herself as if she’s holding her world together by sheer will.
I want to reach for her. I want to tell her we’ll figure it out, that I’ll stand by her no matter what. But the words get stuck in the mess of fear, awe, and something deeper I can’t even name yet.
Quinn’s lip trembles. Her eyes flick to mine for half a second, wide and panicked, before she bolts. She just turns and runs down the corridor.
“Quinn!” I shout after her.
For a moment I just stand there, staring after her, my chest heaving, the nurse watching me as if she’s not sure whether I’ll break or follow.
I know one thing, though. I can’t let her face this alone.
And so, even with my pulse still rattling in my ears, I take off after her.
The word positive keeps echoing in my head. Positive. Pregnant. Father. All of it lands heavy, like I’ve been thrown flat on my back in the dirt.