16. Beckett
16
beckett
Her loud cries tore through me. The harrowing sobs, the hallowed wails, the pain.
At first, I thought she was hurt. That someone was hurting her. It took me a minute or two of panic to find her in the bathroom, to realize what was happening. By that time, my heart was a mess, my pulse skyrocketed to the worst-case scenario.
But what truly wrecked me was her expression. The pain and sorrow etched on her face. The shame she wore like a mask, branded into every pore.
I didn’t think. I reacted.
When I couldn’t get her immediate attention—she was too lost in a different time—panic gripped me like a vise, a hold so strong, I didn’t think I could fight for her. It didn’t occur to me I’d be soaked when I reached out and lifted her from the water. I had one goal: to make her stop crying. Not because I couldn’t handle the tears and the noise, but because she couldn’t. She needed comfort, and I was the one to give it to her.
Even now, dressed in dry clothes, trying to process what the hell happened, making coffee and sugary snacks, I wouldn’t have reacted differently if I had stopped to think about my actions. The woman is going through something, and despite her propensity to not want to talk about it, that stops now. I can’t let her be alone with this. No matter how hard it is to talk about, she needs to get it out, to confront it.
Whatever it is.
I’m not sure how well I’ll do to help, but I’m here to listen, to lend all the support I can give her, to hear her out, to make things better.
Except that’s not always the case. I can’t “fix” everything. Not for myself, and not for the people around me. Especially if they don’t want help. What I know about Willa, she’s going to refuse the help as much as she can. But when she lets her guard down even one bit, that’s when I’ll pounce.
The bathroom door opens, and Willa emerges. Her eyes red and swollen hidden behind her glasses, her cheeks puffy. Exactly how long had she been crying? How much emotion was she trying to purge?
What the hell has this girl been through?
A shiver races up my spine. What if it’s something I can’t handle? What will I do then?
I tamp those thoughts down, needing to get a better grasp on what we’re dealing with.
“Hey.” Her voice is strained, weak, the usual soft cadence now rough.
“Are you hungry? Did you eat today?”
A coping mechanism I learned long ago—food makes everything seem less bleak. The more sugar and fat, the better.
She wraps her arms around her abdomen, giving herself a hug. I itch to pull her into my arms, but I don’t want to upset her more. “I had a late lunch. What time is it?”
“Almost seven. I’ll heat some soup my mom sent. Are you okay with mushrooms?”
“Sure.” The one-word agreement is lackluster, but at least she’s willing to eat. “About before?—”
I cut her off. “Food first, then we’ll talk.” I shake my head. “ You’ll talk, I’ll listen,” I amend, in case she thinks she can get out of it.
Her hand is balled in the sleeve of her hoodie, and she won’t meet my gaze, but she gives a tiny bob of her head. She can have this time now to figure out how to share her story because once I get her on the couch, she’s not leaving until I have it all. No matter how raw and horrible, she’s not omitting any details.
While the coffee percolates, I warm up the soup Mom sent home with me, making a bowl for Willa and me. When I set it in front of her, she accepts it graciously. Her expression is blank, devoid of emotion. It’s eerie but understandable. I blame her heightened state for what I do next.
“Stand up.” It sounds less harsh in my head, so I’m not offended when Willa stares blankly at me rather than doing as I demand. “Please.”
With guarded emotions, she slowly pushes the chair back and stands. As evidenced by her “oof,” she’s not expecting me to crush her to me.
And that’s exactly what I do.
Hold on to her tightly, like if I let go, she’d float away, never to be seen again.
Her body’s stiff at first, but within moments of my arms encasing her, she melts against me, wrapping her arms around my back, clutching on tight.
No words are exchanged. No words are needed. Our actions say it all.
I allow her the space she needs, except this isn’t all for her.
I don’t do this, take on other people’s emotions. I’m not heartless and have loads of sympathy for people I love. But I’m not usually such an empath. So why the need to take on Willa’s stress and tension? Hell if I can understand it. However, the only thing going to stop the ache in my heart is helping her.
If only she’d let me be her hero.
I balk at the suggestion. Never in a million years would she agree to that. As if she needs a hero who’s her total opposite .
We stand wrapped in each other for what feels like forever. A solid five minutes if I had to guess. When she moves to pull away, I don’t stop her. Moisture pools in the corner of her eyes, but she doesn’t let it escape. Strong in the face of adversity.
“Bet you’re wishing you were a serial killer now, huh?”
With everything going on, I don’t understand her comment immediately, but when it sinks in, I cackle. “So I could do away with you?”
“Well, yeah. I’m a lot more unbalanced than you bargained for.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” I confirm with a laugh. “Turns out, I like unhinged women. Who knew?”
Though I’m uncertain that’s true.
I like an unhinged woman. Singular. One.
Willafred . . . whatever her last name is.
I keep the chatter light over soup, but once we’re finished and move to the living room, the fire I started earlier—at her request—roars, illuminating the room with its embers. What I wouldn’t give to have the tree on as well.
At this point, I’m not even questioning why I’m bending over backward for her.
With a mug of hot cocoa in her hands, Willa sits in the corner of the couch, her legs scrunched up, her torso folded over them. I can’t imagine this will be easy for her, and even before I know what she’s going to say, I’m proud she’s not backing down.
She totally could. I didn’t give her much of a choice in the matter, but if she was extremely opposed to talking about it, all she’d have to do was say the word and I’d shut it down.
Cue the pussy-whipped jokes. And she’s not even someone I’m dating or in a relationship with.
“Remember when I told you there was a guy?”
“Yep.” Asshole for leaving her. Though it gave me a chance to spend time with her, and these past few days have been great. I wasn’t kidding when I said she’d move to the top of my list of one-night stands. And that was before we had sex. Now that I’ve had her? No other on the list holds a candle to her.
She sucks in a breath, releasing it slowly, deliberately, stalling for time. I scooch closer to her but leave the decision of where she wants me up to her. She reaches one hand out, and I entwine our fingers.
“He didn’t leave me because our relationship didn’t work out.” She pauses, and I allow her words to sink in, processing them without reacting.
“I’m not sure I’m following. You’re not with him still?”
“No.”
“But it’s not because your relationship ended. What else is there?” My black-and-white brain is having trouble making sense of her statement.
“He died. On Christmas.”
“Oh, shit.”
I’m not sure which part is worse, but man does it explain her behavior and her hatred of the holiday. I can see how something like that would put a huge damper on the joy of the season.
Right about now, I’m super delighted I didn’t push the issue past that first night. I also understand why she didn’t tell me. Why she never would have told me except for her breakdown.
“I’m so sorry, Willa. Can I ask how?”
She stares into the fire, almost as if she didn’t hear my question. My brain whirls with what could have happened.
Was he sick?
Was he killed?
Was he murdered?
Okay, the last one is highly unlikely, but I won’t eliminate the possibility. I also won’t prod until she’s ready to explain.
I work her onto my lap, her body still tucked into a ball. She doesn’t fight me, and I’m glad I give her whatever comfort she needs. My hand rubs circles on her back, letting her know to take her time, but I’m here. For whatever she needs, I’m here.
“It was early Christmas morning. He was a runner and training for a marathon in January. We lived in North Carolina then, and the weather was mild, ‘perfect running weather’ according to him. He hated missing a day of training. While I supported his training, I urged him to go out early, before breakfast, so it wouldn’t interfere with our celebration. He agreed, but on the condition I could only write while he was gone. If he had to be present for the entire day, so did I.” She laughs, but it’s devoid of humor. “When I wrote, I could get lost for hours. Forget to eat. Forget the outside world existed. If there was one bone of contention in our relationship, that was it. That’s not to say he didn’t champion my writing and my career. Elias was my biggest cheerleader, advocate, and fan. But not on Christmas. If I wanted to get lost in my world on Christmas, it was while he was gone.”
“Seems like a suitable compromise to me, a win-win for both of you.”
“Totally.” She pauses, moving her head to a different spot on my chest, directly above my heart. I’m eager to hear the rest of her story, but I don’t want to rush her. “Except I got so caught up in my story, I lost track of time. Before I realized, three hours had passed, and he wasn’t back yet. He’d told me when he left it wouldn’t be a long run. An hour at most.” She pauses again, sighing deeply before she delves back in. “When I discovered I hadn’t checked my phone in all that time, a bad feeling niggled in. I didn’t know then, but it was the time he took his last breath. He was saying goodbye.”
My heart about cracks in my chest, and my arms squeeze her tighter on their own. It’s like I’m experiencing it with her for the first time. Her realization is heart-wrenching and guttural, even years after the fact.
“How long has he been gone?” I venture to ask .
“It’ll be two years this Christmas.” Even saying the word is painful. Now I understand why.
Jeez. No wonder the girl needed an escape.
She peeks at me. “My phone was blowing up with calls from the hospital, but I missed them all. Too stuck in my own damn head. I didn’t even get to say go-goodbye.” She chokes the last word out, the memory still raw.
Tucked against me, her shoulders quake, another crying fit ensuing. All I can do is hold her, let her get it out, be there for her, give her a semblance of comfort.
My mind reels with the information, so many questions swirling around about what happened next. How long they were together. Their relationship status.
I want to know everything she’ll tell me. I want her to give me her pain.
A twinge pangs in my chest, a feeling so unfamiliar, it catches me off guard. I can’t deduce what it is, so I don’t try.
I hold Willa until her silent cries subside, rubbing her back, offering compassion. A part of me wishes I could have met the girl she was before.
Was she as quirky?
Was she as quick-witted?
Was she as strong and resilient?
“The driver who hit him was drunk. At eight o’clock in the morning. From the night before.” Her voice is raspy, like her throat’s raw and scratchy.
Bastard.
“Was it a hit and run?”
“No. Guy was so wasted, after driving over Elias, he hit a brick wall. Bastard didn’t die. Had he not hit Elias, he would have been killed on impact. He wasn’t going as fast when he hit the wall. I lost the love of my life, and he walked away with a broken leg and some jail time. Hardly seems fair.”
“It never is in these situations. I’m so sorry, Willa. I can’t imagine what something like this does to a person. ”
“Christmas is forever ruined. I haven’t been able to write even a chapter?—”
I cut her off. “What do you mean? I thought that’s what this week was about. A writing retreat.” How it’s so much more, I now understand.
She sits up, positioning herself next to me instead of on my lap. “I’ve had writer’s block since that day. Haven’t written a damn word. How can I? Had I not gotten lost in my book, I could have maybe made it to the hospital. Said goodbye. Told him I loved him one last time.”
I want to tell her not to think that way, it wasn’t her fault, and who knows if things would have ended otherwise. My mouth opens, but no words come out. Who am I to tell her how to feel?
I try a different tactic. “I can see how this tragedy would destroy your mojo. So you weren’t planning on writing this week?”
“I truly hoped by escaping my normal life, being somewhere secluded, I’d find inspiration. Or maybe it’s more like finding peace with writing. Forgiveness of sorts. Elias would be the first in line to be pissed at me for giving up, for running away. If he knew, if he were here, he’d force my fingers to the keys to type. It wouldn’t matter what the words were, I just had to type something. Anything. It could be gibberish, and he’d be happy.” A sardonic laugh bubbles from her, a minute levity in the current situation.
“Well, have you tried that?”
She faces me. “Uh, no.”
“Why not?”
Her expression turns serious. “I don’t speak gibberish. What if I spell words wrong?”
I ponder my response to her earnest question. “Does it matter if they aren’t real words?”
“In reality, no. But in my current situation? It’s one more excuse so I don’t have to actually write.”
A wacky idea strikes me, lighting me up with its brilliance .
Sure, it’s odd, but what with Willa hasn’t been?
I hope she sees it for what I mean it to be: encouragement.