31. Willa
31
willa
Getting over a broken heart is for the birds.
By the end of January, I’ve written over fifty thousand words, enough for one book and some of the next. The words bleed out of me. Some days, I fell into old habits, forgetting to eat and drink, never mind showering. A few nights, I was up until after three, not wanting to stop in fear I’d hit writer’s block again.
And throughout it all, visions of Beckett loomed in the forefront.
When my eyes opened, I’d think of waking up in his arms.
When I poured coffee, I’d remember the taste of the cups he brewed.
When I laid down to sleep, it was his face behind my closed lids.
He’s everywhere. He wasn’t even in my space, yet I can’t eradicate him. It’s a problem.
I had hoped he’d be in touch, but other than his reply to my “I’m home” text message, he’s been radio silent. Which was stupid since we both knew our relationship wasn’t there. He and I are over. It’d be best to remember that.
Shania called when the package was delivered, her enthusiasm both a balm to my soul and a reminder of what I was missing. She didn’t mention Beckett, but his spirit somehow joined our conversation.
I set a tentative deadline with my editor, and even though the first draft is finished, I’m not sure the final copy will be done in time. That’s the self-doubt talking, the “it’s going to flop because it’s been so long since I released a book and no one wants to hear from me.” It’s utter crap because my social media following continues to grow, thanks mostly to my PA who continues to post engaging content. Occasionally, I’ll pop on and interact. Shania tagged me in a post after the new year, but she didn’t share our picture and her location is private, so it’s not like people can figure out where I was.
Alanna, the bookstore owner, emailed me, thanking me profusely for the donations and swag. She ended with, “If you ever find yourself back in Winterberry, please, please, please stop in.” I ignored that part of her email in my response.
I won’t be back in Winterberry.
I stalked Beckett online, typing his name into Google to see what came up. I hit the mother lode because the guy’s name is mentioned like every month on one Winterberry site or another. I smiled and cried my way through the articles, staring at his face from decades past and then the most recent one announcing him as the winner of the Main Street Lights Spectacular. I didn’t know it had an official name. There were pictures of every year since the competition began, and I’m probably biased, but Beckett’s was by far superior.
It sucks how much I miss him.
I wouldn’t have thought this much misery was possible, to miss someone I knew for a week. It’s absurd the amount of agony I feel. Even my therapist agrees. She did credit Beckett with giving me the closure I needed. For that alone, I’ll be eternally grateful for the man.
Clem convinced me it was time to set up a dating profile and “get back on the horse.” I let her do it all, including talking to one guy and setting up the date. Unfortunately, since we aren’t identical—and she’s married and lives hundreds of miles away—I couldn’t send her on the date. He was a nice guy, but there was no spark. Even if Beckett hadn’t been on my mind, I didn’t see a future with this guy. Even as friends.
I’ve since logged out of the app and have no plans to try again.
I’ll get there someday. I don’t want to be alone forever, but someday isn’t here yet.
I booked a week-long vacation to North Carolina to visit my family. We celebrated a late Christmas and New Year’s, and Clem and I spent the rest of the week working out, drinking coffee, and discussing my week with Beckett. She convinced me his “fabrication” about my car not being able to be fixed was romantic and showed how much he cared for me. I can’t say she was wrong.
I even spent time at my parents’ house for dinner twice. It was tolerable, but only because it’s annoying enough to help get my mind off Beckett. Of course, as soon as I left, he was front and center again.
Clem’s ringtone pulls me out of my head.
“Hello?”
“You home?”
“It’s eight at night. Where else would I be?”
“You dressed?”
“Does a baggy sweatshirt and flannel PJ pants count as being dressed?”
“Are you wearing a bra?”
I’ve been a little lax about wearing one lately. Mostly because every time I go to put one on, even if he hasn’t seen it, Beckett comes to mind. Mainly, what he’d say if he saw it. How much he would worship my breasts. To combat this, I stopped wearing fancy ones and only wear a sports bra to leave the house.
I peek inside my shirt. “It’s old, but it’s there. Why the sudden fascination with my undergarments? ”
A rustling comes across the line, but I can’t make out what she’s saying or who she’s talking to.
“Did you eat dinner yet?”
I reflect on earlier. “Uh, nope. Definitely didn’t do that. That must be why I’m starving.” I chuckle. I get up off the couch and head into the kitchen, pulling open the tall cabinet door. “Let’s see. Cereal or pasta. What sounds most appealing?”
My doorbell rings. Seriously? Who is here at eight p.m. on a Thursday evening?
“Clem, can I call you back? Someone’s at my door.”
“No!” she yells. “I mean, stay on the line. Because what if it’s an axe murderer or a serial killer or a robber? I need to know you’re safe.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be dramatic.”
Her laugh sounds in my ear. “Me, dramatic. Funny coming from you.”
The peephole reveals no one standing on the porch, but there’s a white paper bag on the table. “There’s a takeout bag on the porch. Did you order me food?”
“Nope.”
“Why do I get the sense you know more than you’re saying?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“I noticed.” I unlatch the deadbolt and pry the door open. An eerie chill washes over me. “Is someone going to jump out at me? Is this a prank?”
Clem giggles on the other side of the line. “No prank. No jumping. Just look in the bag.”
I put the phone on speaker and rest it beside the bag. Peering inside, it’s not hot food. It’s a, “What in the ever love?” I bring out the package of hot cocoa Oreos, the one I hid in Beckett’s pantry--evidenced by the red heart I drew in the corner—and never told him about. But how did it end up here? “Uh, Clem?”
“Call me later. I want all the details. Well, maybe not all the details. And tomorrow is fine, too. But call me!” she screams into the phone before the call drops .
“She hung up on me. Rude.”
I put on my best AJ Hart detective hat, trying to figure out what’s going on and how Clem got involved.
“It took me a month to find, but I found it.” At the sound of the male voice at my back, I spin around, the cookies flying from my hands in surprise. Beckett easily catches them.
“Beckett! You freaking scared me.” I put my hand to my chest, willing my heart rate to regulate. It’s a losing battle. Between being nearly scared to death and Beckett standing on my porch, no chance in hell I’ll calm down soon.
“Sorry, but you were taking too long to figure this out. I couldn’t wait any longer.”
“How are you here? How did you get Clem’s number?”
“Facebook Messenger,” he states nonchalantly, as if it’s obvious.
“What are you doing here?”
“Are you a miserable fuck?”
His words make no sense and are kinda rude. “Huh?”
He takes a step closer. His stubble’s a little longer than it was when we spent time together, like he’s decidedly not shaven on purpose. Purple circles under his eyes signify he hasn’t been sleeping. He’s no less handsome than the last day I saw him. Despite my initial shock, it’s damn good to see him.
“Autumn tells me daily I’m a miserable fuck. Are you?”
“A miserable fuck? Care to elaborate so I can confirm or deny whether I am?”
He points behind me to my apartment. “Can I explain in there? It’s kinda chilly out here.”
Until he mentions it, I didn’t feel cold, even without a coat and shoes. The wind chooses that moment to whip around the building.
“Oh, yeah. Sure. Come in.” He holds the outer door with his empty hand, following me. Inside, he toes out of his boots and looks around.
“Love your blanket fort. ”
I glance at the pile of fleece blankets on the couch. “It’s a cocoon.”
He holds up a hand and chuckles. “My bad.” Without waiting for an invitation, he sits on a cushion, pushing the blankets to the side, making room for me. Or I assume that’s what he’s doing. Maybe I’m hoping he’s making a spot for me. Maybe he simply wants the blankets out of his way.
“So, a miserable fuck,” I prod.
“It’s not self-explanatory?”
“If I had to guess, someone who is miserable. Why does she call you that?”
“If I had to guess, because I am. Fucking miserable. Know anything about that?”
I could lie. I could tell him it’s been sunshine and rainbows. That my life is so great now, and I’m not miserable.
“For the past month, Clem might have called my days ‘les miserables.’” I shrug. My fingers curl into a fist so I don’t touch him. I force my feet to stay planted so I don’t maul him.
“Want to know why I’m miserable, Willa?”
“If you want to tell me, Beckett.”
“I miss you.” He lays it out so simply, so astute, so casual.
My shoulders sag with the weight of the past month. “Same. So much.”
He lets out an audible breath, his chest rising and falling with the motion. “Then what are you doing over there?”
I practically leap to the couch and onto his lap, crashing my mouth to his. He anticipates my action, grabbing the back of my head to be in charge of the kiss.
Our mouths meet familiarly, our tongues dueling for control, his the victor, as always.
It’s a kiss of remembrance, of missed connections, of needing more.
What does his being here mean?
Where do we go from here?
Is there an us to fight for ?
Beckett pulls away, his bottom lip swollen from where I tugged it into my mouth. “Out of your head, in the present. We’ll question it later.”
His use of “we’ll” sets my heart into motion.
But I can’t help myself. “What if?—”
He cuts me off. “Later we’ll play the ‘what if’ game. After you feed me. Your vagina or food, I’m not picky.”
Said vagina somersaults.
I pinch myself to make sure this isn’t a dream or some fictional world. I fall into those pretty easily, especially these days.
“You’re really here?”
“I’m really here.” A smile so big, his dimple breaks through.
“For how long?”
“For as long as it takes to convince you to come home.”
His words give me pause. I regard my apartment, hella confused. “I am home. You’re the one who’s not.”
“Come home with me,” he clarifies.
“Oh.” A smile spreads quickly across my lips. “Might take a while. I’m kinda stubborn.”
“I have skills in my arsenal you haven’t seen yet and enough sick days to wait you out.”
“Is that so?”
“Guess we’ll wait and see.” He cups my chin in his hands. “Can we get back to the kissing now?”
“You came all this way for kisses?”
“I came all this way for you, Bundy. The kisses are bonus.”
Is it any wonder why this man stole my heart?
Two days.
It takes Beckett two days to convince me I belong with him in Winterberry.
I tried to last longer, to find out what other skills he’d use against me, but forty-eight hours after he arrived, it was torture to not tell him.
Wherever he is, I want to be there with him.
I didn’t even have an argument for him to move in with me. Winterberry’s in the man’s blood, and I love him enough not to deny him that.
Yep, I love him. He got that one out of me the first night. Right about the time he coerced me to a second orgasm in ten minutes.
But soon after, he echoed my sentiments. In his sex-induced, raspy voice, the man professed his love, and the words “I love you” never sounded so sweet. So tender. So phenomenal.
I don’t care that it’s fast, that we still have so much to learn about each other, or that I’m uprooting my life for a man I met less than two months ago. When it’s right, you know. It’s not worth fighting.
He offered the option of staying in his investment property. I swear it was fake, that he made it up that first night to not seem like such a creeper. But he showed me pictures—with him in them—of the progress he’s still yet to make on it. The cabin seems like a much better solution. If I hate it, I can find a place in town.
I’m not going to hate it.
Since he’s been in my space, he made it his mission to learn what else makes me tick, including asking me all kinds of questions about Evelyn—how I decided on the name, needing to see the glasses and the entire look, collecting knowledge about my process. It launched a dynamic discussion about the two sides of my personality: Willa and Evelyn. He made it clear he loves them both.
Now, it’s the third day of him staying with me, and he’s cooking breakfast in my kitchen. He came prepared with a list and forced me to the grocery store the morning after he arrived. This isn’t the first meal he’s cooked .
“Should I get used to you cooking every meal for us? Because I don’t want to be let down if this isn’t something you plan to do.”
He lays the wooden spoon on the spoon rest. “ Every meal might be a stretch, especially during the winter months when there’s decorating and plowing to do, but I’ll cook you one meal per day at the minimum.”
I’m going to be so spoiled and well-fed. No more cereal or pasta nights for me.
“And you’ll let me help clean up in exchange?”
The man visibly twitches. “If I must.”
“You must. We’ll hire a cleaning service for the cabin.”
He quirks a brow. “We will, will we?”
“It’s my contribution. I’ll pay rent, too.” I punctuate my statement with a nod. I won’t be a freeloader if we’re living there together.
“Cabin’s paid off.”
“Utilities, then. Cable, Wi-Fi, your car loans and insurance,” I try.
He raises his right hand in the air. “I’m not having this discussion now.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not in the mood to argue.” His tone leaves no room to challenge him. Not that I obey.
“Who says it will be an argument?”
“Don’t couples always fight about money?”
“Are we a couple?” I don’t need confirmation for something I already know, but I can’t take it back after asking.
“Do you think I invite just anyone to live with me?”
“After you asked me, I sure hope not. The cabin’s not big enough for more than two people.”
“So you’re saying it’s not our forever home?”
My belly twinges at the thought of what he means. “What? You got that out of what I said? ”
“We’ll save the kids discussion for later, too. Still not in the mood to argue.”
“So you’re saying there will be times you will be in the mood to argue?”
“A plethora, I’m sure. If you let me. You’ll see.”
“Whoa. I didn’t sign up for this crazy persona you’ve inhabited the past few days.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No. Certainly not. I don’t do crazy.” I can’t even get the words out with a straight face. Because of the two of us, he’s the less crazy.
“You do the best kind of crazy, Willa. I love your brand of crazy. Serial killers, girl detectives, split personalities, hating my favorite holiday . . . shall I keep going?”
I’ve joined him in the kitchen, my hip leaning against the counter. “Plenty certain of my type of crazy. But hey, when it comes down to it, remember I was born this way. You’re choosing to love me.”
I get all in my feels every time I hear him say anything with the word “love” in it as it relates to me or our relationship. Call me crazy—ha—but this man gets me, down to my core. Fast or not, when I picture my future, it’s Beckett I see. Maybe a couple of kids, a pet or two, but always Beckett.
“How long will you need to pack up your apartment and things here before you move home?”
He keeps saying “home,” and every time, I fall deeper. Ironically, none of my places of residence has ever felt as much like “home” as being with Beckett at the cabin.
“Other than figuring out the lease, packing and hiring movers should about do it. Lucky we don’t have to cross state lines. Don’t even need to get a new license.”
His brow dips. “You’ll have a new address. Hence, a new license.”
“I suppose that’s true. ”
He turns off the burner, pushing the pan of eggs to a back one that’s not on. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“A month?” I propose.
“Too long. I’ll give you a week.”
“A week? You ask me how long and then give me a timeline that fits your needs?”
He shakes his head, looping his arms around my waist, tugging me toward him. “My timeline would be today.”
“Eep,” I squeal. I can’t help it. Today! The man wants me to move today. To pack up my life and be on the road today. Hardly seems feasible.
“Which is why a week gives you plenty of time.”
“Are you staying to help me pack and get my affairs in order?”
“Told you I have the sick days for as long as needed.”
“Yeah, but won’t they miss you? The boss? The best tow truck driver in town?”
“Dax’s got it covered.” A flash of concern washes over his face, gone as quickly as it came. “He’s got it covered,” he repeats, to reassure himself as much as me.
“One week.” I look around my space, the place I’ve called home for the last two years. “Think we could do it in two days? Then I won’t have to worry about breaking the lease since it’s the last day of the month.”
He scans my space. The whole one thousand square feet of it. “You don’t have that much stuff to pack. We’ll rent a moving truck, load it up, and bring the big stuff, then come back here and pack our cars with what’s left and be on our way. Two days. I think we can do it.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal.” We seal it with a kiss, embarking on something epic. “For the record, I don’t hate Christmas. Not anymore.” Because of him.
“Yeah, I know.” He smirks, the action landing straight in my gut .
What started as a rescue in the snow led to more. Beckett Nicholas saved me in all the ways, and I’ll never be more grateful for him being on the other end of that phone call.
It also helps he’s not a serial killer, but what a story we’ve got to tell.