Chapter 40
Cynthia showsme around the Beckett household with animated movements and explanations of how and when each room was decorated. I learn she loves interior design but never wanted to make a career out of it. She could have, that much is made clearer with every room we step into. I don’t bother hiding my genuine awestruck reactions, and I think she loves that too.
Garrison quite literally grew up in a mansion. As soon as I think we’ve reached the last room, Cynthia pulls me into another. By the time we get back to the first of two sitting rooms and she ushers me into a burnt-orange, oversized chair, jet lag has hit me.
I can’t stop searching the space for little pieces of Garrison and their family. I’m not disappointed with what I find. This room is the coziest of them all. A dark-bricked electric fireplace is on my left, flanked with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves that are cluttered with trinkets and photo frames. There are a few books scattered there, but it’s obvious the shelves were built for a more sentimental purpose.
“In the biggest frame is a photo we had taken for us at Garrison’s university graduation. Beside it is one of the most recent photos we’ve taken and my personal favourite. It was during my birthday last year. My son rented the entire zoo for me. Had it completely shut down for the day just so I could see the giraffes without interruption,” she explains, a dainty, wrinkled hand pressed over her heart.
I blink back the sudden sting in my eyes and nod for her to continue, desperate to learn more.
“I have a bit of an obsession with giraffes. You see, my husband, Reggie, took me on a trip to Africa on our honeymoon, and I fell head over heels for them. I certainly wasn’t expecting such an extravagant birthday gift, but with my condition, travelling hasn’t really happened much these past few years. I’ll never be able to go back to Africa, but just getting to see them in person again was enough.”
“That’s incredible, Cynthia. They’re beautiful animals. I’m glad he could give you that experience. It seems to be a habit of his to go above and beyond,” I say, attempting to sound cheerful while all but choking on tears.
“A habit very few have seen. My boy certainly loves to hide the best things about himself behind a near impenetrable wall.”
“Do you know why he does that? He deserves for everyone to see how amazing he is instead of believing the worst in him.”
I’m unsure where he is right now, but for now, that’s a good thing. This might be the only time I get alone with his mom, and I want to learn as much as I can. If I can help him with something, I want to know how.
Talking to Cynthia is easy. She has an aura around her that sparks peace and confidence. I don’t want to take advantage of her openness, but I don’t want to miss out on this opportunity, either.
“I agree with you, but I’m not completely sure when it happened. Not without opening a can of worms that are sure to leave a mess in this house. Garrison has always been quiet and reserved but still warm. I fear he’s let what happened with his us change that. Alter the way he sees relationships,” she says, regret lacing every word. Nibbling on her lip, she crosses one knee over the other. “Has he told you what happened to me?”
“He has. It would be the most obvious explanation for his behaviour. But I’m not sure that gives me much clarity.”
“When he told me you were coming today, I expected him to ask about his father. The two of them haven’t been home at the same time more than a handful of times since before my accident. Reggie is here today, and I’m sure that explains Garrison’s absence. I’d bet they’ve already run into each other and have gone to opposite sides of the property just to avoid one another.
“What happened to me was an accident. It is far less Reggie’s fault than mine. I’m the one who fell and decided to take care of myself instead of asking for help. My son doesn’t necessarily believe the same thing,” she explains with a heavy sigh.
“Has he told you how he feels about your husband’s absence in his life? Before your accident?” I ask cautiously, not wanting to divulge too much without Garrison present. “I know I’m an outsider, so please tell me if I’m overstepping, but I feel like Garrison’s hurt stems from there and only grew after your accident.”
Cynthia doesn’t appear offended by my comments. If anything, I think she warms to me further. Her lips tug into a sad smile as she pats the arm of her matching chair.
“I believe you’re right, Poppy dear. Thank you for not being too afraid to speak with me about this. I appreciate honesty above much else these days. Especially from the woman my son is in love with.”
My cheeks burn red-hot as I release a pathetic laugh. “Oh, he hasn’t said that to me.”
“Yet. Not yet, sweet girl. He will. I’ve been waiting for this day he brought home his forever person since we found out I was pregnant, and it has been worth it to have you sitting here with me today,” she declares.
I feel like a hormonal teenage girl with how often I’m tearing up today. It’s impossible to fight it off. My emotions are in turmoil. Time is moving too quickly.
“Now, what is this I hear about you only having a few more weeks with each other? You must be from Cherry Peak, correct?” she asks, a slight bite to her questions that isn’t at all angry but concerned.
“Mom, why is my girlfriend fighting off tears?” Garrison’s familiar rasp slathers glue over the parts of me that have begun to break over the past few moments.
“Would you believe me if I said I told her a joke so hilarious she was laughing hard enough to cry?”
“No. You’re not funny at all,” he deadpans.
Long, lean legs wrapped in denim eat the space between us until he’s standing between my legs, tapping my knees.
“Up.”
“Manners, Garrison,” his mom drawls.
He smirks down at me. “Up, please, honey.”
Reluctantly, I step out of the chair before he steals my spot. I open my mouth to tell him off for not finding his own chair, but then he’s gripping my hips and tugging me down onto his lap. My annoyance flies out the window.
“Much better,” he notes, banding an arm around my front and cupping my side in his huge palm.
I remain wooden atop him but don’t attempt to get up. “I’m sorry, Cynthia. It seems he’s feeling a bit barbaric today.”
She tilts her head, eyes full of warmth. “I think I enjoy seeing him a bit undone.”
“I don’t think too many would agree with you, Mom.”
“It’s all about balance. All work and no play is why you have all those greys in your hair you want me to keep plucking for you,” she retorts.
A laugh explodes from my mouth. Twisting, I start running my hands through his hair, searching for said greys. Garrison simply scowls at his mom and swats at my forearms.
“Look what you’ve started,” he scolds her.
“Have you been plucking them yourself?” I ask him when I don’t find a single grey strand.
“I’m not answering that question.”
Cynthia does it for him. “He definitely is.”
“We’ve been here an hour and you’ve already turned her against me, Mom.”
I drop my hands, one on his knee and the other patting at his chest. “I assure you my mother will do the exact same thing to you.”
Our eyes catch, questions stirring in the green of his. I inwardly kick myself for dropping that on him. He could not want to meet my family. Just because he brought me here doesn’t mean he’s ready for all of that.
“Oh! Please keep me updated on that meeting. If he isn’t on his best behaviour, you make sure to let me know,” Cynthia tells me.
“Did you forget what I do for a living? I speak with people every day. I’ll behave myself in front of her parents.”
It’s a simple statement. Nothing romantic. Yet it means so much to me. I go liquid in his arms, my lungs pinched.
He reads my expression with ease. Nodding once—the movement nothing more than a slight tip of his chin that nobody would notice but me—he puts an end to every doubt that just appeared in my mind.
“They’ll love him, I’m sure of it,” I tell Cynthia while not taking my eyes off him.
He offers me a tilted grin, and I know without a doubt that if we were alone, he’d be kissing the shit out of me.
“Tell me about your family, Poppy. We can quiz Garrison afterward.”
I giggle. He rolls his eyes. We stay close, and as I dump decades’ worth of Huntsly family history on Cynthia, I wind up leaning my side against his chest, my legs slung over his lap. He plays with my fingers, tracing each individual nail bed, doing anything to touch me as we talk.
It’s not until my neck has grown sore from twisting it to look between Cynthia and Garrison that I give up trying. I yawn, a wave of exhaustion hitting me like a punch to the gut.
“Oh my. I didn’t even register that you may be jet-lagged in all my excitement. You’re probably exhausted!” Cynthia gasps. “The both of you need to take a nap. We can chat again at supper.”
My expression must betray me because she adds, “Don’t feel guilty for one moment. Please.”
Garrison taps my back, and I sit up, stretching before slipping off his lap. He stands soon after and takes my hand.
“Thanks, Mom.”
She waves him off, coming close enough to rub his arm. “Go rest.”
We leave the sitting room, and I let Garrison lead me through his childhood home. When we turn down an unfamiliar hall, I grow curious.
“Your mom didn’t take me this way on her tour.”
“She most likely wanted me to be the one to show you.” He stops us in front of a closed door. “This is my old room.”
The instant the door creaks open and I get my first look inside, I laugh. Not a quiet laugh either. A belly-cramping one.
The last thing I expected to see in a teenage Garrison’s room was a collection of Star Wars bobbleheads. There are too many to count at first glance.
“You have a lot more in common with Darren than you think you do,” I note while stepping into the room and taking it in.
One thing I did expect was the shelves full of vinyl records that line an entire wall of his bedroom.
He’s never spoken about music to me before, but it was just a gut feeling I had. The genres range from rock to pop and RB. Even techno. Artists I’ve never heard of and some I have. It’s like walking into an old record shop, the type that have been shut down over the past few years but that I killed time in when I was young and desperate to get out of the house.
“Do you have a favourite?” I ask, trailing a finger along a row of them, all of which are in perfect condition.
“No. I’ve never been able to pick one.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I don’t listen to music for pleasure much anymore,” he admits.
Turning to look at him, I ask, “Why?”
“The music I listen to now is for work. Not pleasure. Not because I want to. Sometimes, that can ruin it for me.”
“That’s sad. Especially if you used to love it so much.”
“There’s sometimes where I can’t help it. A handful of artists under the label that I enjoy listening to as much as I do making them famous.”
“Who? Give me one name.”
He sighs, settling beside me. “You can’t tell Brody. He’ll never get over the rejection.”
“I do notice a lack of country records in this monstrous lineup,” I say.
“There are only two country stars under Swift Edge. It’s never been our type of music. Mine or my father’s.”
I cock a brow. “But Brody was that good?”
“He was.”
Anna would squeal if she knew about this. “So . . . your favourite artist? I’m not going to let it go.”
The corners of his mouth twitch as he hides a smile. “Noah Hutton. Rock is more my type.”
“He’s too rough for my taste.”
He chokes on a laugh. “You have no idea.”
Spinning, I lean my back against the shelves of records and grab his sides, pulling him close. His cologne hits me first, the spiced scent so damn sexy it makes my mind swim.
“I like my men a bit tamer. Rough around the edges but peanut butter smooth on the inside. Kind of like you,” I murmur, tapping his chest with a blunt nail.
He covers my hand with his, keeping it pressed between his pecs. “Careful, if anyone else heard that, I’d lose my reputation.”
“We don’t want that.”
“No, we don’t. My reputation keeps the jet fueled and ready to take you wherever you want to go,” he breathes out, head dipping ever so slowly.
“I don’t need the jet.”
His throat works with a thick swallow. “So tell me what you do you need.”
I press up on my tiptoes and hover my lips a paper’s width from his. He holds me by my waist, steadying me, waiting for my words.
“Just you, Garrison. All I need is you.”