11. Beck
ELEVEN
BECK
Jack
Made it to Edinburgh. How are you?
Beck
At the moment, I’m running around like the proverbial headless chicken.
That doesn’t sound good. Everything okay with Cleo?
She’s perfect. Donovan invited people over, so I’m getting the house ready.
Not throwing a rager, are you?
Yeah, the kegs are being delivered any minute.
No, Kingston’s coming over for poker night.
Oh, that sounds fun. Watch out. Kingston really knows what he’s doing.
What about Donovan?
Let me ask Pete.
He says Donovan’s decent but conservative.
Good to know.
Everything going okay with him?
It’s fine. We’re getting along. But I really have to go now. Have so much fun in Edinburgh!
Thanks, cuz.
By the time Donovan returns with more beer and vodka from the liquor store and takes his assorted bags from the big box store to his room, I’m freaking out a little. I love entertaining, but it activates my anxiety brain. If we’re having people over, I want them to have a good time, which means anticipating their needs. I’ve chilled the beer and wine from the wine shop, tidied the house, taken Cleo out, and made dessert. What else?
I pounce on Donovan the second he comes downstairs.
“What about food? I have some veggies I can cut up, but that’s about it.”
“I told you; we’ll order pizza. You don’t have to cook.”
“Is the pizza around here even any good?”
“This close to New York, it’s gotta be decent,” he reassures me. “What toppings do you like?”
“I need to see a menu. We should wait until the guests arrive. What if one of them is gluten-free or something?”
“Beck. Look at me.”
I obey because I want to, not because he used the faux-stern voice he uses on Cleo to get her to settle down before she eats. When Donovan’s dark blue gaze is latched onto mine, I find myself distracted by the depths of that blue. I’ve gotten a little used to his handsomeness over the past few days. I don’t find it quite so unsettling. But looking right at those pretty eyes and having them look right back at me—as if they can stare right into me and see all the fantasies I’m actively repressing—I shiver.
“We’re not having ‘guests,’” he says, actually using air quotes and making me remember why I stopped being quite so in awe of his beauty—turns out talented actor Donovan Eastman is kind of a big dork. “It’s just Kingston and maybe a couple of his friends. It’s casual. Relaxed. Chill. And other words that mean calm down.”
I don’t bother correcting Donovan that it doesn’t matter if it’s a head of state or some old college friends coming over; I always want to make a good impression. Instead, I catalog the mosaic of blues that make up his irises while I have the chance. Then he blinks and turns away and the spell is broken.
“Right. I’m calm. I just want to be a good host.”
“We have beer, wine, and my nose tells me you baked something while I was gone, so that’s already more impressive than ninety-nine percent of poker nights. Throw in pizza and we’re golden.”
I allow myself to be persuaded. “Where are we going to play? The round table in the living room works, but it’s not too hot if we want to do it outside.”
“I think inside. Last night was pretty buggy.”
“True. Okay. You want to set up the table and I’ll slice up some veggies?”
“Since I know you will whether or not I think you should, sure. Oh, and put on some music, would you?”
“What do you want?”
“Whatever you think. You always pick good stuff,” he says before heading to the living room.
I find myself smiling as I scroll through my playlists. Donovan liking my taste in music makes me unreasonably pleased. I choose a feel-good alt-rock mix and sing along while I make neat little carrot sticks and orange bell pepper slices. Hmmm. Too much orange? I’m rummaging in the crisper drawer for something of a different color when the front doorbell chime goes off.
“Can you get that?” I shout.
“Getting it!” Donovan shouts back.
I put my hands on a bag of snap peas and grab the fixings for a quick dip. I hear voices in the hall and my pulse goes up a few notches. Jack’s mentioned Kingston, but I’ve never met the guy, not to mention the mysterious friends he might be bringing. I wipe my hands on a dish cloth and put on a polite smile when Donovan brings the newcomers into the kitchen.
“Do you know Beck?” Donovan asks a man of about his height with ebony skin and shoulder-length locs wearing spiffy linen slacks and a paisley print short-sleeved button-down shirt. The man shakes his head no, so Donovan goes on, “Kingston James, meet Beck Avery.”
“Ah yes, Beckett, pleasure to meet you. I must have missed you at the wedding.” Kingston sticks out a hand and I shake it firmly.
“Beckett?” Donovan says, a wrinkle between his eyebrows.
“My mom’s a big reader,” I say to him, then I grin at Kingston. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Jack.”
“Don’t believe a word of it, dear,” Kingston says loftily.
I laugh. He’s a character and I immediately feel comfortable around him.
“And this is my dear friend Sergio,” Kingston says, putting his hand on the shoulder of the good-looking man with dark brown skin, short black hair, and dark eyes next to him. “Sergio, this is Jack’s cousin Beckett and an old friend of Pete’s, Van—well, Donovan Eastman, to be more precise. You might have caught him in Plum Island or—what was that other Tony-winner?”
“I’m not much of a theater guy,” Sergio says apologetically.
Donovan waves away the sentiment.
“Sergio is doing the unthinkable and putting his house on the market. It’s a stunner on Beechwood Lane.”
“You’re moving away from Rosedale?” I ask, surprised. According to Jack, once people discover the town, they don’t tend to leave.
“Unfortunately, yes. I probably should have put the house on the market a while ago, but this one—” Sergio points to Kingston “—told me I should wait in case my new job didn’t work out. But I’m actually very happy in Seattle, even if it means goodbye, Rosedale.”
Donovan gets Sergio a beer and asks Kingston what he wants.
“I would have brought my own bubbly,” Kingston says, “but the afternoon got away from me.”
“No problem,” Donovan says. “We went to that wine shop you told me about. How’s this?” He flourishes the pricey bottle with the pretty label he picked up earlier at Wine and Roses and Kingston raises his eyebrows.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have. You’ll spoil me. Oh well,” he says happily.
“If we’re opening that, then we have to use these.” I pluck two of my new-old cocktail glasses from where I set them near the window after I washed them. “I got these today from the thrift store on Main Street.”
“So that’s what was in the bag,” Donovan says, as if some big mystery has been cleared up.
“Classy,” Kingston remarks. “Fill ‘er up, Van.”
Donovan pulls out the cork with a satisfying pop and the three of us put my new glasses to the test, while Sergio says he’s happy with his beer.
“I think champagne tastes better in these,” I say, smacking my lips.
“I think you’re right,” Donovan says, smiling at me.
It’s really bad how warm his approval makes me. I turn away and ask Sergio about his job, which he tells me is some kind of nonprofit financial work, while I make the dip.
“Let’s take this to the patio until the bugs realize we’re here,” I say, and we tromp outside, Cleo trotting between our legs. It never did get sunny today, but it’s still warm.
“So, you’re Jack’s agent—how do you know Donovan?” I ask Kingston once we’ve made ourselves comfortable at the outdoor dining table.
“I was friends with Pete long before he got the job illustrating the Super Rupert books—before I even started representing Jack. And since Pete and Van lived together, we all knew each other back in the day when we were coming up in the city. I was an assistant agent—you were, what? A bartender?”
“Waiter,” Donovan says briefly, pouring himself more of the sparkling wine.
“Oh, yes, now I remember.” Kingston’s eyes flash. And is it my imagination, or does he glance at Donovan’s ass? I wonder what Donovan was like when he was younger, before he broke out as an actor, and I feel a tug of jealousy that Kingston has known Donovan for so much longer than I have.
Kingston twirls the stem of the glass in his hand. “Pete inspires loyalty in his friends.”
“That’s because he’s better than all of us,” Donovan says.
“Too true.”
“So you guys are all friends from the city. But how did you end up in Rosedale?”
“I take full credit for discovering this gem of a hamlet. The city was wearing on me and I wanted a weekend retreat, so I rented a car and just started driving around, looking for inspiration. I stumbled upon Rosedale one morning and I just knew. I walked into the real estate office on Main Street, asked them to show me whatever was in my price range, and I put in an offer on my house that afternoon.”
My nose tingles from Kingston’s romantic spontaneity. Or maybe it’s the bubbles from the wine. “So why don’t you live here full-time?”
“I spend more time here than I used to, but I still have to make an appearance at the office a few days a week.” Kingston sniffs. “But I’ve had an absolutely shit week at work, and I want to blow off some steam. Who wants to play some poker?”
“I’m game, but let’s order food first to soak up this alcohol,” Donovan suggests. He takes charge of ordering the pizza and we put in an eclectic selection.
“We’re lucky Sergio is here this weekend,” Kingston says, clapping his friend on the back. “He’s a terrible poker player.”
“We’re not playing for real money, are we?” Sergio asks, alarmed.
“Nah,” Kingston says. “We play for bragging rights.”
Even better, in my book.
We nibble and chat and drink until the pizza arrives, and we’re sick of swatting bugs away. I should have asked Donovan to get some citronella candles while he was out today.
“We better move this party inside. Donovan, you go ahead and take the pizza to the living room and I’ll bring plates.”
“I’ll help you,” Kingston says. Sergio excuses himself to use the bathroom, leaving Kingston and I alone as I count out a stack of Jack and Pete’s heavy white bistro plates.
“Van treating you all right?” Kingston asks.
I’m surprised at his directness. “He’s been great. Why?”
“He can be a prickly one. But you two seem like you’re getting along.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
I laugh and shake my head. “We’re getting to know each other.”
Kingston chuckles. “Niiiice,” he says, drawing out the vowel sound.
“Not like that.” Not that it’s any of his business. But I get the feeling that Jack asked him to check up on me—this is probably Kingston’s interpretation of the request.
“All right.” He puts his hands up in surrender. “Van’s a player, always has been since I’ve known him. Just figured I’d warn you.”
It’s nothing different from what Donovan himself already told me, but my stomach sinks anyway at hearing someone who knows him better, warning me away, as if my little crush on him is painted on my face.
“Yeah, no worries,” I say, trying to turn it into a joke. “We’re just housemates. He’s not even my—” I was going to say type, but I can’t make myself lie.
Kingston rolls his eyes, not buying it for a second. “Yeah, with those thick black eyelashes and that mouth and those shoulders? Van’s everyone’s type.”
I sigh. He’s not wrong. “Doesn’t matter if he’s my type as long as I’m not his,” I grumble.
“Oh, you think so?” Kingston laughs and looks me up and down blatantly. “If he hasn’t made a move on you, that’s not the reason why.”
“Thank you?” I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere. “We’re just housemates. He told me he doesn’t hook up with his roommates. And I’m not really a one-night stand guy, anyway.” It’s true that if Donovan wanted to hook up, I’d be hard-pressed to say no. But it might be less painful to pass up the opportunity than to pretend I wouldn’t want more.
“Oh, fair young Beckett. Stick to those principles. I admire a young man who hasn’t been ground down to dust by the dating scene. It gives an old man like me hope.”
Kingston’s what, thirty-five? Sometimes I wish I was older and had things figured out already. Kingston has an amazing career and a home—I wonder what his house is like. I’m so far from any of those things, but if I think about that, I’ll start drowning my angst in too much bubbly. “You’re not old. Grab those forks, will you?”
“You’re sweet,” Kingston says, pulling me into a half-hug. “I like you, Beckett.”
“You know, he goes by Beck.” Donovan leans in the doorway, hand on his hip, looking at where Kingston’s arm is wrapped around my shoulder.
“Oh, pardon me.” Kingston grins at Donovan and then turns to me and bows exaggeratedly. “Forgive me, young Beck .” He picks up the pile of silverware and flounces out of the room.
“Nothing to forgive,” I say to his back, shoving the napkins at Donovan since he’s just standing there staring at me. How long was he listening to us? I pick up the stack of plates. “Let’s go eat.”