21. Beck
TWENTY-ONE
BECK
My days have gone from relaxed and carefree, where the only thing I had to worry about was making sure I was sending enough photos of Cleo to satisfy Jack and Pete, to busier than I can remember being in a long time. There’s so much to do, and I want to do it all right now, but there are still meals to make and Cleo to take care of. And now Donovan to work into my plans.
It’s been two weeks since the night at Sparkle when Donovan turned down sex with a stranger to have sex with me. They’ve been two of the most wonderful, and most confusing, weeks of my life.
I’ve never been with someone who’s as easy to be around as Donovan is most of the time. He’s endlessly supportive, giving me notes on my business plan for Beck’s Cookie Counter—he’s absurdly proud that I’m using his name idea. He’s been letting his beard grow a little, and the scruff suits him. I also love the way it feels on my inner thighs and scraping across my tender nipples after he’s bitten them to pulsing red dots.
We haven’t had sex every single day in the past two weeks, but very nearly. The first time he topped me was the Fourth of July. We went to the town’s fireworks show at the high school, then made out in the car in Jack and Pete’s driveway until I was about to pass out from lack of oxygen. I took him to my room that night, having prepped for the occasion earlier. He was perfect—slow, then fast—and we did it twice that night. Then again in the morning, despite my ass’s protestations. Worth it.
That about sums up the whole situation. Am I confused that the guy I’m not only fucking but living with won’t consider what we have a real relationship instead of a no-strings summer fling? I might be able to keep my head on straight about it if Donovan didn’t start the day with sweet good morning kisses, casually touch me throughout the day, and end the day with whispered “good nights.”
I haven’t drawn his attention to the incongruity because I don’t want him to stop, even though I know we’re on borrowed time. If that makes me pathetic, so be it. I’m not giving up what we have just to keep my dignity.
As I mentioned, worth it.
But we’re about to face a new hurdle. Kingston’s in town for the weekend, and we have plans for a poker night at his place. He said he’d round up a couple of other players since Sergio is back in Seattle permanently. I’m loading the flourless chocolate pecan cookies I made for the occasion into a large container between sheets of parchment paper when my phone dings.
Jack
Checking in. How’s everything?
Everything is perfection. How’s Cannes?
Already in the rearview. We’re in Venice now.
Which is amazing. We’re heading to a late dinner now.
Everything good with you and Van?
I stare at the phone. What does he mean by that? I haven’t said a word about our roommates-with-benefits thing, and I can’t imagine Donovan would have mentioned anything, either.
Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?
No reason. Great.
I debate before typing my next question, but figure, what the hell?
When you and Pete got together, were you both on the same page about the relationship?
Sort of.
???
I knew I was all in, if that’s what you mean. Pete was almost there, but it just took him a little longer. But once he caught on that I was the love of his life, then we were good. Does that answer your question?
Actually, it does. Thanks, cuz. Have a fantastico dinner.
Will do. Take care.
I smile sadly at the phone until it goes dark. I think I get what Jack means—I know I have feelings for Donovan, and if he woke up one day and realized he had feelings for me, then the constant ache in my chest would disappear because we’d both be in this up to our hips. The difference is, I don’t have much hope of that actually happening. In fact, I’d be a fool to hope for it.
And I’m already acting as much a fool as I can stomach.
We decide to walk to Kingston’s house on Bramble Street. It’s only about half a mile away, and that way, neither of us has to be the designated driver. Donovan looks edible in a white short-sleeved button-down shirt that shows off how much sun he’s gotten over the past few weeks. He needs a haircut, and his bangs keep flopping into his eyes. I shift my container of cookies to one hand so I can sweep his bangs up.
“Shit, I probably shouldn’t do stuff like that at Kingston’s, should I?” I say.
“Why?” he asks, adjusting his grip on the bottle of chilled bubbly we’re bringing.
“Because Kingston doesn’t know we’re—” I honestly can’t come up with another word besides fucking, and for some reason I don’t want to reduce what we have to that.
“Being intimate?” Donovan suggests in a melodramatic voice.
I know he’s trying to be funny. “Yes. That.”
“Is it a secret?”
That shocks me. “Well, I haven’t told anyone. Have you?”
Donovan seems to think. “No. I guess I haven’t.”
“I don’t think it’s anyone else’s business.”
“If that’s what you want. You don’t want people to know you’ve stooped to fucking an actor?”
I think he’s still being funny, but I answer honestly. “I don’t want people to feel sorry for me at the end of the summer.”
“Why would they feel sorry for you?” He sounds genuinely perplexed.
“Donovan, if our friends knew we were hooking up, and then you go back to the city while I’m still here, they’re going to assume, well, that not hooking up anymore was your idea.” I mentally urge him to get my drift so I don’t have to explain that not only is that how it’ll look, it’s how it’ll be. So far, he seems to think I’m just as happy with the expiration date stamped on our arrangement as he is.
“That’s silly. You’re the one who’s got big plans. You’re going to be the owner of a cookie empire one day. I’m just going back to the grind of auditions.”
“That reminds me, how’s your audition class coming along?” After he went to speak to Dulcie’s class of aspiring thespians at the Art Center, she got him to agree to doing a one-time audition workshop later this summer. For the past few days he’s been alternating working on his play, which he says he’s made progress on, and the curriculum for the workshop.
“Fine, I guess. I’m not really sure what they’re going to want to know, but I have a few ideas. I’ve never taught anybody anything before,” he says, sounding a little nervous.
“You’re a natural. If anything, you can just act like a teacher, right?” I smile at him encouragingly and he smiles back.
“I don’t think that’s really how it works, but I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Dulcie must have thought you could do it or she wouldn’t have asked you,” I go on. “She doesn’t seem like the type to blow smoke.”
“No, she’s pretty down-to-earth. And the Art Center is paying me, which is actually cool.”
I don’t know much about Donovan’s finances, but if he’s been out of acting work for a couple of months already with nothing lined up, I can’t imagine some extra cash wouldn’t come in handy. I make a mental note to pay for the next round of groceries, even though it’s Donovan’s turn.
“The point is, we don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t want to,” he says.
There he goes, being nice again. It would be much easier to resent the situation if he were a raging asshole.
“Okay, thanks,” I say as we approach 32 Bramble Street, a cute one-story cottage with a gravel driveway and a pleasingly overgrown front yard of pollinator-friendly plants like echinacea and milkweed.
Kingston answers our knock wearing a white tank top undershirt, baggy slacks held up by suspenders, and a paisley handkerchief tied around his locs, keeping them out of his face. “The bad news is my air-conditioning is broken, but I’ve got every fan in the house on. Ooh, bubbly!” He takes the bottle from Donovan, kisses him on the cheek, and ushers him inside, then repeats the ritual with me after greeting my offering of cookies with an equally enthusiastic exclamation.
The inside of his house is as charming as the outside, miles smaller than Jack and Pete’s place, but cozier, with textured rugs and lots of art and books on every surface. He leads us through the living room to a cluttered kitchen where two people in their thirties lean against a small bar with glasses of wine in front of them. The baby-faced man has short sandy brown hair and a pale complexion, while the woman is slight with straight black hair, darker skin, and an air of competence that makes me straighten my posture.
“Beck and Van, I want you to meet two of my very best friends, Reed Bennet and Lani Kalama. They’re usually stuck in that paradise called Santa Barbara, but I convinced them to visit us poor east coasters for a bit. And the best news—they have agreed to be trounced by Beck at poker tonight.”
“Hey, I agreed to play poker. I didn’t agree to lose,” Lani says, quirking an eyebrow at Kingston. She waves at Donovan and me. “Nice to meet you.”
“I, however, will be happy to lose,” Reed says, offering a handshake to each of us in turn. “I find it’s usually best to do whatever Kingston tells me.”
“And that is why you are my favorite client,” Kingston says, popping the cork on the bottle we brought. “Reed is an author. It’s too bad Jack and Pete aren’t in town. You three would get along like a house on fire,” Kingston says to his friend-slash-client.
“Jack Avery, right? And his illustrator… P.J. Blue?” Reed asks with interest.
“Jack’s my cousin,” I explain. “I’m… we’re,” I glance at Donovan, “house-sitting while he and Pete, also known as P.J., are on their honeymoon.”
“Your cousin married his illustrator?” Lani asks. She turns to Reed. “I guess it’s good you do your own illustrations.”
Reed laughs and puts his arm around Lani’s waist. I belatedly notice the wedding rings on their fingers. “There are some pretty famous author and illustrator couples, but they usually start out married, then begin working together. But from what I understand, it was the other way around for your cousin.”
“Oh, it was a whole mess of secret identities and confusion for a while,” Kingston says. “You can’t make this stuff up.”
“So, you aren’t a writer, I guess.” I direct my comment to Lani.
She tosses her hair and grins. “No, thank god. I’m a partner in a design firm, Winesap Designs. My partner, Nicole, is the creative side and I’m the business side.”
“You’re a business owner? I’m actually working on a plan to open a cookie shop here in Rosedale.”
“Awesome. Well, if you have any questions, feel free,” she offers. “Though I don’t know anything about food service.”
“How long are you in town? Maybe I could buy you lunch and pick your brain.” I’ve been soaking up knowledge like a sponge, but I haven’t hit saturation yet.
“We’re here for a few days. I’d be happy to take payment in cookies, actually.”
“Her favorite is white chocolate macadamia nut,” Reed says. “But I’m partial to oatmeal raisin. Just in case that’s relevant,” he adds hopefully.
“Two challenging cookies to do well,” I muse.
“Good thing you love a challenge,” Donovan says with a smile, tipping his glass in my direction.
I smile back. “It’s a very good thing.”
“Dinner’s all set up on the back porch. I got takeout from the new barbecue place because it’s too fucking hot to cook,” Kingston announces. “Bring your bottles.”
Donovan and Reed head outside together, chatting about their favorite kinds of barbecue, while Lani sticks close to my side as I top up my glass. “How long have you and Reed been married?” I ask. Apparently, I’m anxious for relationship and business insights.
She laughs, a bright silvery tinkle. “By some counts a decade, by others, four. It’s… complicated. How long have you and Van been together?”
I start with a denial but can’t keep it up. “Oh, we’re not… well, uh… it’s complicated. Kingston doesn’t know,” I say, hoping that’s explanation enough.
She winks at me. “I won’t tell.”
“Thanks.” We go outside while I fret. What am I doing that makes it so obvious to a stranger that Donovan and I are more than friends? Then Donovan’s face lights up when he sees me and he pats the chair next to him, indicating he’s saving it for me.
Maybe it’s not so much what I’m doing at all.