30. Beck
THIRTY
BECK
Donovan texts to let me know he’s staying in the city overnight. I sleep poorly, wondering how his audition went. Wondering if being in the city is a relief to him, to be back in his element. To be away from me.
I torture myself with the idea that maybe he picked someone up tonight, that he’s having sex with someone new just because he can. Because it’s what he does.
I fall asleep way too late and dream I’m lost in Manhattan, trying to find my way to some unknown destination. I ask strangers for help, peer in all the cab windows, but no one can tell me how to get wherever it is I’m supposed to go. I wake up with a headache and to another text from Donovan. He must have gotten up early.
I’m trying to get back to Rosedale, but I may be delayed. How’s Cleo?
I smile at the text against my will. I feel like shit, but I still appreciate his thoughtfulness. I stumble out of bed and into the kitchen, where Cleo’s waiting patiently for her breakfast. I take a picture of her and send it to Donovan with a note.
She’s fine and you’re worse than Pete.
I’m not expecting a reply but my phone buzzes less than a minute later.
I guess I get the protective thing more now.
What does that mean? I consider responding, but I have no idea what to say. Besides, as much as I want to be able to simply banter with him, it’s too hard right now. As I go about the morning routine of coffee, Cleo, breakfast, I think about how much less satisfying it is to do for one person. Why bother making a whole pot of coffee when I could just grab something at Hot Brew later?
Something else occurs to me. I was afraid that after Jack and Pete came home, I’d never see Donovan again, which itself felt like an icy stab to the heart, but what’s worse is that I might actually see him all the time. He’s good friends with Pete, and I’ve seen the way he and Kingston have gone from acquaintances (and apparently onetime fuck buddies) to close friends this summer. Of course he’ll come back to Rosedale once in a while.
I’ll have to grow a thicker skin and file our summer away under bittersweet memories.
Thank god for the Cookie Counter. I don’t have time to ruminate on the unfairness of falling in love with someone unwilling, or unable, to acknowledge how he feels about me.
I have an interview with a prospective employee today, plus about a million other things to do. I’m able to return to the house midday to let Cleo out and grab a quick lunch for myself, but I don’t have a second to stop until dinnertime, when I notice that Donovan isn’t back yet. He’s sent another text, though.
Looks like I’ll be away another night. Are you okay with Cleo? I’m sorry. See you tomorrow.
Tomorrow Jack and Pete get back, and the next day is the party at Kingston’s. I have a ton of baking to do. Between Kingston’s and my efforts, there are probably going to be thirty people at this small welcome home bash. I can’t imagine what’s keeping Donovan in the city—or rather, I don’t want to. Work? A guy?
My stomach churns and I turn up the angry rock music I unconsciously selected to play while I scarf down some leftovers and get out the ingredients to make my flourless chocolate pecan cookies.
I’ll just hold down the home front while he does whatever he wants. Thank goodness baking is my therapy.
I bake until well past midnight, then fall asleep on top of my covers with a smear of chocolate on my forehead. Cleo wakes me by barking, which gets my heart racing fast. I take the world’s fastest shower, clean the kitchen, and stick the bins of cookies for tomorrow’s party in the extra freezer in the garage. Pete’s car is still gone, which means Donovan hasn’t returned in the night.
The weather is forecasting a heat dome for the next two days, so I brew a huge jug of iced tea and make sure the windows are shut all over the house, so we’re not wasting the air conditioning.
I even check the windows in Donovan’s room. His stuff is mostly still there—clothes and books and his baseball cap. He’s coming back. Obviously. But it’s strange to think about the last time I was in here, in his bed. Naked and happy.
I sigh and glare at my distorted reflection in the windowpane. I’m sick of feeling sorry for myself. So I’m in unrequited love with a great guy whose only flaw seems to be that he doesn’t want the same kind of relationship I do. Life goes on, right? Lots of fish in the sea and all that.
An unfamiliar car pulls into the driveway as I’m giving myself the world’s saddest pep talk. A stocky guy in a black suit gets out of the driver’s door, and then Jack steps out of the back and looks up at the house, catching sight of me through the window. I wave, and he grins.
And then I burst into tears.
“Oh, Beck, it’s okay,” Jack croons, while I blubber into his shoulder.
“Can we do anything?” Pete asks. “I’m so sorry your summer ended up this way.”
They’re being so nice to me, which makes me cry harder.
“No, it was an amazing summer,” I say as I try to catch my hiccupping breath. “Your house is a dream. Cleo’s the best. We had so much fun.”
“Yeah, but if I hadn’t made you and Van share the house then?—”
“It’s not your fault,” I reassure Pete. “It was me. He told me from the beginning what he didn’t want, and I thought I’d be okay with it.”
“You’re a romantic,” Jack says, handing me a tissue from a nearby box. “Like me. It hurts sometimes, but it’s who you are.”
“And sometimes it just takes time for these things to work themselves out. Some people are slower to understand or act on their feelings,” Pete says. “Sometimes they even put up artificial roadblocks even though they want to be on the road they’re on. They’re just scared.”
“Okay. Thanks?” I’m not sure what to do with that. I tried convincing Donovan that he was on the right road—the road I’m on—and he rejected me.
“I think what Pete’s saying is you deserve someone who can meet you where you are in a relationship,” Jack says, giving Pete an unreadable look.
I blow my nose again and decide that as nice as the attention is, the advice, such as it is, isn’t that helpful. “Well, enough about me. I’ll be fine.” I do believe that, even if it won’t be for a while. “How was the flight? Are you exhausted?”
“We slept a little on the plane, but I’m definitely looking forward to sleeping in my own bed tonight,” Jack says.
“Sleep. Yes. Soon,” Pete grunts out.
I laugh. “It’s barely noon.”
“Yeah, we have to try to get on the right time, sweetheart. Can you stay up until at least six?”
“I’ll try.” Pete yawns. “Is there anything to eat around here?”
“I’ll make some lunch,” I offer. It’s one way to thank the two of them for letting me step into their home and make it my own for two months.
“Why don’t you take the bags upstairs and I’ll help Beck with lunch?” Jack says, following me into the kitchen.
I get out the ingredients for chicken salad as Jack helps himself to iced tea.
“So I can’t wait to show you the shop. The stools are being delivered tomorrow,” I say with forced cheer.
“Beck. Stop.”
“What?”
“I just want to make sure you’re really okay. I feel awful about this. If I’d known what kind of guy Van is, I would never have left you alone with him.”
“Jack, seriously, I’m slightly heartbroken, yes. But I’m also an adult, if you hadn’t noticed. And Donovan isn’t a bad person. He just wants different things out of life. And I guess I thought maybe there was a chance?—”
A sound like galloping horses interrupts me, and a second later Pete skids into the kitchen. The noise must have been him tromping down the stairs, such a contrast to Donovan’s smooth glide. “I think I forgot my toothbrush at the hotel.”
Then Cleo barks—she’s been doing a lot of that today. She yipped and yapped with joy when Jack and Pete first arrived and spent five straight minutes clobbering her with kisses—all while I blubbered out the abbreviated story of my ill-fated fling with Donovan.
“What’s up, Cleo?” Three pairs of human eyes and one pair of dog eyes look toward the kitchen entrance as someone comes down the back hall that leads to the garage. Donovan appears a moment later, dressed in the same clothes he left in two days ago.
It hurts to look at him without going over and touching.
“Oh. Hey.” He looks at me first, then flicks his gaze over to Jack and Pete. “You guys are back. Great.” But his enthusiasm sounds fake.
Cleo bounds up to him, sniffing his knee excitedly.
“Hey, girl,” he says, dropping down to kiss her head. “Missed you.”
My heart does not melt at that, not even a little bit. I swear.
He rises slowly and we’re all still staring, as if we’ve forgotten how to behave. “Um—Beck, can I talk to you?”
I instantly take half a step forward—it seems my body is willing to act before my mind can tell it why going to Donovan is a bad idea.
Jack, however, gets in my way by stepping right up to Donovan’s face. “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to you, you, you—” he seems to struggle to find the word he’s looking for. “You rascal!”
Donovan’s eyes open wider at the accusation, if that’s what it is.
“Jack, honey, I think we should give them some privacy,” Pete says.
Cleo barks again.
“I think she needs exercise,” I say. “Maybe you two could take her for a walk?”
“No!” The word explodes out of Donovan like a bomb, and I can’t help jumping a little.
“Excuse me?” Why is he being so weird?
“Sorry, no, you and I should take her. For a walk. That’s a great idea.” He crosses the room for her lead, snaps it on Cleo, and then comes around the island to grab my elbow. “Please, take Cleo on a walk with me.”
I lose the ability to protest as he stares into my eyes with his bottomless blue ones. “Okay.” I don’t know why this is so important to him, or what he thinks he’s doing, but I can’t leave him hanging. Besides, Jack and Pete aren’t exactly helping.
I slide into my loafers, snag my hat and keys. “We’ll be back soon. Eat, uh, something,” I tell Jack before following Donovan outside.
Our summer might be over, but I can’t resist taking one more walk with him.