8. Deacon #2
“You had a lot of tequila, from what I saw,” Bear says. “Hell, fine. I admit, I’m the one who saw you throwing back shots with the bartender and then leaving with him and mentioned it to Deacon. I’m sorry about that.”
“You did? Why?” Marissa demands to know, glaring at Bear.
“Someone had to look out for her—” Bear starts.
“It’s fine, thanks. He stopped me from making a mistake, which I appreciate. How about we move the hell on?” Beck suggests with a dolphin smile and raises her eyebrows high as if she’s defying anyone to disagree with her.
“Listen,” Marissa says. “It’s all about what you want to do, my friend.
And if you want to do the bartender, nobody should stop you.
Oh, he’s filling up mimosa pitchers and topping off Bloody Mary’s in the back if you want to say hi.
It’s not too late for a hookup. You deserve it after everything Sean put you through. ”
“Or I can go get her a pitcher of mimosas and she won’t even have to see him.”
“Thanks. Would love some. You don’t think anyone will approach me about Sean, do you?” She seems to address all of us.
“Probably not.” I move to stand and walk to the table where Anders is filling drinks.
“Can I just get the bottle, man?” I ask Anders. “It’s for Aspyn. She’s having a shit day.”
When he consents, I take a carafe of OJ and an entire bottle of champagne back to Beck’s table, and she beams brightly at me, which is worth the price of admission. Pouring her a mimosa with about 80% alcohol, I pass it to her, and Beck thanks me with a smile that sends a jolt through me.
Breakfast is served moments later, and I’m surprised when I see Beck, Ms. Animal Fat is Bad, grab a piece of bacon and crunch on it.
“You’re eating bacon?” I can’t help but question her.
“Well, yeah. Who do you think obsessed about my weight and my dress size for the last ten years? It wasn’t me.
Eventually, I ended up giving up my favorite foods, so Sean wouldn’t have a hissy fit in public about what I ordered.
I’ve always loved bacon.” She reaches for another piece, and I want to find Sean and punch him in his other fucking eye.
“I hate him,” Marissa says with her eyes narrow, and lips scrunched up with anger.
“I can’t believe he tried to control what you ate!
And I can’t believe Deacon tried to control who you should fuck.
Do better, boys. She’s been with Sleazy Sean for ten years, and now she has all the time in the world to date around and see what kind of guy she wants to be with next. All I’m saying is, don’t interfere.”
I feel sufficiently lectured. “I think that’s enough goading about Beck’s sex life or lack of. We’ve established she’s an adult who can make her own decisions. I wasn’t trying to rain on her parade.”
“Sure, buddy.” Emmett rolls his eyes as if to say, believe whatever you want, man.
“It’s okay,” Beck insists. “Today, I realize I was wearing Beer Goggles last night, so we’ll just leave it in the past and move on. Shall we, everyone? Please?”
“Fine.” Emmett shrugs as everyone murmurs their agreement, and we dig into the delicious spread of food in front of us. I’m not much of a morning eater, but the French toast is decadent, so I can’t help but shovel it into my mouth.
Beck stays as briefly as she can, eating just enough breakfast to be polite before she announces, “I’ve got to get the hell out of here before people finish eating and come offer me their pity.
I can see everyone staring already.” She darts her eyes around the room, and yeah, she’s got a point.
Even Tara looks sad as she makes eye contact with Beck and gives her a little wave.
“I can take you home, if you want,” I volunteer.
“Thanks, but I have my Durango. I’ll be fine.”
“Call me if Sean gives you any trouble,” I tell her, standing up and taking her hand in mine. Beck waves to everyone with her other hand, and then we walk out to her Durango with her luggage.
Beck turns to me and says, “You didn’t have to push my suitcase or walk me out. And stop staring at me like I’m going to break at any time.”
Maybe I know her better than she knows herself, because she’s going to go home to the place she won’t share with Sean for much longer, and then she’s going to lose her mind.
It might not happen right away, but eventually, I’ll be ready to be there when she finally cracks open and lets out all the grief she’s trying not to let consume her.
I hoist the bag into her backseat, slam the door, and open her driver’s side door with a flourish. “Your chariot awaits, milady,” I announce exaggeratedly.
“Thank you, kind sir.” Aspyn always plays along. That’s part of her charm. And she laughs at my awful accents.
“When the house gets too quiet, call me. I’ll come by.
” I take her face in my hands, cupping each cheek with my palm, and I peer into her hazel eyes that look bright green in this light.
Then, I kiss her forehead. “Focus on how much better life is going to get after this. Without Sean as your ball and chain, dragging you down, you can do anything you want. The future is limitless, waiting for you to make your move.”
She stares at me with eyes that hold doubt and fear. I stroke her cheek with my thumb.
“It’s true, Beck. There are far better things ahead of you than what you just left behind. I promise.”
Finally, I see hope re-emerge in her bright eyes, and I give as charming a smile as I can conjure. “Keep in touch, Beck.”
“Of course. You’re my bestie.” Aspyn steps into my embrace and lets me hold her tight, my hand on the back of her head as she sways against me.
I hear her sniffle, but she ducks her head, gets into the car, and slams the door behind her.
She doesn’t look at me again, just puts her hand up over her shoulder and waves at me as she drives off.
Marissa and Bear wheel their suitcases out to the parking lot just as I’m heading back in. I give Marissa a quick hug and say our goodbyes.
Soon enough, I leave too, winding my truck down the familiar streets that lead me home.
Home is a two-story Cape Cod with an additional two thousand feet added on, and it’s far bigger than what I need.
When I bought it and subsequently hired the construction crew, I imagined a life of marriage, babies, and little feet running around the house and the yard.
It’s my biggest dream. Not that it’s materialized yet, given my inability to commit for very long.
I’m not a cheater; I just feel that itchy moment about three months in, where it’s not fun anymore, and conversation topics run dry.
And I’d rather just hang out with Beck. That, of course, usually becomes a problem in my relationships—explaining Aspyn. The anger women justifiably feel about being second. But as long as I’m friends with Beck, she’ll always have my first-place blue ribbon.
I turn on my video game console and waste the rest of Sunday getting my ass handed to me by tweens around America with potty mouths. I think some prepubescent boy just called me a ‘taint.’ What on Earth?
My thoughts about Beck are rapid fire, wondering what she’s doing. How she’s doing. If she’s packing. Will she need help moving? Will she move back to her parents’ house? What’s next?
The doorbell rings around five, and I jump up to grab it in my flannel pants and bare chest. Beck stands there, hands in her pockets, with red-rimmed eyes.
“What’s going on?” I pull her into the house.
“Fuckface is at the apartment packing his stuff, taking his sweet ass time,” Beck tells me as she sighs and rubs her eyes.
“Don’t worry, he didn’t catch me crying.
As soon as I saw him on the Ring camera, I put my sunglasses on and acted like I was just about to leave, anyway.
Don’t want him thinking I’m sitting home alone on a perfectly good Sunday. ”
“Good, then don’t. You can sit on my couch and cry if you need to.” I wrap my arms around Beck, and she briefly lets me hold her before she shrugs me off and jumps onto my couch, pulling her knees up to her chin.
“I’ve got old episodes of Project Runway on the DVR. We could just numb our minds for a while. Or I can make you some dinner while you watch? I’ve got a frozen teriyaki chicken with stir-fry vegetables that would reheat fast enough.”
“Not hungry.” Beck’s face is drained of color, and she nibbles her lower lip as her eyes move from mine to the paused video game on the TV screen. She doesn’t respond regarding the TV show, so I flip to my DVR and pull her to my side, begging my thoughts about how beautiful she looks to go away.
I spread a blanket out over both of us, and we spent the next three hours half-comatose, killing our brain cells by binge-watching Project Runway. I’m not judging, but I hate when Beck is devoid of life like this. She’s usually such a big personality, so bright, boisterous. Today, she’s a zombie.
I take her feet in my hands and give her a foot rub before the pizza I finally ordered out of pure starvation arrives.
Beck leans her head forward and rests it on my shoulder as I move my hands up her sculpted calves and then tickle the back of her knee.
She smiles just wide enough that I’m glad I took the chance, but I back off and return to her feet as she makes little groans when I dig into the sore spots.
I can imagine some other fun ways to make her moan, but I tell my inner dude to shut up.
Today is about giving Beck what she needs, not my hormones.
After we scarf pizza, Beck stands up and sighs. “I'd better go. Thanks for tolerating my company. I know I’m not the most fun right now.”
I’d tell her I more than tolerate her, but she’s already walking out and jumping into her Durango. All I can do is wave as she squeals her tires out of my driveway and races down my street.
She’s not herself, and it kills me.