Chapter 17
Because it’s a studio apartment, I carefully and quietly look for a pan to start breakfast. I thought after the night Beckett had, he could use some greasy food and extra sleep.
Breakfast, I can do… kinda. Eggs, bacon, toast—I even found some frozen hash browns.
It’s not lost on me that I’m in his kitchen…
alone, so I use this time to look for a certain bacon recipe. I wonder if I can fuck it out of him.
I mean, it’s worth a shot, right?
Beckett laughed last night—really laughed—and that picture won’t leave me.
It did something soft in my chest. It heals the soul, ya know?
He’s been feeling lost, and I get it. Heck, I’m finally admitting to myself that I’m feeling kinda lost too.
Maybe it’s a midlife crisis, maybe it’s years of constant motion, me always running through life like a maze.
I’ve spent so much time running from my father that I’ve mistaken momentum for direction.
Ignoring him is no longer an option.
It’s time for decisions to be made and lines to be drawn in the sand. I can’t keep letting him spin my life in circles every four years. He spent a lifetime subtly twisting and turning my mother and me to his will until she died, then I fought back, and the law caught up with him.
I hear rustling on the other side of the apartment, followed by the click of the bathroom door closing. I get out a mug and pour a cup of coffee before adding creamer I found in the fridge.
“Do you really think my eating your cooking is a good idea after a night of drinking?” His voice is rough velvet, sleep-wrecked, and amused. He’s leaning in the doorway, hair a mess, eyes a little wary of the light.
I turn, lift an eyebrow, and hand him coffee first. We both know the hierarchy of needs.
He takes a sip and closes his eyes like a prayer. “I take it back.”
“Thought so.” I nudge a chair out with my foot and set the plate down. “Have a seat.”
He slides in, hands skimming the table’s edge like he’s steadying himself on a moving train. I grab my plate and sit close, our knees almost touching.
“I think I did okay,” I say, trying for casual. “Nothing’s burnt. And the bacon—well, I don’t stand a chance against your bacon.”
“My bacon does set a high bar.” He plucks a strip, holding it up like a jeweler assessing clarity, then takes a slow bite. I shouldn’t be this nervous over bacon, but here I am, watching his mouth like it’s the season finale.
He chews, considering. “It’s good. You cooked it perfectly. Obviously, it’s not my bacon, but it’s… good.”
“So good that if you gave me the recipe it would be great?” I tease.
“The recipe’s classified. I don’t give it up for anyone.”
I tilt my head. “Anyone?”
“Anyone,” he repeats. “I’ve turned down bribery, blackmail, and a sous-chef with dimples. There were NDAs.”
“Cute. I’m more… persuasion than paperwork.” I lean in, bumping his knee. “I have ways of making you talk.”
He laughs into his coffee. “The CIA tried.”
“Yeah? And did they try kissing you until you forgot your own name?”
His eyes sparkle. “That seems… off-protocol.”
“Lucky for you, I’m freelance.” I tap the plate. “Operation Bacon Brief. Phase one: feed you. Phase two: kiss you stupid. Phase three: you whisper the secret like a sinner at confession.”
He chews slowly, playing along. “Bold plan.”
“I’m a bold man.” I swipe a crumb from the corner of his mouth with my thumb. “And I’m very patient.”
He swallows, voice lower. “You’ll need patience. That recipe’s in a vault.”
“Good thing I’m great with… combinations.” I grin. “Start with your mouth. I’ll work my way to the safe.”
Beckett squeaks, holding up one finger before shoveling his mouth full of eggs, and I let out a hearty laugh.
“Do you have anywhere to be this morning?”
“Nope. Sarah, the new hire Spencer brought in from Matthew House, has her first solo lunch shift. She’s a machine, organized and efficient. We front-loaded the prep, so we’re covered. I’m free.”
“It’s a beautiful morning. I thought maybe we could go for a motorcycle ride.”
“Sure, I’m down.”
We finish our plates, and I take them to the sink and rinse them off while Beckett puts on a pair of jeans and a hoodie before grabbing his leather jacket.
I drive back to my house so I can pick up my bike, and Beckett drives his car over so he has it for later.
Before I know it, we’re heading down the highway, the ocean shore guiding our way.
Whenever I need to clear my head, I hop on my bike and ride.
I know I’m not the only one who uses the open road as therapy.
The coast rides with me, salt on my tongue, cold Atlantic air slipping through the seams of my jacket. The engine’s low thrum is a steady heartbeat against my thighs. Lobster buoys bob beyond the guardrail, and the sun burns away the late morning fog.
About forty-five minutes into the ride, I pull over at my favorite overlook.
“Wow, this is beautiful. I’ve driven past here a few times but never stopped,” Beckett says as we dismount.
“Just wait, it gets better,” I say, grabbing his hand. Off to the left of the parking lot is an overgrown trail. Not many people notice it, which makes it feel like it’s just for me.
“Is this where you lead me off into the woods and I get eaten by zombies?”
“If I’m a zombie, then yes.” We eventually make it to the clearing.
“Wow, it’s…”
“I know,” I say. Nestled on the side of the cliff is a stone bench overlooking the ocean.
“It smells like limes and salt here,” he says, closing his eyes. “Like something that wakes you up.”
“Yeah.” I drop beside him, our knees knocking. “Mornings are my favorite time to come out here. It’s kind of my reset button.”
“Seems like we both love our mornings.” He tips his head toward me with a sideways glance, curious. “How’d you find it?”
“My dad.” The words are out before I can shove them back in, and they land between us with the same weight as the last time I mentioned my father. I rub my thumb along a crack in the stone. “He used to bring me here when I was a kid.”
Beckett’s expression softens, the kind of open quiet that tells me I can keep going or let it die here, no pressure. A gull screams high above like a hinge in need of oil. I exhale.
“He’s in prison,” I say. “For money laundering.”
Beckett doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t do the quick blink of recalculation people do when your life doesn’t fit the brochure. He just turns his palm up between us, a small offering. I fit my fingers through his, relief stinging like the cold air in my lungs.
“It’s… complicated,” I add, then wince. “That’s the coward’s word for it. He was greedy. Or he thought he was clever, and clever turned into crooked when no one was watching.”
Beckett’s thumb slides slowly over the back of my hand.
“He wasn’t a good man,” I say, voice cracking. “He wasn’t a complicated hero who made a mistake. He was mean. Mean like it was his favorite pastime.”
“How old were you?” Beckett asks softly.
“Old enough to fold bath towels like an excellent housekeeper,” I say.
“Young enough to think the bleach smell meant ‘clean’ and not ‘cover it up.’ He’d snap at my mom for breathing too loudly.
He’d snap at me for breathing at all. If a washer door stuck, he’d blame ‘whoever touched it last,’ which was always one of us. ”
In the vast ocean before us, the waves heave themselves forward, fail, and try again… over and over. That’s pretty much life.
“My mom died the spring before everything blew up,” I say. “She got sick and then one day, just like someone yanking the plug out of the wall, she was gone. We held the funeral, and he took the plastic lilies from her grave to decorate the change counter. Said she’d ‘like to be useful.’”
Beckett inhales, sharp and small. His fingers tighten around mine. Not pity, but outrage on my behalf. He turns to look at me. There’s a spark of anger in his eyes with something gentle behind it. “When did they arrest him?”
“It was winter. No sirens. Just men in jackets who said his full name like a verdict.” I swallow.
“Turns out the books weren’t just creative, they were criminal.
He’d been running other people’s dirt through our machines for years.
They also got him on blackmail and extortion.
They tried to pin him with murder, but they didn’t have enough evidence.
He liked the power more than the money.”
“And money gives you power,” Beckett says, and I nod, staring out into the never-ending distance.
“Do you visit him?” Beckett asks.
“Never.”
“And the parole hearing you told me about at Aunt Sofia’s?”
“He wants me to speak on his behalf. Early release.” He doesn’t deserve my voice.
Beckett’s thumb moves once across my knuckles. “Do you want that?”
“I want him to stay exactly where he is,” I say, the honesty punching a hole in the atmosphere, making me feel like I can finally breathe. “His hearing’s in a week.” The words land heavy with decisions. “Feels like I have to decide whether I forgive him. And I’m not ready to make that call.”
“Forgiveness isn’t a switch,” he says. “It’s more like… a dimmer. Or a boundary fence you take apart, plank by plank.”
I let out a breath and huff a laugh. “So what, I show up and tell the board I installed a fence?”
“You show up and tell the truth,” he says. “Or you don’t show up because that’s your truth right now. Either way is allowed.”
“I don’t want to carry it around anymore. I want to stop organizing my life around what he broke.” I rub a palm on my jeans. “I don’t want to give him something he hasn’t earned, just like you wouldn’t give the keys to a house to someone who doesn’t know how to knock.”
Beckett nods. “So maybe you write what you need to say, for you. You decide whether you read it there, if you send it, or you burn it in the grill you barely use.”
“That grill is getting a promotion,” I say, knowing that it’s true. He snorts.
“He said,” I add, throat tightening. “That if I don’t come, it’ll ‘say a lot about the kind of son I turned out to be.’”
“It does say a lot,” Beckett agrees. “It says you turned into someone who tells the truth even when it’s inconvenient to a bully. Someone who treats others with love and respect.”
I turn to look at him. “How did you get to be so smart?”
“We always are until it comes to ourselves.”
One of my hands moves to his nape, and I pull him toward me until our mouths meet, taking him in a kiss I hope conveys my feelings for him.
When we come up for air, he rests his forehead on mine. “Write it,” he says, voice low enough to live right under my chest. “I’ll bring the matches. And if you decide not to burn it, I’ll bring a stupidly large coffee and sit outside that room until you’re done.”
A laugh slips out of me. “Only one?”
“Oh, I’ll have an extra thermos, just in case.”
I stand, reaching for his hand, and pull him up before wrapping my arms around him. I murmur a thank you and kiss the top of his head.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Yeah. Thank you for showing me this place.”
“Beautiful views are meant to be shared.” We take one last look out over the ocean before turning and heading back up the path, and I feel a little lighter with each step.
“Hey, Aunt Sofia.”
“Domenico. How are you, my dear?”
“Umm, good. Real good, actually.”
“So then, tell me. What is on your mind?”
“Psh, why do you think there’s something on my mind if I just told you I’m doing really well?”
I can practically hear the eye roll. “Because I saw how you were with that young man, and you’re freaking out.”
“I’m not…”
“Don’t lie to me, Domenico. I’m too old for that. Now, how are things going with Beckett? Did I word that better for you?” Jesus, no wonder those two get along so well.
I sigh and plop myself down on my couch. Might as well sit down for this. “I told him about Dad. Like, everything.”
“Oh, Dom.” Her voice softens in a way that gets me right behind the ribs. “That’s a good thing.”
“I know. It’s just… different. All of this is different.”
“Sometimes different means you’re moving forward,” Sofia says.
“I really like Beckett. He seems like someone who will keep you on your toes, but also, I think people underestimate him. I could tell he’s more than that.
The look of worry on his face. It was the look of someone who cared deeply for another. ”
I swallow. “I… care about him deeply too.”
“I’m aware,” she deadpans. “The way you hovered at dinner was like a bodyguard with a crush? Please.”
I huff a laugh, then stare at the ceiling. “What if I mess it up?”
“My love,” she says, and I can hear her moving around—a cup being set down, the cabinet door closing, her kitchen sounds. “You don’t protect love by pretending you don’t have it. You protect it by telling the truth, by staying when you want to run, and by keeping your boundaries where they belong.”
“My boundaries.” I rub a hand over my face. “That’s the other thing. He knows about my father now. About the… the way it all felt. I hate that part of the story is now in the room with us.”
“Of course you do,” she says. “It was heavy. But listen to me, Domenico. Your father is not invited to every room you enter. You don’t owe him space in your house, your kitchen, or your head. You told Beckett because you want to be known, not because you want to be haunted.”
I let that sit. “He asked how he could help. I didn’t know what to say. I keep wanting to tell him I’ve got it, that I can carry it.”
“And you can,” she says. “But you don’t have to carry it alone. You wanted a family that shows up? Congratulations, you built one. Let them be there when things get too big.”
I think I forget sometimes.
“What about the hearing?” she asks gently. “How are you with the letter? With the choice?”
“I’m doing it,” I say. “Not out of anger. Out of protection. For me. For the people I love. For Beckett. For all of us.”
“Good.” She doesn’t make it grand. Just that one word, full of approval.
“I’m proud of you. Not because of the letter or the hearing. Because you chose the kind life, and you keep choosing it. That’s integrity. That’s what you bring to the table.”
My throat goes tight. “Thanks, Sofia.”
“Go kiss your chef. And tell him I expect a signed copy of the cookbook with a headnote about his nosy aunt.”
“Deal.”
“And Domenico?”
“Mm?”
“If the old ghosts get loud tonight, call me. Or go stand by that bench you built and remember whose hands made it.”
“Thank you, Aunt Sofia. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
We say our goodbyes with talk of scheduling another dinner.
I hang up and sit with the quiet. The house feels like mine. The future doesn’t make my stomach clench. I text Beckett—where are you?—and he replies with a photo of flour on his nose and enchiladas.
Come steal a kiss.