Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Beckett
Joey
You know what time it is?
Uhh. 10:30pm?
Joey
Daily Beckett Fact time.
I actually enjoy flossing.
Joey
You’re a dentist’s wet dream, aren’t you?
I do get a slight high when they mention that I have good oral hygiene.
Joey
You’re an odd one.
I kinda like it.
Joey and I haven’t seen each other much in the couple of weeks we’ve been roommates. My work schedule has been outrageous—we’ve been short staffed since the flu hit many of the nurses in our unit. Every night, I come home later than the evening before.
My heart quietly yearns to spend more time with her.
Some nights, I hang out in the living room, hoping she’ll come out of her room.
So far, we’ve mostly just texted back and forth.
Each message acts as a tiny window into each other's world, allowing us to gradually reveal bits and pieces of ourselves.
On the rare evenings we do see each other, we’ll eat dinner at the kitchen island. The warm glow of the pendant lights creates a cozy atmosphere as we talk about everything from our mundane days to embarrassing childhood stories. So far, nothing has been off limits.
Joey makes me feel like it’s okay to be myself.
To be Beckett.
Not nurse Beckett. Not boring Beckett. Not bashful Beckett.
I’m simply Beckett to her.
On the drive home from my shift, the low hum of my bike’s engine helps me unwind from the day. The trees on either side of the road are a dark green blur. The sky is turning indigo as the sun sets in the distance.
The lights in the cottage are off, but there’s a small orange flicker coming from the backyard. My eyes burn from wearing contacts all day, making it hard to make out the light’s source, so I head that way and slide open the patio door. In the yard, Joey is sitting in front of a campfire.
Her back is to me, her shoulders trembling, and if I’m not mistaken, she’s sniffling. Heart in my throat, I set off towards her. My heavy boots thud down the patio stairs, and the leaves crunch beneath me as I approach her.
Over her shoulder, a crossword puzzle book comes into view. And from here, my suspicions are confirmed. She’s crying, the flames from the fire highlighting the dampness on her cheeks.
“Ensconce,” I blurt out.
Shrieking, Joey slaps a hand to her chest. “Holy mother of. . .you scared the shit out of me.”
“S-sorry.” My stomach sinks. “It looked like you were stuck on twenty-one across.” I point at the tattered puzzle book.
She lets out a soft laugh, blotting her face with a tissue.
Heart wrenching at the sadness in her features, I crouch next to her. “Is everything okay?”
She searches my face, her brown eyes sad and her cheeks tearstained. “Yeah. Just had a few bad, bad days at work.”
“Wanna talk about it?” Without thinking, I wipe at a stray tear rolling down her face with the pad of my thumb.
“Thanks.” She sniffles, her voice trembling into a whisper. “But I’m too tired to talk about it. I think I’ll head to bed early.”
My chest aches, and the urge to take away her pain sweeps over me. “Did you eat?”
She shakes her head. “Too bummed out.”
“Yikes. It was that bad, huh? I’ve been there.
” I keep my tone light, and I’m rewarded when the corner of her mouth kicks up.
I place a reassuring hand on her knee. “Before you go to bed, how about we get a little food in you. I know you aren’t hungry, but not eating will make you feel worse. And I’d rather you feel better.”
She looks at me, the flickering of fire highlighting the exhaustion on her face. “You don’t have to do that. I’m fully capable of feeding myself—”
I squeeze her knee, stopping her mid-sentence. “Josephine,” I say, my tone firmer. “Let me feed you. I’m starving after my shift, so I’ve got to eat anyway. You’ve had a shitty day, so let me do this for you.”
Joey’s focus drops to her feet, and she lets out a hushed laugh. “Damn. I lucked out when I moved in with a nurse who can cook, didn’t I?”
I let out a warm chuckle and pat her on the knee. She’s already in pajamas, the fabric soft under my fingertips. As I rise, I extend my hand, offering a steady grip to help her stand.
Firelight sparkles in her eyes as she inspects it, then drags her focus to my face.
I can’t help but drink her in like this. Disheveled auburn hair in a bun, red-rimmed eyes, and flushed cheeks.
All I can think about is how radiant she looks. Even now, when she’s sad. The light inside her may be dimmed tonight, but it’s not entirely extinguished. Beneath the sadness, I can still see flickers of the self-assured woman I’ve begun to admire.
With a wistful smile, she places her hand on mine.
I wrap my fingers around hers with a tender touch, relishing the smoothness of her warm skin.
Joey isn’t fragile—not even close. That’s obvious to anyone.
Still, something about the way the day has worn on her, the way she sits, makes her seem as breakable as porcelain.
The overwhelming urge to take care of her hums under my skin.
I need to make sure she doesn’t crack any more than she already has.
When she stands, I release her hand, but rather than doing the same, she tightens her grip, like a plea to not let her go.
So I don’t. Instead, I lace my fingers through hers. Our hands become perfectly entwined like two missing puzzle pieces that have finally found their home.
In silence, we walk back to the cottage.
Once we step into the kitchen, she lets go of my hand, and I immediately feel the loss of her touch.
Letting my hand fall to my side, I flex my fingers—not once, but twice — as if the sensation of her soft touch has been branded onto my skin.
Leaving an indelible imprint not only on my hand, but on my heart.
I usher her to her usual seat at the island, then I gather supplies for dinner.
Our selection is limited tonight, but we have a full carton of eggs and an unopened package of bacon. There’s also a loaf of bread on the counter. Fridge door open, I turn to her. “Is breakfast for dinner okay?”
Joey is sitting at the kitchen island, looking down at her lap. She doesn’t seem to notice Barbara, sitting across the island, flicking her tail back and forth and conspiring to torment my roommate.
“Yeah, that sounds great. Thank you.” She looks up at me with a sad smile. Only then does she acknowledge Barbara. Quickly, the sadness turns to fear. “Not today, cat. I’m not in the mood. Terrorize me tomorrow, when I’m less emotionally weak.”
In a shocking turn of events, Barbara listens. She hops off the island and saunters up the stairs to the second floor.
Laughing, I pull out the eggs and bacon. “Ready to talk about what happened today?” I ask, as I set the ingredients near the stove.
“Not really,” she mutters.
I spin around and cross my arms, giving her an incredulous look.
She nibbles on the inside of her lip, her attention fixed on me. I hold her gaze but remain silent, waiting.
“The bacon smells good,” she finally says.
My lips twitch, but I regain control quickly. “Don’t change the subject. You’ll feel better if you get it out.”
“Ugh. Fine. You win.” She twirls a stray lock of hair.
“I have a client who is on my ass twenty-four seven. They came to us for a new brand design, but for reasons unknown, she doesn’t like me.
Today she made a few unkind remarks—first about my clothes, then after the presentation, she mentioned my hair—”
“What’s wrong with your hair?” I lay another strip of bacon in the pan, then fill a glass with water and set it in front of her.
“I don’t know,” she says as I turn back to the bacon. “She said I should fix it. That it doesn’t look professional.” She huffs out an exhausted breath. “I was so insecure about it all day long that I considered making an appointment to chop it off.”
Spatula in hand, I whip around and point it at her. “Do not, under any circumstance, cut your hair.”
The corners of her lips kick up. “I won’t,” she says quietly.
“And to top it all off, she wants me to do a ton of edits and she isn’t cooperative over email.
She even gaslit me into thinking I didn’t send her the design questions last week.
I had to pull up the emails to confirm I had.
And lo and behold, I sent multiple emails that she never responded to. ”
I rear back in disgust. “Seriously?”
Swallowing a large sip of water, she nods. “Yes. I’m going to give her the benefit of the doubt,” she says, rubbing her eyes, “and keep pushing forward.”
I crack a few eggs over a bowl and begin to whisk them. “If it gets too bad, or if she continues to treat you like that, you should talk to someone about it. That’s not how you should be treated in the workplace.”
A heavy sigh escapes her. “I know. I will.” Her shoulders sag. “Is it okay if we don’t talk about this anymore? I want to forget today even happened.”
My chest pinches in sympathy. “Of course. I’m sorry if talking about it made you uncomfortable. I thought maybe it could help.”
“It did help. A lot.” She sniffs. “I don’t have many friends to talk about this stuff with. So I end up bottling it all in because I don’t want to be a burden, and I end up. . .”
“Suffering in silence,” I finish for her.
Her head snaps up. “Yeah. How did you know?”
“You’re talking to a guy who is a pro at bottling up his feelings. My therapist suggested journaling and I’ve found it incredibly helpful.” I pop two slices of sourdough I made earlier this week into the toaster and pull two plates out of the cabinet.
“Is that why you stay up so late after work sometimes? You’re journaling?”
“Mm-hmm. It helps me unwind. And it allows me to process the bad days and remember the good ones.” I butter the toasted slices of bread and set them on our plates.
“Dinner is served.” Smiling, I slide Joey’s dinner in front of her.
Then I drag the second barstool over, its legs scraping across the tile floor, and position it directly across from her.