Chapter 17 The Confession #2
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” I reorganize my thoughts and find the right words.
“She always found reasons to touch me.” My hands squeeze together until they turn white and red.
“A laughing touch on my hand or arm here, a brush against me while walking by there. It seemed innocent, and I don’t even know how long that had gone on before the…
frequency started to register.” My legs are bouncing now, but I choose not to stop them.
“Once, she found some excuse to sit in the middle seat of my truck, and I didn’t think anything of it. ”
“Because you’re an idiot.” She insists.
I slump, stopping my movement. “Because I’m an idiot.
” I shake my head and continue. “She, uh, put her hand on my leg on that drive, and I pulled away immediately, but that touch was too close to—well, it removed the blinders. She removed her hand like nothing happened, but I started to see how often her hand was on me. My hand, my arm, my bicep, my shoulder, my back, my face.” I shudder.
“It’s like, once I realized, I couldn’t stop noticing, and I didn’t like it.
But she’s my friend, and she’s paying me and helping me reach my goal.
The week everything happened, I asked her a few times to stop, but she laughed it off.
Told me I was taking her too seriously. So I just ignored it, and tried to avoid her touch. ”
Becky’s gone rigid in her seat, but I can’t look at her face.
“The night before the Friday night music thing, she was clearly upset, so I told her we would get a pizza on the way home. I don’t know, like maybe greasy, cheesy food would help her like it helps you.” I look up at this detail, but Becky just stares back at me, blank faced, so I keep talking.
“When we got to her place, she was crying, and I went to pat her shoulder in a there, there friendly touch, when she threw herself into my arms.” My eyes are unfocused on the present now, seeing that night instead.
“I was dropping her off—we were sitting in her driveway. She plastered herself to me, ended up in my lap. She was crying, but her hands started wandering. I had my hands up,” I raise my hands up in a weird roleplay of the moment.
“I didn’t know what else to do, so I opened my door and practically fell out of the truck to get out of her arms as quickly as I could.
” I exhale slowly and reach for my thighs to grip them rather than reach for Becky.
“She fell down awkwardly after me, and I felt awful. I told myself she was just feeling heartbroken because her dad cut contact with her.” I avoid her eyes, not wanting to see the judgement there for my stupidity.
“I walked her into her house, and she hugged me again before I got in the truck and left.” I finally meet her gaze, “that was the night you approached me about the messages and the meals—”
“Wait, yes! That! What the fuck was that all about? I saw Tupperware in your truck,” she interrupts me.
I take the opportunity to switch gears. “Becks, are you really bringing up dishware right now?” I ask entertained and grateful by the interruption, despite the heaviness of this conversation.
“Yes! It’s been bothering me.” She holds my eyes for a second longer, then back at her hands.
Oh, I understand. She’s scared to hear the rest. She knows where this story is going. Guilt, my constant companion for weeks now, sidles up beside me because it is my fault. All I ever really wanted was the best for her, for us, but I got lost and trapped in the consequences of my choices.
“One night, while we talked about me saving money, I made an offhand comment about how I’ve been eating a lot of fast food since I’ve been getting home so late.
She started making me food and giving it to me when I picked her up or dropped her off from something.
” She pulls her lip into her mouth, chewing on it before she asks her next question—hesitantly and not like herself.
“When did you start just eating it at her house?”
Confused, I lift my hand to grab hers before dropping it back to my leg. I finger the hole in my jeans, but keep my gaze fixed on her face. “What are you talking about now?”
“Her…messages…about sharing meals together?” She’s now playing with the hem of her shirt while her cheeks fill with color. Oh, baby.
“No, Becky. She handed me a container of food, and I ate it in the truck and brought her the empty containers back the next time I saw her. There were no shared meals.” I didn’t even think about how that sounded in the messages.
Her fingers still on her shirt, and she smooths it out with a quiet, barely audible, “Oh.”
We’re silent for a few seconds. Okay, I need to do this.
“I was uncomfortable that night and already considering ending our deal. I had started to feel gross when I saw her even before that—moment happened.” I watch her as I say the next part.
“But I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and gave her another chance.”
An expression I don’t recognize crosses her face. She opens her mouth, then closes it without uttering a word. I stand to pace—a nervous, ugly energy filling my body, making me restless.
“The next night, she called me and asked if I’d drop her off at the music event.
” I grip my hair and release it and keep moving.
“She said she had a new friend there she wanted to meet up with, so she had a ride back. I was still going to say no, but she offered me a hundred bucks for what was supposed to be maybe twenty minutes of my time.” I pause, rocking back on my heels, and shove my hands into my pockets.
I trace the woodgrain with my eyes as the night flashes through my mind.
Guilty, disgusting, so fucking stupid.
“What is it?” She asks, leaning forward sounding—concerned for me. For me.
I shrug and continue the honesty, no matter how difficult it is for me to do.
“I feel…dirty now.” I drag my foot across the floor, balancing on the other leg.
“I probably sound dumb, but the money I accepted, and the things that happened because of me needing more money makes me feel…well, dirty.” I try to gauge her reaction to the nonsense I’m spewing, and instead see compassion and understanding written across her face.
No wonder I’m such a mess without her. This gorgeous, generous heart used to belong to me.
“Hey, I deserve to feel this way, Becks.” I want her to know that I know now.
I’m aware I was the cause of everything that broke.
“Fuck that, Carter, but we can talk more about it later. Finish the story.” A heavy sigh of frustration and contentment escapes me.
I am damn happy to be in her orbit, yet also filled with guilt and self-disgust. The contradicting emotions war inside me, so I start pacing again, rolling my shoulders and scuffing my boots against the hardwood floor.
Oh, Shit.
I sit immediately and work to untie my workboots.
“Well, that night, I pulled up to get her, and she’s wearing all this—” I gesture to myself, unable to stifle the distaste coating my voice.
“Well, I chose to ignore it and her and head towards the event.” The laces are tight and take a little extra tugging to undo, but I keep working on them.
“It was right after work, so it was nice and early in the day.” With one last pull, my boots are loose enough to tug off.
“With such a short drive, I was going to drop her off and use that money to get you something lovely—a coffee and baked treat the following morning or something we could have enjoyed together.” I feel another wave of loss and regret flow through me.
We had so many mornings like that. “I distinctly remember checking the weather to see if we could have a night in the back of the truck.” I scoff at my idiocy. I wanted to get lucky that night.
A muffled sound of amusement comes from her seat. She knows why I always liked to plan truck dates. We sit in silence, in our shared memories, and I hate to feel the moment transition from remembered pleasure to what this conversation actually is—a confession.
I clear my throat. “We get there, to the Friday Festival, and suddenly she was refusing to get out of my truck.” Oh, Carter, I don’t know anyone there, can you wait here with me until my friend shows up?
“I realize now it was a mistake, but I felt like a monster just leaving this girl, young woman, in a huge crowd where I was the only person she knew. I’m fairly confident now that there was no friend.
In fact, I thought that it was so strange that she kept steering us quickly from one place to another claiming some off the wall reason or another to do so.
At one point she said the music was hurting her left ear, so we needed to move to the other side of the stage for it to mostly go in her right ear. ”
Stupid, clueless.
Becky tilts an eyebrow at me, and I fill the silence, answering the unspoken rebuke. “I know, Becks. I was stupid and blind to what she was truly doing. I honestly still don’t fully understand it. She was such a low priority in my mind, that I didn’t even consider dissecting her choices.”
In character, Becky doesn’t let me get away with my excuse. “That’s willful ignorance, Carter.” She doesn’t sound angry, but quietly resigned to the truth. Tired. But I’m caught up in the way that she said my name, and wondering if she can do it again. I stop walking and turn to her.
There she is, my Becky, sitting right here in front of me, talking to me and I want to hold her, touch her, kiss her like I love her.
Fuck, I love her. Another jolt of loss shoots through me, making my heart ache.
I lift my hand and rub my chest in some kind of foolhardy way to soothe where it hurts.
Her eyes sharpen at the movement, watching my hand closely.
Then she drags her eyes up to meet mine.
She’s seeing through to the heart of me, I can feel it.
And I’m terrified of what she can see there.
“And?” She asks, not impatient but guiding, breaking me out of my Becky fixation.
“Oh, uh, yeah.” I need to think for a moment to remember what I was talking about. “And…anyway, yes, you’re right. I was choosing to ignore everything that made me uncomfortable, and she did a lot of that.”
“What do you mean?” Her response is sharp and immediate—serious Becky.
I love serious Becky. I bite back the urge to respond to that tone of hers the way I have for years. Then her question penetrates, and I’m reminded of this shit hole I dug for myself—of the way that night ended—and any comfort I had in the moment is buried under a mountain of regret.