Chapter 37 You’re the Problem
Thirty-Seven
You’re the Problem
Forest
I don't call Beck back.
I could. My thumb hovers over his name.
Instead, I shut off my phone and toss it onto the coffee table like it’s radioactive. Then I sit very still on my couch and stare at nothing for a long time.
I never lied to him. I told him very clearly that I don’t have a lot to give. We could have sex, but nothing more.
But then I broke my own rules, didn’t I? The sleepovers. The kissing. Dropping by when he’s sick to make sure he’ll be okay.
And he is okay. That’s what matters. He’s upright. Lucid. Breathing. Fever’s down.
Everything is fine, right? Except I don’t feel fine.
But… What was I supposed to say? Like, seriously, when he told me he loved me last night. In the dark, with sweat on his neck and pain in his voice and my name in his mouth like it meant something?
He was a mess, I remind myself. Sick and emotional and not thinking clearly. It was just fever talk. He even said so.
We can go back to the way things were, he’d said. But I know that’s a lie, and I like him too much to keep things where they need to be. I’m still me—still in debt, still unavailable most days and nights. Still treading water while he slices through his season like a champion.
It’s wrong of me to maintain this on-off, will-I-or-won’t-I cycle again. It’s hurting us both. I’ll do the standup thing and let him go. Like a good guy.
Because I am a good guy.
Mostly.
I try to be, anyway.
Fuck.
I spend the next few days drowning myself in my work. I update every single spreadsheet. I go over the bar’s first-quarter financial results. I make the payment on my new truck.
The loss of Beck in my life aches, and I glance at the lock screen of my phone a thousand times to see if he’s texted me. But of course he hasn’t.
When his team goes on another road trip, Beck is healthy enough to start one of the games. The Ice Cats win, of course. They’re going to make a deep bid in the Calder Cup this year. I can just tell.
I roll through another weekend of late nights behind the bar, and Scully takes a couple of well-deserved days off.
See? This is just how my life works. No time for a boyfriend. The boiler at Sportsballs breaks again, and I get tied up dealing with the emergency plumber even on my day off. Then Ruby flies off for a medical conference, which puts Charlie at my place for the rest of the week.
It’s good having him, and I make three healthy dinners in a row and bake chocolate-chip banana bread, which makes the whole house smell delicious. And I make sure he does his homework.
“You’re, like, super dad this week,” Charlie says on Thursday night.
“Glad you think so.” I’m tidying up the living room, keeping busy while Charlie plays a video game. My house is clean. My kid is well fed. Everything is great, right? This is what I was meant to do.
I glance at the TV and, in the corner of the screen where the player’s icons are displayed, I see an unfamiliar avatar. It’s a blue cat and my gaze freezes on the name beneath it, like my brain has been programmed to seek it out. Beckstopper.
“Charlie, are you playing a game with Beck?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Do you do that a lot?”
Charlie shakes his head. “I texted him and asked if he wanted to come over…”
My heart does a weird little flip, even though it shouldn’t.
“He said he couldn’t. He was super nice, though. He said he’d play with me online for an hour instead.” Charlie gives me a sideways glance. “It’s weird he couldn’t come over, right? He doesn’t even have a game tonight.”
“His team is all young hockey players, Charlie. They probably party together several nights a week.”
My son’s expression is dubious. “If he has time to play online, he has time to come over here.”
Shit. “Where did you even get his number?”
He shrugs. “Off your phone. Duh.”
Jesus. My text thread with Beck has been mostly PG, I think. Mostly. But there have been some exchanges between us that I wouldn’t want Charlie to see.
I don’t growl at him for invading my privacy, though, because this is on me. I broke my own rules. I introduced him to Beck, and now it’s awkward. Beck is probably pissed off at me and feels obligated to navigate Charlie’s questions.
Heart thumping, all I can do is walk out of the room. I end up in my super-clean bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, taking a slow breath. Then I pull out my phone and find my last text exchange with Beck. It’s totally fine—just me inquiring about his health the morning after he was sick.
Now I send him one more message.
Hey. Thanks for playing with Charlie. I know I put you in that position. He looks up to you, and we both appreciate your generosity toward him.
Ugh. Sounds like a press release.
I put the phone face down and bury my head in my hands. I miss Beck. In this house. In this room. He’s fun. He’s sexy. He’s decent to the core.
And he hasn’t been texting me. He doesn’t beg, which somehow makes me feel even shittier. I drew a line, and he sees it clearly. He even respects it.
Any second now, he’ll finally meet some guy with cash in his pocket and fewer obligations and more free time.
So why do I feel so awful right now? There’s a heavy spot in the center of my chest—like I’ve made a huge mistake.
I’m just sitting here drowning in my own misery when my phone vibrates with a notification. And before I can stop myself, I’ve picked it up to look.
There’s no new text. There’s just… Beck has given my text a thumb’s up.
The most polite middle finger in the whole damn world.
Early on the following Tuesday evening, I’m starting my shift at the bar when I look up and find Kenji and Denny seated in front of me. It’s so surprising that I actually jump a little. “Where’d you two come from?”
“We’ve been here for, like, five minutes,” Kenji says with a wide smile. “We’re going to a Cougars game, and we thought we’d stop in to see your bar first.”
“Wow, okay.” For a millisecond I’m sad they didn’t ask me to go to the game, too. But just as quickly I realize I would have had to say no, and that they already know this. “Cool, cool. How about a drink? You want—?”
“I got it already.” Scully plunks two beers down on the bar. “You’ve been obliviously restocking the beer fridge for, like, an eon.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m just a little distracted.”
Denny snorts. “That’s like saying Travis Kelce likes the spotlight a little. You misplayed half your hands at poker last week.”
“You’re shitting me,” Scully says, propping an elbow on the bar. “Forest is trash at poker? I woulda thought he was a shark.”
“He’s usually great,” Kenji says. “But last week he couldn’t seem to pay attention. We were all kind of worried about you after.”
Oh hell. “I’m fine. Seriously.” And it would be great if we could change the subject now.
Scully has a familiar nosy look on his face. “He’s been kind of a wreck here, too,” he says. “I think it’s because of…”
“Beck,” all three of my friends say at once. Then they laugh.
“Guys, come on. My private life isn’t open for discussion.”
“It is when you folded top pair to a check-raise from Big Bob,” Kenji says. “Which, come on. His bluff face looks like he’s trying to take a shit.”
Scully whistles. “Oof. That’s not distracted. That’s lovesick.”
“I’m not lovesick,” I whine. “I was tired. And maybe a little drunk.”
“And that was weird,” Denny says. “Mr. Responsible drank all my gin and had to Uber home.”
“Is that why you came in tonight?” I grouse. “Because I owe you some Plymouth?”
“I think it’s probably because you’re being fucking stupid,” my so-called friend says.
“Scully. Tell me how you really feel.”
“You let that perfectly great guy go, didn’t you? Because of some misplaced instinct to hurt him before he hurts you.”
“Ohh,” Kenji says heavily. “Is that what’s happening here?”
“No,” I say loudly at the same time that Scully says, “Exactly.”
Denny sips his beer. “I dunno, Forest. Never met any of your other guys, but he seemed like a keeper. And he’s super into you. Nice kid. Going places, too.”
“Exactly,” I say heavily. “That’s pretty much the problem.”
“You’d rather have a freeloading deadbeat?” Kenji asks. “Those exist. We could find you one.”
Scully, mixing a drink that I’m supposed to be mixing, snickers. “We’ll put up a flyer. ‘Wanted: emotionally unavailable man with no ambition and a mediocre dick. Must be okay with resentment and half-assed hand jobs.’”
That earns a laugh, even from me. I scrub a hand over my beard, suddenly exhausted.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I mutter. “He’s so damn young. And bright. And good. And I’m…” I gesture vaguely toward myself. “A broken-down bartender with trust issues.”
Kenji shrugs. “You’re also a great dad. Solid friend. Ridiculously hot. And according to Denny, you make a decent omelet.”
“Better than decent,” Denny confirms.
“You make him laugh,” Scully says, quieter now. “I saw it. You made him feel seen.”
“That’s a pretty low bar,” I point out. “He won’t have much trouble finding someone else to clear it.”
“Dammit, Forest.” Denny thumps his fist into his forehead. “I’d better stock up on more gin. This problem isn’t going to solve itself anytime soon, is it?”
“No,” I say, because at least he understands now.
“He means you,” Scully says, hip-checking me. “You’re the problem that needs solving.”
“Nothing new there.”