12. Beckett
Beckett
The last time I stood outside a door like this, in a tux, raising a fist to knock on it, I was eighteen and half drunk, going to my senior prom.
I didn’t bring flowers tonight. I’m sure her house isn’t a scent-free environment, but in hindsight, the whole bouquet might have been a bit much.
It was a decision made out of exuberance. I’m not sure she really understands, or that words could really convey, what it meant for her to save me twice—once from having to suffer in a pediatric unit where all I’d be able to see was my sister hooked up to tubes, hair fall everywhere, and my parents clinging to nothing, and the second time from having to endure someone else’s disappointment.
It was refreshing to be around someone who didn’t care about me.
Even though I think it made me wish she did.
I’m finally about to knock when the door gets thrown open. It’s not Greer standing there.
Someone who looks enough like her to tell me it’s her sister. Hair that could be red under the sun, eyes just a shade lighter than Greer’s—but everything else is the same. The nose, the jawline, the high cheekbones.
Even her voice is similar.
“Good evening, Beckett.” She grins, eyes flashing, and holds up a phone. It looks like there’s an active FaceTime call there, a girl with hair darker than Greer’s and a redhead both peering at me.
“You must be Stella.” I grin, holding out my hand.
Her face shines, brows rising and eyes wide, delight etched in all her features.
“Great handshake.” Her gaze cuts to the side, and she gives a firm nod towards the phone.
Stella drops my hand, pointing to herself. “Sister.” She taps the phone. “Best friends.”
I nod, repeating with a tip of my chin to her and then the phone, “I’m here to pick up your sister, and your best friend.”
She looks triumphant, like I’ve just revealed something, a bit like she’s about to say something more when Greer appears in the doorway behind her.
I flex my hands, lips parting with nothing on them before the corners tug upwards. I take a sharp inhale when I remember to breathe. I’ve only ever seen her in scrubs and a ratty T-shirt with the name of a fictional restaurant from a movie.
She was beautiful then—but now, I’m not sure.
I think she’s something else entirely.
Dark hair slicked back into a high ponytail. Cheeks flushed and lips painted with something that makes them look almost iridescent. Green eyes, looking like gemstones, brighter than probably anything I’ve ever seen—and this emerald silk sheath dress that ties around her neck, shoulders straight and exposed.
“Enough, Cash.” Her eyes flick to her sister, and her cheekbones look like they could cut glass for a second before all of her softens. She raises a hand to her mouth when she walks out, placing her fingers there in some semblance of a kiss I sort of wish was mine, then she waves at her sister and her two best friends, slamming the door behind her.
“You look”—I palm my jaw—“really, really fucking beautiful.”
Greer looks up at me and blinks, her cheeks pink, and she smooths the front of her dress unnecessarily. “Thank you. But please don’t tell my sister. It’s her dress and I don’t need the I told you so.”
“Were you planning on wearing a pantsuit? Maybe something that screams ‘strictly business’?” I grin, trying to pretend like I can’t feel my heart in my chest and hold out my elbow.
She tosses me a flat look, eyes sharp and lips pursed, but her hand finds my arm and she gathers her dress in the other. “You’ll never know.”
“Happy to be your business partner for this venture, Dr. Roberts.” I take her porch steps one at a time, slowly, so her heels don’t catch, and she rolls her eyes, tugging me along and marching determinedly down the sidewalk towards my truck.
Greer drops her dress, and points at me. “Don’t even think about opening my door. Friends don’t open friends’ car doors.”
I hold up my hands, walking backwards around the front cab. “I don’t know, I’m starting to think you’ve got some shitty friends.”
She jerks her head back towards her house. “I’m not sure I’d call them shitty, but I’m certain they’re probably watching through the phone while my sister peers out the window.”
We both turn and look, and there’s a distinct swish of the white linen curtain falling back into place.
Greer lifts her eyes skyward with a tiny shake of her head, ponytail dancing behind her before yanking open the door of the truck. “Fucking Cash.”
I debate waiting to make sure she gets in okay and doesn’t catch her dress on anything or close the door on it, but I doubt that’s going to play well, so I walk the rest of the way around the truck and hop in just as she’s slamming the door shut.
I glance at her as I start the truck. She shifts in her seat, smoothing out her dress again and fidgeting with her ponytail before taking the small purse from the crook of her elbow and setting it in her lap.
She blinks rapidly and her brow furrows. She looks nervous.
Palming the steering wheel, I glance in the rearview and pull away from the curb. “Why do you call your sister Cash?”
“Childhood nickname. Our dad called her Cashew, and it transitioned into adulthood with her,” she answers, but she stares out the window, watching the neighbourhood lights blur into the lower lights of the east end.
“Cashew.” I nod, taking another glance at her in the mirror. “What did he call you?”
Greer cuts me a sideways look, tipping her chin up. “Nothing that journeyed with me into adulthood.”
I tsk, smiling, and give a jerk of my head. “Secrets don’t make friends, Dr. Roberts.”
Her chin tips up further. “It’s a good thing we’re business acquaintances then.”
I raise my eyebrows and nod, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “Alright, business acquaintance. At least tell me what I’m walking into here. What should I expect at a health network gala where my acquaintance is being honoured?”
She laughs, and it’s raspy like her voice. I like the sound. But she doesn’t do it nearly enough.
I think I can count on one hand how many times I’ve heard it, or seen her smile, and I feel a bit like collecting them—keeping them safe in my back pocket.
Greer rolls her shoulders back, like she’s trying to relax. “You can expect several burnt-out doctors, self-important surgeons who should have retired years ago, and philanthropists with too much time and too much money that they’ve run out of worthy causes to spend it on so they make up awards for people like me who are really just nothing but by-products at the end of the day.”
Her lips tug down to one side, and her thumb taps against the console of the truck. By-product seems like an off sort of way to refer to herself—to what most people would consider a worthy way to spend your time—but she blinks again, and I think she’s keeping more secrets.
I wish she’d give me one of those—I’d put it beside the smiles and the laughter, and I’d make sure it was safe, too.
But she doesn’t waver, she’s resolute. Greer sits up straighter in her seat just as we pass under a streetlamp, and it catches her eyes and her dress at the same time. She reminds me a bit of a brand-new flower, not quite ready to open, but maybe one day soon.
So, I lean back in the seat, one arm slung over the steering wheel lazily, rap my knuckles on the console beside her hand, and throw her a grin. “You think they like football?”
It is a lot of people with too much time and too much money, too many inflated egos, and too many doctors that look seconds from falling asleep standing up.
But it’s a beautiful venue—floor-to-ceiling glass windows on the top floor of a building that belongs to a newspaper right downtown. A giant stage, illuminated with tiny lights, and a small ornate table with three crystal awards practically sparkling. Passed trays of champagne, freshly uncorked and poured, bubbles splashing over the crystal. Low lights and pretentious, small bites of food floating around on silver platters.
More than that—it’s a beautiful girl.
For someone who didn’t seem like she wanted to be here, she blends in well. She isn’t exuberant—but she smiles quietly, politely, at everyone and shakes their hands before introducing me as her friend, Beckett Davis.
I grinned the first time, mouthing the words business acquaintance before she gave me a flat look and moved on.
“It looks a bit like a wedding in here,” I mutter, glancing sideways at Greer.
“It does.” She nods, tapping her champagne flute to her lips, before pointing it at a large acrylic sign hanging suspended before the doorway. “The seating chart is a bit much.”
I cringe. It is a bit much. Shoving one hand in the pocket of my suit pants, I drain the rest of my champagne and set it on the table behind me. “Are we sitting with anyone good?”
She snorts, tipping her chin towards a table across the hall. Three men in suits crowd the table, leaning around the towering taper candles that serve as a centrepiece. They all clink what look to be ridiculously expensive glasses before slapping the table and throwing their heads back in what’s probably grating laughter.
“They look—”
“Self-important?” Greer widens her eyes at me.
I hold my hands up, giving her a lazy grin. “I was going to say fun. Beckett Davis gets along with all kinds.”
Her full lips draw a flat line, still pouted, shining, and made even more beautiful by whatever she painted them with, and she points towards the table before gathering her dress in her hand. “Right. Remind me not to strike up any future business deals with people who speak in third person.”
“You know I don’t actually speak in third person, right?” I scrub my jaw and extend my elbow to her.
Greer levels me with a look and ignores my offer of escort. “I know, Beckett. It’s a joke. Some might call it self-deprecation at its finest. Because who is Beckett Davis, really?”
I smile, exhaling softly, shoving my hands in my pockets, and trail after her—this emerald blur that’s really a beautiful woman who says we aren’t even friends, but sees right through me all the same.
She raises her hand in greeting when we get to the table, stopping at the only two empty chairs. Two formal place settings wait for us, with two pieces of cardstock propped up in front of smaller, floating candles, our names etched in gold.
Dr. Greer Roberts
Distinguished Laureate: Clinical and Surgical Excellence
Beckett Davis
Guest
I turn to grin at her, about to tell her it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever been called, when someone shouts the worst thing I ever have.
“Near Miss! Heard you were here with one of the honourees.” A man sitting directly across from us grins widely, brown cheeks flushed and eyes a little too dazed, like he’s had more than one of those nice glasses of scotch. “You’re going to come through for us this season, right? You lost me a lot of money last year.”
Raising my eyebrows, I pull out Greer’s chair even though she wouldn’t want me to, and I wait until she folds herself down and straightens her dress before dropping in the seat beside her. I open my mouth, the signature, affable Beckett Davis grin sliding into place. “Hey, if I could place a bet, I’d have lost a lot of money, too. Wasn’t banking on missing that kick.”
But Greer stills, her voice cool when she speaks. “And how many balls have you kicked professionally, Samir?”
It’s the first time she’s ever referred to one of her colleagues by their first name.
He blinks slowly, stunned, but then an overlarge smile falls into place that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’m a bit busy saving lives for that, but someone has to do it.”
It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, and it’s nothing I haven’t told myself. Reliable until I wasn’t. Not really worth much because I’m not saving lives like my brother or living like my sister, but worth enough to pay everyone’s bills when they need me.
I offer him a shrug, irreverent, and toss an arm over the back of the gilded chair. I’m about to tell him how it’s the best job in the world because nothing I do really matters when Greer drops her hand to the crook of my elbow.
“Hmm.” Greer’s lips pull into a thin line and one eyebrow rises. She tilts her head, her eyes flash under the low light, and she looks almost predatory. “That’s right. Plenty of emergencies in”—she glances down to the cursive place setting in front of him, angled towards her, before looking back up and giving him a flat smile—“dermatology.”
I don’t know enough about dermatology or skin in general to really know whether there are a lot of emergencies, or how accurate the sentiment that he spends his days saving lives really is, but I don’t really give a shit.
My eyes cut down to where her hand rests, still in the crook of my elbow, fingers taut against my suit jacket. I think it’s a protective gesture. I’m not entirely sure—because I don’t think anyone has ever actually stood up for me.
Not that I’ve ever really bothered to set a good precedent and stand up for myself.
But I do know I like the way it feels—like maybe I’m someone. Something more than that random man in the grocery aisle who helped my mother out one time or a person that’s nothing more than the sum of a bunch of nondescript adjectives you throw together that mean the same thing.
That maybe Beckett Davis really is real.
The corners of my lips twitch, and Greer presses her fingers down before folding her hands across one another in front of her plate.
“Well.” Samir leans forward, smiling tightly, raising his sweating glass of scotch to each of us in succession. “I suppose not everyone can kick, and I suppose not everyone can receive a prestigious award for clinical excellence.”
Something dims behind her eyes, her fingers tense against the table, but she just smiles politely.
“Not everyone can be clinically excellent.” I shrug, raising my fingers off the back of the chair in a lackadaisical gesture, before glancing sideways at Greer and winking.
She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth kicks upwards.
Samir leans forward, and I get a good look at how glassy his eyes are. I’m probably the least qualified person at the table to be giving any sort of medical advice, but it looks like he shouldn’t have another scotch.
He swirls what’s left in his glass and gives me a grin that feels a bit more like a leer. “And what makes a kicker excellent? Surely there’s some level of precision required there? Or is it as simple as pulling your leg back and taking a swing?”
It’s not. It’s significantly more complicated than anyone gives it credit for. But I grin, sit up, and point to Greer’s almost-empty champagne flute. “Dr. Roberts is definitely going to need another drink before I start boring you all with visualization techniques and the importance of wind speed.”