39. Greer
Greer
Healing might not suddenly click into place.
But I think other things do sometimes.
It happens when Beckett tips his head back and smiles—a real one. Not the grin he parades around and pulls out like a party trick because he thinks he needs to please people for them to love him the way he deserves.
Waves of unruly chocolate hair curl against the nape of his neck, his stubble draws a shadow across his jaw, and the sunlight hits his eyes. Emeralds, both of them.
Not diamonds or gold, but maybe something rarer entirely.
He’s beautiful when he’s free.
“You should smile more,” I whisper.
He shrugs a shoulder, all of him turning lazy when he leans back and plants his hands on the wood of the dock. “I get paid to smile. I should have been a model.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I sit forward, and I think the wine has made the edges of my mind a little fuzzy. Maybe his, too, because he looks like nothing has ever hurt him and he’s never felt the weight of it all a day in his life.
I take my index finger and place it in the curve of his full bottom lip before tracing the edge of it.
He says nothing, but I see the muscles in his neck tense in a swallow.
I pull my hand back and place it against my chest, like maybe I’ll be able to feel that smile in my heart.
He blinks, and I think, if it was possible, his eyes might flay me open. If heaven were real, they’re the green rolling hills you’d see when you get there, and you’d be happy you died.
His voice is rough—throaty like it only is when we’re alone together. “Do it again.”
I do, and that’s when I hear it.
Oh, my heart whispers . You love him, this boy with the heavy shoulders and wonderful smile.