4
Penny
Now…
“No, she’s in bed. It’s fine, I promise.”
Beckett’s deep voice pulls me from sleep. I lay there for a moment, soaking in the warmth of the covers and the softness of the mattress underneath me, wondering if I’m just hearing things, but when the sound of his one-sided conversation once again, carries down the hallway, I begrudgingly throw the blanket off, swing my legs over the side of his bed and rise.
Quietly, I pad barefoot across Becketts bedroom, wondering what on earth pulled him from bed in the middle of the night, and call his name. He doesn’t respond, so, curiously, I follow the sound of his voice down to the kitchen.
When I reach the end of the hallway, I pause, and watch as he paces back and forth in front of his granite topped kitchen island, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a loose-fitting black t-shirt, his phone held firmly to his ear.
“I’m going to tell her, okay? I know. I know, baby. You know I love you. Only you. It’s just hard…” he whispers, and I swear my heart stops beating. Just stops. Right there in my chest.
I love you. Only you.
What the fuck? Or more importantly, who the fuck?
I look around, trying to figure out what’s going on, and spot a familiar, overly stuffed army green duffle bag sitting by the front door.
“Yes. No, I’m coming right now. Don’t cry, baby.”
My eyes snap back to the man in front of me. The one who hasn’t realised I’m standing here yet.
Anger builds, hot and heavy in my chest, but as I open my mouth to speak, to demand an explanation, nothing comes out.
I. Can’t. Speak.
I clutch my throat with one hand and try again, stepping forward as I do in an attempt to grab his attention, but he doesn’t so much as look my way.
“She’s nothing to me. You know that. I just… I don’t know. She was fun for a while, but let’s be honest, it’s not like she’s emotionally capable of being in a relationship. This is what’s best for everyone. She can’t give me what I want. You can.”
The punches just keep on coming, and still, no words come out.
“Kevin, what are you doing up?” I jump, the familiar feminine voice startling me, and turn to find my mother walking down the hallway, her dark brown hair dishevelled from sleep.
What the fuck is happening right now?
“Kevin?” she asks again while tying the string of her deep purple cotton robe into a knot.
“Mum?” I ask, finding my voice, but she doesn’t react. She simply walks straight past me and into the kitchen as if I’m not standing right here .
I watch in horror as she approaches Beckett, who right in front of my eyes, morphs into my father.
“Who are you talking to?” My mother demands as my dad rolls his hazel eyes. Eyes identical to mine. “It’s her, isn’t it? You’re talking to her !” Her tone becomes frantic, and I step forward to intervene, but once again, no one seems to notice I’m here.
“I’ll see you soon, okay?” My father whispers into the phone before ending the call and shoving the device into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Kristen,” he begins, sighing loudly. “You knew this was coming. Don’t act like you’re surprised.”
“Surprised? I’m not surprised. I’m furious! You told the therapist you’d stop this. That you’d commit to me . To Penny . To this family. You told her-”
“I lied,” my father snaps, his temper getting the better of him. “I fucking lied. You know this isn’t the life I want, Kristen. You’ve known since the moment I told you about Laura-”
“Don’t you dare say that tramp’s name in my house!”
“Lower your voice,” he bites back, advancing on my mother and taking her by the shoulders. “You’re going to wake Penny.”
“I’m right here!” I yell, tears brimming in my eyes as I watch the show play out in front of me.
My mother’s shoulders begin to shake, and even though her back is to me, I know she’s crying. “I love you. Please. Don’t do this to us. Don’t leave,” she begs.
Oh, Mum…
My father shakes his head, looks down at his wife, in all her broken-hearted glory, and says, “I’m leaving. I love you, Kristen. I do. But not the way I love her. I need more. I need her . I’m sorry things turned out this way, but I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t.”
My mother’s spine straightens, and she steps back, removing herself from my father’s hold. The energy of the room shifts, the temperature drops, and on shaky legs, I step to the right a little to watch as she strikes the tears from her reddened cheeks, sniffs, and clears her throat.
“Then go,” she whispers. “Go and don’t you even think about coming back.”
My father throws his hands up in the air and groans. “Please, just try to understand-”
“I understand perfectly well. Now, please, get the fuck out of my house,” she says, as if speaking to a stranger now, and not her husband.
“No,” I whisper. “Don’t…”
Without a flicker of remorse, my father nods, turns around, and he walks himself to the door.
“Dad,” I croak, as he picks up his bag, throws it over his shoulder and reaches for the door handle, but he doesn’t hear me. “Dad,” I call, louder this time.
To my surprise, he stops. He hears me. But when he turns around, it’s not his eyes I’m met with.
Beckett stands there, right where my father was, his hand firmly clutching the strap of his duffle as it weighs down his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. We just stand there, staring at one another.
He’s waiting for something. But for what?
For me to say something?
To do something?
I part my lips, but nothing comes out. Not a word. Not a sound. Nothing.
He sighs loudly, his disappointment evident, and then he shakes his head, jerks his wrist, and opens the door.
Immediately, I race across the room, and as he takes his first step outside, I find my voice. “Don’t leave,” I beg, running faster to catch up to him. “Please!” He closes the door behind him just as I reach it. “No!” I scream, slapping my hands against the wood before frantically grabbing for the handle.
My hands are too sweaty to get a good grip, and I grunt in frustration as I try again and again to turn it. And then, when the latch finally clicks, and I manage to pull the heavy door open; I wake up…
Jerking up right, I place a shaky hand over my pounding heart and try to focus on my breathing.
In and out.
In and out.
This is the third time I’ve had the same fucking dream in the past two weeks, and all it took was a few messages from Beckett’s ex-fiancé.
Paige .
I’ll give it to him; I didn’t have to go snooping to find the messages. He showed them to me. But, their existence is messing with my brain.
And my sleep.
And that’s just not on.
I miss you, Beckett.
Can’t we try again?
I made a mistake; I know that now.
Ugh.
I roll my eyes at my own thoughts and look beside me at the large sleeping man curled up beneath his white cotton sheets, and I know he isn’t a bad guy. He isn’t deceitful or sneaky. He doesn’t hide things from me or sugarcoat the truth.
But he is a man, and his ex-fiancé is my polar opposite.
The woman wears pink blouses and pencil skirts while selling luxury fucking cars at her father’s dealership, for fuck’s sake.
How do I know that? Because I looked her up. I’m that girl now.
Logically, I know that he isn’t going to go back to a woman that he caught fucking another man, no matter how tall, perky, and blonde she is, but I’ve never been a particularly logical person, and I also can’t figure out if it’s paranoia or my own intuition that’s driving me mad.
The fact that his response to my one and only mention of making this thing between us ‘public’, was to show me the messages she’d sent him, also makes me wonder if he even feels what I do, or if for him, we really are just friends that fuck.
He never did revisit the subject of us being more.
In saying that, I did jump him after, to avoid the embarrassment of being rejected, so…
Jesus. Who am I?
I don’t even know how I got myself in this position.
Somehow ripping each other’s clothes off after three espresso martinis on a Thursday night turned into me sleeping in his bed more than I do my own. Riding his face on the couch turned into us snuggling up under a knitted blanket watching scary movies. Shower sex turned into us taking turns washing each other’s backs. Quickies in the car turned into holding hands over the centre console, and dirty messages turned into hourly checks ins to see how each other’s days were going.
I’ve told Beckett things I’ve never even mentioned to Molly or Evie. I’ve shared things that I swore I’d take to my grave, and never once has he judged me. He listens to understand , as if what I have to say is so important that he wants to memorise every word, so that he never forgets.
What the hell is that?
Where did this guy even come from?
Far out.
My irritation gets the better of me and I shove at Beckett with both hands, not enough to wake him, because the man sleeps like the dead, but enough to make me feel a little better.
Still frustrated; with me, with him, with this, I huff, toss the blankets off my lap, and swing myself out of bed. I grab my phone from the bedside table, slide on Becketts red tartan slippers as I move toward the door because they’re there and my feet are cold, and I make my way to the kitchen.
If I can’t sleep, I’ll cook, because there isn’t much that pancakes can’t fix and being pissed off makes me hungry.