Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Mila
I knew something was on Beckett’s mind. We were curled up on my couch; our new Saturday routine of ordering takeout and binging a new show had reached the point where the food was gone, the show forgotten, and we were simply enjoying each other’s company. But something was troubling him.
“Spit it out,” I said, nudging him playfully. “You’ve been quiet all night.”
He ran a hand through his hair, which I knew meant he was choosing his words carefully. “I was thinking... about your trip.”
I stiffened before looking at him, my hand pausing on his chest. “What about it?”
“I know you want to do this on your own, and I support that. But…” He paused, his eyes searching mine. “I just want you to know I’m here if you need me. If at any point you feel like you can’t handle it or you just want some company, I’ll be on the next flight out.”
I felt a rush of warmth at his words and tossed my hair over my shoulder as I adjusted myself in his arms. “Thank you,” I said softly, leaning up to kiss him. “But I promise, I’m okay. I need to do this for myself. To prove that I can.”
Beckett had nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. “I understand. And I’m proud of you for taking this step.”
I smiled, tracing patterns on his chest. “I couldn’t have done it without you. You know that, right? You’ve given me the strength to face my demons.”
He pulled me closer, his voice intense. “And you’ve given me the courage to face mine. We’re in this together, Mila.”
I snuggled into his side, feeling safe and loved. “I know. And it’s going to be fine. I promise.”
The convention in California was a big step for me, both professionally and personally. It was a chance to immerse myself in my field, connect with colleagues, and prove to myself that I could navigate the world beyond my carefully constructed bubble.
And if I happened to drive by a specific address and leave a little surprise for someone, that was just an added bonus.
The convention was practically alive with excitement and bustling people. I weaved through the crowded hall, my senses on high alert. I’d attended events like this before, but this one felt different.
I was different.
I stopped by a booth displaying the latest in cybersecurity software and struck up a conversation with one of the developers. His eyes lit up as we discussed the nuances of encryption and data protection, our shared passion creating an instant connection. It felt good to talk shop with someone in front of me rather than through a screen.
As I moved from booth to booth, collecting business cards and making mental notes, my mind kept drifting back to Beckett. His support meant everything to me. He had his own demons, yet he was always there for me, grounding me when I felt like I might float away. He’d literally committed murder for me.
During a break between sessions, I found a quiet corner to check my phone. There, I saw a text from Beckett: “Thinking of you. You got this.”
A small smile tugged at my lips as I replied with a quick thank you and a heart emoji.
In the afternoon, I attended a panel on emerging threats in cybersecurity. As they discussed the increasing sophistication of cyberattacks, I found myself scribbling notes furiously, ideas going off like rockets in my mind.
When the panel ended, I decided to take a short walk outside to clear my head. As I strolled through the nearby park, I couldn’t help but think about the package waiting in my hotel room.
I had taken Beckett’s father’s watch during my so-called work trip—a symbolic act of reclaiming power over our shared trauma. It sat on the nightstand now, a reminder of what we’d both endured and how far we’d come.
The rest of the day flew by in a blur of presentations and networking. By the time evening rolled around, I was exhausted but wildly on edge at the same time. Back in my hotel room, I sat on the bed and stared at the watch for a long time. Beckett kept it all this time because he felt guilt and a plethora of other emotions regarding his dad. He took the watch because it was his father’s favorite possession, and he wanted him to feel just a sliver of the pain he had been made to suffer.
It was time to get rid of it.
Beckett’s text buzzed again: “Miss you.”
I typed back quickly: “Miss you too.”
And with that simple exchange, I knew we would be okay.
But I couldn’t say the same for his father.