Chapter 25 – Rosie
ROSIE
By the time Beck reaches me, I’m a fully-fledged mess. It’s been forty-five minutes since I texted him and explained where I was at. To say he was surprised to discover I was on the island as well is an understatement.
An hour ago, I collapsed on the dock in a heap of tears. I stayed strong at Dottie’s memorial. Before and after it. During the past two weeks while I’ve been sorting through her personal items at her cottage, I’ve been dealing with my own life drama.
But spreading her ashes and saying goodbye was apparently my breaking point.
Through my hazy vision, the image of Beck appears. Any last bit of strength I’ve been clinging to dissipates in this moment.
“Oh, damn, Rosie.” There’s urgency in Beck’s voice and his movement as he rushes to me.
Dropping down to his knees, he wraps me up in his arms and I allow it. I sink into him, sobbing and digging my fingers into his taut back, trying to cling to something tangible. The solidity of his chest and the strength of his arms as he embraces me gives me the stability I’m desperate for.
“Shh,” he hushes, his warm breath brushing the cuff of my ear. “I’ve got you.”
And it feels like he really does.
“I think I missed my ferry.” I cry harder into his chest, my cheek pressed against the soft cotton of his T-shirt.
“It’s okay, we’ll figure it out.” His palm caresses my hair before he cups the back of my head. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be on the island?”
“I wanted to do this alone.” My words come out broken.
He sighs through his nose. “You don’t have to do everything alone. I told you I’d come.”
I sniff, nodding with my face still tucked close against him. “I know.”
We stay like this for what feels like a long time but is only a few minutes.
Reluctantly, I pull away from him and wipe a knuckle under my nose.
Beck tugs a bandana from his pocket and wordlessly takes my chin in his rough hand while he gently wipes the wetness from my cheeks.
He peers into my eyes, his gaze dancing over me, and my core tightens.
It’s sweet and somehow intimate. Until now, we’ve been practically at each other’s throats.
A nervousness ticks in my veins below my skin, and I swallow. “Did you wipe your fishy hands on this?”
He chuckles, and my comment finally breaks whatever trance we were just stuck under. “Do you really think I’d do that and then wipe your face with it?”
“I mean, I’d hope not. But you have been pretty pissed at me.”
“Yeah…I guess I have. But I’m more pissed at this fucked up situation.” Pushing my hair off my face, he tucks it behind my ears.
“I know. I’m sorry.” I gaze at him through wet eyes to find him staring back at me with the gentleness that’s always there when he looks at me. Soft, and kind. New sobs break free from my chest.
“Hey, hey, c’mon now. You’re making a mess of your face again.” A weak smile pulls on his lips.
“I…I can’t help it. I don’t deserve you,” I whisper, immediately lamenting the words once I’ve spoken them.
His eyes meet mine again and they dance around as if he’s questioning if he heard me. I hope he didn’t, but I also don’t take them back. More tears slide down my cheeks and he catches them with the bandana again.
“Are you kidding? I’ve been an asshole you since you got here.”
“I deserve it,” I mumble, blinking up at him.
“Maybe.” He purses his lips and continues drying my face.
I expected him to deny it. But it’s better he doesn’t. I’ve been beating myself up over this secret—this lie—for too many years. It’s time someone else did it.
“There.” He studies my face with a confident smile. “Good as new.”
My face is hot, my eyes are dry and burning, and I’m well aware of what I look like when I’ve been crying. There are some women who are pretty criers. But I am not one of them.
“Doubtful,” I mutter. “But…thanks.” I bite my lip, and he stuffs his bandana back into his pocket.
He fidgets his hands when we pull apart, and I comb my fingers through my hair as I glance out at the water. Grandma Dottie’s urn sits next to me on the dock, the lid shoved back on tightly. I inhale a few deep breaths.
“Thanks again for coming.”
“Of course.”
“Was your dad mad?”
“Nah. Today was a crap day for fishing. Too hot.”
I wince, glancing over my shoulder at him. “Sorry.”
He waves me off. “We may get along better these days, but let’s just say I’m still not quite ready to take his advice.”
“Oh yeah?” He meets my gaze, and he looks me over too long that my body heats under his stare. “Did you tell him? About Charlie?”
He tears his eyes from me and focuses on a boat in the distance as it glides over the water. “I did.”
Biting my lower lip, my stomach tightens. “What did he say?”
Beck sighs, low and long. “That I should put her first. Change my whole life for her or I’ll regret it.”
“Oh, Beck, I—” I clamp my mouth shut, then open it again when he doesn’t speak. “You know I don’t expect you to do that, right?”
“I know you don’t,” he spits out, his tone growing harsh. “But you haven’t left me with much choice, have you?”
“Whoa.” I hold up my palms.
“Just…I don’t want to do this. Not here, not now.” He adjusts his hat on his head. “This is about Dottie. You asked me to come, and I’m here.”
“Geez, Beck, don’t do me any favors.” I roll my eyes.
“What? What is it then that you do want from me?”
I stare at him, my eyes watering again as disbelief fills me. Beck never used to raise his voice at me. He’s never looked at me like that either. But then again, the years we’ve been apart have piled up on each other. People change. We’ve changed. I suppose we’ve drifted apart further than I knew.
“I’m sorry.”
He throws up a hand. “There you go apologizing again. Just stop, will you?”
“I was going to say I’m sorry I asked you to come today. I thought…I don’t know…that maybe we could find a way to move on. To make this work. Whatever this is. But I was wrong.”
“No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to keep playing the victim.”
Young Beck, the old Beck, never would’ve said these things. He never would’ve talked to me like he is right now. And it only solidifies what I already knew—we aren’t the same people from seven years ago.
And we’re over.
“Why don’t you just go? I’m fine now.”
“No,” he mutters, and stands up. “I’m here. And you’re clearly not fine.”
I pull myself up to stand, my body groaning as I do. “I will be. I’m just gonna do this and then…” Except I don’t know what comes after this. Because I missed the last ferry. Meaning I’m stuck on the island.
Beck bends and picks up the urn.
“Beck,” I snap, stretching to snatch it back. “Hey, give that to me.”
He holds it out of my reach. “No, I came to help. So let’s get this over with.”
“You’re such an ass—let’s get this over with?” I stand on my tiptoes and try again, but with him standing well over six feet, I’m no match. He holds the urn high above my head in an outstretched arm. “You’re so immature. Cut it out.”
“I’m immature?”
“Yeah. Give me the ashes, now.” I hold out my palm.
“Let me start, then I’ll give them to you.”
“Why would I let you start? She was my grandma.”
He brings the urn down against his chest to screw open the lid and I reach for it again, getting my hand gripped around it. In one swift motion, he twists his body away from me, wrenching the urn from my grip. I ricochet off his shoulder and the motion has me tripping backward.
I’m too late, even as I attempt to catch my footing.
Beck calls out, “Rosie!” and reaches for me.
The shriek that slides out of my throat is swallowed up by the ocean when my head goes under. I’m only in the water for a few seconds before an arm hooks under my chest.
“Rosie? Are you all right?” Beck asks, his lips close to my ear. “Rosie?”
Kicking my feet and flailing my arms is harder while dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I sputter after my head shoots above the water. “What the hell was that?” I scream.
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
Once I know I’m out of danger, I wrestle out of his hold and splash water at him. “You’re sorry? Ugh,” I groan. “You’re such a child.”
“Hey, I jumped in and saved you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, and you wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t been acting like a complete ass.”
He swims to the edge of the dock and hoists himself up easily. Like the weight of his wet clothes makes no difference. Flipping around on his stomach, he holds his arm out to me. “C’mon, give me your hand.”
I glare at him but quickly assess my options and ultimately give in, accepting his help. He slips his hand over mine and guides me to the dock. I brace myself on the edge as he pulls me out of the ocean. He wraps his arms around me, and I shut my eyes, squeezing out the world.
With his chin resting on the top of my head, he mumbles, “I’m sorry.”
And even though I know he is, I can’t help but wonder how we got here.
Here as in the two of us. Not necessarily here in this moment. Though this is not how I saw things going either. This day—hell, this life—is not turning out how I expected.