Chapter 10 Beck #2
"You know what my dad was like, and as much as it was a blessing when that drunk died, my mom's life was hell. Being a success was the only way I could save her."
“Save her?” Clara turned her head. "I didn't know it was that bad."
"I was ashamed of it, Clara. I wanted to be anyone but the poor kid from the trailer park. I felt like I had to leave it all behind to get ahead."
The fire popped.
"And I was the past,” she stated.
I sighed. "I realized I couldn’t ask you to give up your dream.”
“But, that was our plan. It wasn’t for you to decide.”
It was something I'd thought about for years. What would've happened if Clara had dropped her life to follow me into mine? "It was selfish to ask you to quit skating for me."
"It was selfish of you to make that decision for me." Her voice was low. She took a piece of jerky from the bag, tearing off a frozen piece with her teeth.
"I'm sorry, Clara. I should've given you the choice, but I didn't want to ruin your life."
Her shoulders sagged. "Yeah, moving away from this shitty town with my NHL player boyfriend would've totally train-wrecked my life."
"It wasn't like that, Clara. There's something you didn't know."
She took another bite of jerky. It seemed like the act of eating it was more enjoyable than the snack itself.
"What's that? You needed a few more puck bunnies in your hockey pants before settling down?"
I took the jerky from her hand and gnawed off a bite.
"I finally got my mom out of poverty, and then I had to put her into a home.
Her dementia came on so fast. She didn't know who I was, but I was the only person whose hand she would shake.
She'd tell me she knew that she loved me, but didn't know why. "
The years that were supposed to be the best of my life, had been the hardest. I'd lost both the women in my life: Clara and my mom. I probably should've gone to therapy, but playing hockey had served as my therapist.
Sitting in that stinky hut, smelling like a wet dog next to a literal wet dog, tears spilled down my cheeks for the first time in years.
"I'm so sorry, Beckett. I didn't know." Clara’s voice was soft. She let go of Dash's paw and rested her hand on my thigh.
"It was too much for me." I swiped at the wetness on my face. "The only thing that kept me…" I was going to say alive, but didn't want to sound dramatic, "going, was hockey."
The warmth of her hand on my leg was comforting and without thinking, I rested mine on top of hers. She didn't pull away. "That's why I couldn't come back here when your…" my voice cracked. I was ashamed of my weakness.
"When my mom died."
The guilt hit me, the wounds as fresh as though this had all happened yesterday. "I told myself you were better off without me. That I was doing you a favor by staying away."
"You were wrong."
"I know." I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
"No, Beckett. Those years when you left were hard for me too." She stared at the fire. "After Mom died, I quit skating. Completely."
"What?"
"Yeah, and that's not the worst part. I spent a few years numbing myself with anything I could get my hands on."
"Oh, Clara." If I felt like a piece of garbage before, now I was an entire trash can. A rotting one.
She pulled her hand from beneath mine. "It's fine. I came out of it, but not without the help of Mrs. Krinkle and Clementine and the church ladies. They practically shoved my feet back into my skates. It's them, and the Chance Rapids rink, that saved my life."
I took her hands in mine. "I know I've said it before, Clara, but I mean it with every part of me. I am so sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't be a big enough man to deal with my own shit. I'm even more sorry I couldn't be strong enough to show up for you."
"I needed you, Beck." Her voice trembled. "I mean, Beckett."
"I needed you too, Clara. I was just too…" I searched for the words. "Too stupid."
"You were grieving, Beck. Of all people, I know what that's like."
It didn't slip my attention that she used of my nickname. "It's no excuse," I said.
"Yes, it is." She stood, and I thought she was adjusting the fire, but instead she wrapped her arms around me. "I'm sorry about your mom."
A sob caught in my throat and my body bucked as I tried to hold it in. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you, Clara." I stood, wrapped my arms around her, and sobbed into her hair. Her body shook and as she let herself cry, I allowed myself to do it, too.
There, in the middle of Sugar Bay, Clara and I cried like little children; grown versions of ourselves finally giving each other the comfort we needed fifteen years earlier.
When Clara pulled away, the front of my jacket was soaked with her tears. She touched her cheeks. “I think that fancy coat just exfoliated half of my face away." Her attempt at humor broke the somber mood.
Dash took advantage of our heavy conversation to polish off the rest of the jerky. We only noticed when he started to lap up the now-cold mug of instant coffee.
"Dash!" Clara grabbed it away from him and poured it down the fish hole.
It was warm enough inside the hut that I could take off my coat. I hung it on the door and helped Clara out of hers.
"I'm not asking for forgiveness, Clara. I know I don't deserve it. I'm going to save your program. Not for props with the town, or to get in your good books. I'm going to do it for the kid I used to be. And for all the little girl Claras in town."
"You still owe me some roses." She flashed me the first genuine smile I'd seen since I'd gotten into town.
"Shit. I'll buy you a greenhouse full of the damn things if that's what it takes."
"Start with the contract, Shepherd. Get it in writing." She took her coat from my hands.
"Deal."
I resumed my position on the bench. Clara settled in next to me. I lifted my arm and she nestled in against me, resting her head on my chest. I draped her coat over her body. "Don't get any ideas, Beck," she murmured. "I know what you like to do in tiny huts."
Her comment caught me off guard, and the laugh came out more like a cough. Her head jostled against my chest. "I'll save that for our second date."
"You remember?"
How could I forget? Clara and I had been young, and one of the few places we could sneak off together was the scorekeeper's booth next to the rink. "A guy never forgets the best night of his life."
"Mmmm," she murmured. After a few seconds her breathing evened out and her body softened against mine.
Outside, the storm raged, burying Chance Rapids. But inside that stinky hut, for the first time in fifteen years, the ice between us was starting to thaw.