Chapter Thirty-Six
Keeley
“Mmmpf,” I mutter as I roll my head against a warm, firm surface that smells like clean laundry and Irish Spring.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Becks replies, and my eyes flutter open to see that I must have dozed off plastered to his chest. Leaving behind a drool line, apparently.
With this mortifying realization, I shoot up to a seated position on the couch, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “How long was I asleep?”
It can’t have been too long. It’s still light outside, and the end credits of Leap Year —he had never seen it, and I obviously needed to right that terrible wrong—are rolling on the TV.
I’m not usually a napper, but I guess all the late nights on the fire escape are catching up with me. The rest of August has flown by, with Beckett recording more music and squeezing in some last lessons around spending as much time together as we can.
We’ve been pretty much inseparable—going for dinners and walks and watching movies and feeding the cranky ducks at Oldford Park before we retreat to the fire escape every night and sit under the stars together.
But every single day, I fight letting myself feel sad about a new reminder that our time is coming to a close. A few days back, he took the truck to get detailed as a thank you to Mr. P for letting him use it. Yesterday, I walked into his apartment to find that he’d moved Mr. P’s couch back to its original position. This morning, I spotted an open suitcase on his bedroom floor, closet doors open like he’s beginning to pack up his life here.
Like I always knew he would.
Now, Beckett shifts in his seat, stretching his chest and the arm that was around me. It hits me that he must have been sitting stock still while I used him as a pillow, bearing through being uncomfortable so as to not wake me.
The realization of this is… well, nothing short of butterfly-inducing.
Seriously, I think I might be obsessed with this guy. I’m not sure what they put in the water in Ireland, but let me tell you, that country produced a man who should be the prototype for all men in the world. MIT should be studying Beckett McCarthy for potential cloning purposes.
But then, he has to go and spoil all my thoughts of cloning him by grinning at me wickedly. “You were snoring soundly for, oh, about an hour.”
“Snoring?!” I demand, a blush rising to my cheeks.
He smirks. “Yeah, you should get that checked out. Real guttural stuff, like a bulldozer at work. Or a jackhammer. The walls were practically shaking, and then you started talking in your sleep…”
“Did not!” I squeak, my face crimson.
“Did too.” His eyes dance as he stretches both arms above his head, causing his (drool-stained) t-shirt to ride up at the bottom and give me a tantalizing glimpse of taut, muscled stomach. “You were saying something about how Beckett McCarthy is the sexiest man you’ve ever known. Which I’d actually love for you to elaborate on, now that you’ve rejoined us for the afternoon?—”
I smack him with a couch pillow.
In response, he tackles me, swatting the pillow out of the way before easily pinning my wrists with one hand as his other hand tickles the sensitive spot under my ribs. I squeal and try to squirm away from him, cackling with laughter as we playfight and tease… and one thing leads to another, of course, and we end up tangled in each other’s arms, him kissing me in a way that burns me from within.
We kiss until our lips are swollen, and the adoring look Beckett gives me as he presses a kiss to my forehead positively melts my heart.
“I’d better go,” he says grudgingly. “I need to shower and change before we leave.”
I nod. This evening, we’re going to the fair—which is now open for business, marking the official end of summer. But first, we’re having dinner with Cash and Nori at a local pizza place. Since Becks and Cash went to a Red Sox game, they’ve been almost as inseparable as Becks and me. So, Nori and I decided that a double date was necessary before Beckett leaves.
And tonight just so happens to be Beckett’s last official night here.
He leaves tomorrow evening. Which I’ve put off thinking about.
A selfish part of me whispers that I have so little time left with Beckett, I don’t want to share him during these precious moments.
A more grown-up, sensible part of me knows I can’t think that way or I’ll be devastated when he leaves, despite the conclusion I came to in my article and all the measures I’ve taken to protect myself on that front.
I remind myself that I wouldn’t do anything differently on the road to get here. I’m glad I jumped in headfirst, went all in this summer, because to know Beckett is to love him, and this time together has been a privilege.
“I’ll come get you in about an hour?” Beckett stands and grabs his phone from the coffee table.
“Sounds perfect,” I reply, trying not to think about the fact that the drool stain on his chest is likely the reason he needs a shower.
My phone rings not long after he leaves, and I reach for it, assuming that he’s calling to say something dumb or funny or intended to make me blush.
“Miss me already?” I ask as I swipe to answer without looking at the Caller ID.
I’m shocked when Freya’s laugh bubbles from the phone speaker. “I miss you every day, my dear. Every single day that I walk into the OneWorld offices and sit at my desk, I think wow, work would be so much better if Keeley were here, too. ”
“Ahh, sorry!” I cover my eyes with my free hand. “I thought you were someone else.”
“I figured. But my declaration still stands.” My boss laughs. “I do miss you.”
I smile. I haven’t chatted much with Freya lately—aside from her laughing at the horoscopes I submitted last week for the Serendipity Springs website and a quick call we had to go over her notes on a town council segment I was adding to the site.
At that point, she let me know Nisha had received my article submission, but I haven’t heard anything about the Evoke position since. Which I figured might happen. These things can take time.
And no matter if I get the job or not, I’m comfortable with what I submitted.
“Miss you too, Freya,” I say with a laugh. “One of these days, I’ll drive up to Boston for the day and write my horoscopes and traffic reports from the comfort of your cushy office. Deal?”
“Orrrrr,” Freya says coyly, drawing out the word so it has three syllables instead of one. “You and I could do lunch. Every day.”
“What?” I ask dumbly.
Freya laughs in delight. “I’m putting you on speakerphone here, Keels. I have someone with me who’d love to deliver this news herself.”
“Hi, Keeley, it’s Nisha!”
I gasp. Like, audibly.
And promptly attempt to turn said gasp into a cough so I don’t come across as a rabid stalker-slash-fan. I’m sure that’s not the best look in a potential new employee.
Luckily for me, Nisha laughs. “I loved your article.”
“You did?” I ask dumbly.
“I did. It was a great take on the legend, super unexpected—it took me by surprise, then made me think. Which is what we always aim to do with our content here: evoke something in people. You’re a talented writer, Keeley. And the story earned you a job as the new full-time staff writer at Evoke. If you’d like it, that is.”
“If I’d like it?” I repeat—but in a much more yell-y, overexcited tone.
“I’ll take that as a yes?”
“Yes!” My stomach is in a knot of anticipation.
“I’ll send you an email with an official offer and all the details. But for now, consider this an unofficial welcome to the Evoke team!”
It’s all I can do not to squeal.
I did it!
I landed the job.
I can’t wait to tell Beckett.
“One thing I am curious about, though,” Nisha says, cutting through my mental celebratory breakdance of excitement. “For my own knowledge, what happened?”
“What happened?” Jeez, I’m literally parroting everything this woman says right back at her.
“With your grandfather and the handsome Irish guy’s grandmother?”
I pause for a beat, wracking my brain. “I never said he was handsome in the article!”
“Oh, please, Keeley.” Nisha laughs. “As writers, we all know the importance of subtext. It was clear you thought so.”
I can’t help but laugh, too. “We never actually found out what happened. But like I said in the article, the ending wasn’t the important part.”
“And what about you and the aforementioned handsome grandson?” Freya asks, and I can hear the wicked smile in her voice. “Are you together?”
I shift uncomfortably. “For now.”
“Until he goes back to Ireland?”
I swallow a little thickly. “Yup. He’s moving back to Ireland, and I guess I’m moving to Boston. Like for Noeleen and Douglas, our time will come to an end.”
And the ending doesn’t matter, because we’ve had this summer, I remind myself internally.
“Plenty more manfish in the sea!” Freya declares without missing a beat.
I laugh, just like I laughed when she said this exact thing about Andrew. But this time, the laughter is so forced, it sticks in my throat and brings tears to my eyes.
As I say my final thank yous and hang up, I feel an overwhelming rush of bittersweet emotions.
I’m delighted. Proud. Happy.
But I’m also sad, because the inevitable that’s been shadowing me all summer, hanging over me like an insistent raincloud, is now about to pour: Beckett’s leaving tomorrow.
I thought that if I could put this in a “summer romance” box, I could put a lid on that box after he leaves, and keep myself from getting hurt. But I can no longer deny that my already achy heart gets sadder with every second that ticks by until his inevitable departure.
And while I know, in my heart, that the hurt is worth it, it doesn’t make it hurt any less.