Chapter 26
The last week has felt like a strange kind of limbo. It’s been eight days since the accident and I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about any of it.
The doctor said to take it easy, and for once I’m actually listening.
I’ve taken a step back from the inn, more than I ever have in the years since I took over the day-to-day operations, and it’s strange.
I keep waiting for someone to call with a crisis, only Cammie, the assistant manager, has it handled.
The world keeps spinning without me hovering over it.
Part of it is the accident, the way my body still reminds me with a stiff neck and a twinge in my side that I’m not invincible. But part of it is something else. Something I haven’t said out loud yet, even to myself, though I’ve been turning it over in my head like a stone in my pocket all week.
I called the doctor’s office on Tuesday. The receptionist had that particular tone, the one that said we’re full but I can hear you’re worried and understand you need to see the doctor as soon as possible, so I’ll squeeze you in next week. The day before Christmas Eve, to be exact.
I told myself the timing was fine. Better late than never, but sitting here on the couch with a mug of tea gone lukewarm in my hands, it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’m running out of quiet days to figure out what I’m going to say, and to whom.
I still need to tell everyone…everyone. The word itself is exhausting.
How do I tell my parents? How do I tell Wyatt?
My brother, who still treats me like the little kid who needed him to check under her bed for monsters, will have opinions.
Strong ones. And my parents, who have always watched me like a hawk, are going to look at me with that particular mixture of concern and love that somehow feels worse than anger.
I take a sip of cold tea, my nose scrunching at the taste, and let my eyes wander to the front window.
The cottage sits across the way, its windows warm against the gray December afternoon.
I can see the faint shape of the tree Beckett put up last week, the colored lights he strung up with more enthusiasm than skill.
One strand blinks out of rhythm with the others and I don’t have the heart to tell him.
I haven’t been fair to Beckett.
The thought lands the way it always does, like a brick to the chest. He’s been amazing this past week.
Not in the grand, showy way, but in all the ways that matter most. The texts that come at just the right moment, when the quiet in the house starts to press in.
The knock on the door with dinner he swears he didn’t make himself but somehow knows I like.
The way he always checks in with how I’m feeling and actually waits for the answer instead of making assumptions.
I know he’s letting me take the lead on whatever is between us, just like he always has. I’ve felt it in the careful way he holds himself around me, like he’s afraid of pressing too hard on something bruised. And I know I need to put us both out of our misery.
I need to tell him we have to take a step back. We can’t explore the possibility of more. Not now.
I’m not in a place to start something new.
Not when I need to focus on building a secure foundation for my kid.
The thought still catches in my chest, that word.
Kid. My kid. Someone whose whole world will depend on my being steady and sure, present in a way I can’t be if I’m distracted by the way Beckett looks at me like I’m worth staying for.
It’s crazy to me how much I miss him after such a short time and how different that is from anything I had with Mark. How different it is from ten years going through the motions with someone who was supposed to be my person.
If only I could trust it.
But I can’t. Not right now.
I’m still staring at the cottage when the door opens and Beckett steps out, bundled in that heavy coat I’ve come to recognize, and a bag in his hand.
He pauses on the little porch, his eyes moving to the house, and I wonder what he’s thinking.
If he can see through the window to me sitting here in the half-dark with my cold tea and my circling thoughts.
Even from this distance I can see the deep breath he takes, the kind that puffs out visible in the cold air. A slight shake of his head and he’s on his way across the snow-dusted path to my door.
The knock is soft. His knock is always soft, like he’s asking permission for something he’s not sure he’ll be granted.
I set the mug down on the coffee table and push myself up from the couch.
My reflection catches my eye in the hallway mirror as I cross to the door and I try not to notice the shadows under my eyes or the way I’ve pulled my hair back in a messy knot that says I stopped caring about appearances somewhere around Wednesday.
“Hey.” Beckett smiles as I open the door.
It’s the same smile he always has for me, warm and easy.
He leans in to press a quick kiss to my forehead.
Another small thing that lands somewhere deep.
Somewhere I have to resist the urge to close my eyes and hold onto this moment forever.
“I brought snacks and movies,” he says, holding up the bag.
My smile in return surprises me with how real it is. “Come in.”
I step aside, holding the door open a little wider as he steps through.
As he shrugs out of his coat, I take the bag from his hands.
He’s dressed comfortably underneath, a faded T-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants that I hate to admit, always do something to me.
I look away before he can catch me staring.
“So,” I say, carrying the bag back into the living room. “Snacks and movies. Care to elaborate?”
He follows behind me, an easy bounce in his step.
“I asked the internet what the best classic movies are and I bought the top five. According to the American Film Institute, we’ve got Citizen Kane, Casablanca, The Godfather, Gone with the Wind, and Lawrence of Arabia.
” He ticks them off on his fingers, glancing at me.
“I’ve seen them all,” is all I give him, not wanting to sway his opinions if he hasn’t.
He squints his eyes, but doesn’t push any further. “For snacks, I picked up sour watermelons, microwave popcorn, and Twix.”
I set the bag on the coffee table and pause.
Sour watermelons and Twix. The exact snacks I keep in the cabinet above the stove, the ones I grab when I’ve had a long day and need something sweet and sharp to cut through the tired.
I’ve never mentioned that to him, but they’re the snacks I grabbed when we watched Charade.
Except, of course I didn’t have to tell him they’re my favorite snacks, especially when watching movies.
That’s something I’ve learned about Beckett.
He notices the small things, the quiet preferences people don’t think to announce, and then he acts on them like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It’s such a Beckett thing to do, and it makes what I have to say to him that much harder.
I turn to face him and find him leaning against the archway, easy and unhurried, and I feel the words I’ve been carrying all week rise up in my throat.
“Beckett.” My voice comes out more hesitant than I want it to, but that’s not surprising considering how much I hate the words that have to follow. “We need to talk.”
Something shifts in his face. Not surprise exactly, more like recognition. He straightens from his relaxed position and takes slow measured steps toward me, and when he speaks his voice is gentle. “I already know what you’re going to say.”
I blink. “You do?”
“I do.” He takes a step closer, not crowding, just closing the distance enough that I feel the warmth of him.
“And that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, Madison.
” His mouth quirks. “You’re going to have to get used to our new Saturday routine.
The internet has informed me on just how many classics I’ve been missing out on, and I’m not letting you bail on my education. You’re the one who started this.”
A laugh catches in my chest, half-formed, and comes out wrong.
I feel the tears before I realize they’re coming, blurring the shape of him in front of me.
Yet another Beckett thing to do, sacrifice his wants and needs to make someone else happy.
I don’t deserve him in any capacity, but I can’t turn away from him either.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice cracking on the words. “I’m so sorry, Beckett.”
He reaches out and wipes the tears from my cheeks, his thumbs gentle across my skin, the same way he wiped them last week.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” His eyes hold mine and a few more tears slip free.
“Life threw us a curveball. You’re figuring out how to move forward, and I respect the hell out of that.
” He bends and presses another kiss to my forehead.
This time I lean into the touch, savoring the feel of him.
“Figuring it out doesn’t mean you have to do it alone. You’re stuck with me now.”
And standing here in my living room with the snacks he remembered and the movies he picked, his hands still warm against my face, I know he’s telling the truth.