16. Deacon
DEACON
B eck is a little quiet for the next several days, and I catch myself often wondering what she’s thinking.
It feels like just yesterday she told me everything without holding back, and now I get the feeling that something has changed.
That she’s more deliberate with her words.
And I just hope I’ve not done something to make her clam up or make her uncomfortable.
I think back to almost a week ago in bed, that morning when things got a little out of hand, and I assume that has a bit to do with it.
It’s wonderful living under the same roof as Beck.
The aroma of rosemary and thyme fills the air on Friday night when I arrive home from work.
I walk into the kitchen, glance at the golden-brown chicken pot pie sitting on the stovetop, its crust cooling.
Beck stands in a flour-dusted apron that proclaims “NOT YOUR MAMA” alongside a fiery pepper, leaning over the sink, clattering dishes as she washes them.
Her golden hair, a wild halo, is messily streaked with flour.
I sneak up on her without meaning to, and I slip my arms around her waist. She startles, dropping the soapy dish from her hands, and then calms and leans back against me. I kiss the side of her head.
“Hey, doll face. Chicken or turkey pot pie?”
“Chicken. With plenty of peas, which I know are your favorite green vegetable.” Beck sighs and wrenches herself from my grasp. “Just give me a minute to get more presentable.”
Beck yanks off the apron. I reach for her hand to stop her from leaving. “Aspyn Beckett, why do I feel like you’re running away from me?”
She stops in her tracks and sends me a wide-eyed glance with her big, doe eyes.
I watch her gulp and search for words, but eventually, she denies it.
“I’m not. I’m just a mess today. Hard day at work.
Got twin six-year-olds who lost both their parents and are now living with their aunt. You know I’m not fond of kids.”
So, she’s had a bad day. But I also know she’s not telling me everything. I let her shrug free and run up the stairs. Then, I hear the water run and the unmistakable sound of Beck humming an old Bryan Adams tune that always cheers her up.
Jagged lightning, almost blinding, suddenly illuminates the kitchen, making me jump as I hear Beck curse upstairs.
I glance out the window, the cold glass against my cheek, as I spot the black clouds above.
The air is heavy with the near-constant crackling in bright zigzags.
A cold wind whips past the windowpanes, rattling them.
I don't mind a good Rocky Mountain storm, but the chill in the air today is already biting at only fifty degrees.
October had just arrived with its crisp, cool temperatures.
The scent of burning autumn leaves hangs in the air despite the rain.
I’ve noticed Beck each night silently padding down the steps and stealing my soft, worn hoodies from the hall closet.
She’d staunchly rejected Sean’s clothes; mine were fair game.
Hey, as long as it keeps her warm. She always returns them in the morning, but her strawberry citrus scent lingers, an intoxicating smell.
I just wish that she’d use my arms and body heat instead.
We have a nice dinner, totally delicious right down to a homemade pie crust. I’d eaten half the entire pie before throwing in the proverbial fork and then jumped up to finish cleaning the kitchen.
I call, “Thanks for dinner,” but Beck has already disappeared to her room. She’s up there for about an hour while I clean up and get comfortable on the couch.
Finally, she descends the stairs, her voice a soft question amongst the thunder. "Movie?"
I find the one she wants to watch. The flickering light of the new sexy Western casts shadows as we settle in—her in the worn recliner, me sprawled on the couch.
My focus blurs, lost in the yearning to brush a stray strand of hair from Beck’s face, to feel the warmth of her nestled against me.
I don’t know why she’s so far away from me, why we aren’t huddled together on this stormy night, but the question preoccupies me.
I thought she was interested in me, but with the way she’s pulled back, I’m entirely uncertain.
The movie's plot is a backdrop to my overwhelming urge to touch her. I want to pick her up and plop her in the middle of my bed, strip her bare, and place my hot lips all over her skin.
With a yawn, Beck announces she’s heading to bed as soon as the credits roll—I can’t believe we’ve gotten through the entire movie. I couldn’t tell you the most basic plot points, since I was somewhere else while Beck watched.
She walks past me to the bottom of the stairs, thinks better of it, then turns and presses a kiss to my forehead that I wish were so much more. But I’ll take this. I’ll take a whisper of her lips against my skin and her whispered “Goodnight.”
After her door closes, it’s only a minute before her light goes off, and I sit there pining after her until I finally turn in. Sleep eludes me.