Chapter 23
___
Nate
There’s a silence to hospital rooms. No breeze rustling through open windows, no friends laughing in the next room—just the beeping of a machine. Beep, beep, beep, marking a heartbeat, a reminder of life. A fragile one.
Bev sits in a chair pulled close to her father’s hospital bed. She grasps his hand in both of hers. The position looks uncomfortable because she has to lean so far forward—but she’s been in it for hours.
I remember once when my aunt was very sick, Arjun told me to take photos of her hands before she died. He said everyone takes photos of a person’s face, but people forget about the hands. Yet, there’s so much in a hand. There are so many memories there. It seems Bev instinctively knows this as she grips his in her own.
“You should get some sleep,” I say to her.
She shakes her head, not taking her eyes off him. He’s out of surgery now and asleep in his hospital bed. He had a very minor stroke, but it caused him to fall, break his hip, and temporarily lose consciousness. The doctors have implanted a pacemaker to prevent future strokes.
I move closer, but she shifts in her seat like something bothers her.
“Are you okay?” I rub her back. “What can I get you?”
She peeks back at me. “I really have to go to the bathroom.”
“Go.” I wave a hand at the door.
“I don’t want to leave him.”
“I don’t want you to pee your pants either,” I say.
She somehow holds out for another hour. “I’ve really got to go,” she says, calling over her shoulder as she sprints from the room.
As if on cue for maximum awkwardness, her dad’s eyes flutter open. Anxiety spikes through me like some kind of thorned flower. I don’t want to be with him alone. The man hates me and has heart problems. Not a good combo.
I head to the door.
“Nate,” he calls weakly.
“I’m trying to get Bev.”
“I want to talk to you first.” His voice breaks.
I rush to the bed. “Should I call the nurses?”
“Listen.” His lips are dry and papery. “I don’t want you to be a doofus when it comes to my daughter.”
“A doofus?” I repeat, my pulse rising. I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I don’t want him to have a heart attack on my watch—even if there is a pacemaker.
“Bev obviously cares for you.”
“She does?” I realize she told me she loves me at the reading, but I know Bev—and I could hear there was a bit of a “but” after it as well. So it’s nice to get confirmation from her dad .
His watery eyes meet mine, and even in his frailty, he manages a smirk.
“I love her,” I confess.
He stares at me as if waiting for me to go on, as if he hasn’t quite made up his mind. I need to get this right. I need to figure out a way to make this work. This is my opportunity, and I don’t want to waste it.
“I know you don’t like me,” I say, “and that’s okay. Could you give me a chance though? Six months to change your mind?”
He gazes down at his knuckles as he rubs them together. He seems deep in thought. “You can’t leave her, okay?”
“I don’t want to.”
“I know it’s an odd thing to ask. It’s just…her mother.”
“I know.”
He grabs a bit of the plain white hospital blanket, as if trying to stop with his knuckle fidgeting. “Listen, I never told Bev this. But I actually saw you perform live. You were playing an acoustic set at Vine Street before you got big. That song, ‘Took It Down.’ You played it. I still remember where I was sitting. I still remember putting down my spoon and thinking, ‘My god, this is it. I know this feeling. I know. ’ So I became a fan. I actually listened to that song…well, on repeat, honestly. It helped me any time I thought of my wife. Well, she’s not my wife anymore…but the point is, the song helped.”
My heart swells. I don’t tell him the inspiration of the song: Bev. Maybe another day. “Thank you, sir,” I say.
“You don’t have to call me sir.” A smile plays at his lips. I see a flash of Bev in it, and I know whose smile she inherited. “We’re not in the military. ”
I realize I’ve never met fathers of the girls I’ve dated because nothing was ever serious enough to warrant it—this is a first to me. So I don’t know what to do. I’m trying to copy what I’ve seen in movies, saying “sir” and firm handshakes, although the latter is moot in this instance. All I know is that I want his blessing for a relationship with Bev. But how do I get it?
“Although maybe if I’d been in the military, I would have seen more of my bucket list,” he muses. “All the travel, you know?”
“Your bucket list?” I ask, feeling something spark inside of me. It’s not quite clear yet, but it feels like an opening. Like a lighthouse in the distance, a flicker of light so far away, I’m not even sure if I can trust it.
His eyes grow heavy, and I debate telling him to sleep. But I don’t want to tell an older man—especially when I’m trying to olive branch with—what to do. “Bev and I want to travel the world,” he explains. “Melbourne is the first city on our bucket list. We’ve spent the last year adding to our fake itinerary there. We know already what we’d order at Belle Vue. No extra beets for me though.”
I lean back, feeling more casual, less nervous. “We’re going to Melbourne on tour in a few months.”
And then a lightbulb moment clicks.
I sit forward, trying to keep my hope realistic, even as it expands crazily like a sunrise stretching across the widest horizon. “What other cities are on your list?”
“Seoul, Dublin, Sao Paulo.” He rattles off another ten cities spanning every continent.
“Yes, yes, and yes,” I say. “We’re going to each of them.” I don’t even bother fighting the big foolish grin I feel spreading across my face .
He must realize what I’m thinking by my smile. “We couldn’t possibly,” he says.
“Why not?”
“It’s a lot of money.”
“We have a private jet; it’s not like you need tickets.”
He seems to think on this. “It’s not a bad idea.”
“If you go, Bev would go,” I practically beg. “I’ll hire doctors. Whatever care you need, you’ve got it.” For good measure, I add, “And no beets. It’s a promise.”
He nods, as if giving his blessing, “Okay.”
“I’ll stop talking, so you can rest.”
“I don’t want to sleep.” But his eyes grow heavier and heavier.
“Why?”
He grips the blanket again, and I realize, He’s afraid. He just had a stroke, broke his hip, and now he’s in the hospital, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat echoing back to him in impersonal, robotic beeps.
I take a seat in Bev’s chair, and in a near whisper, I sing the opening lyrics to “Took It Down,” his favorite song.
His eyes widen at the realization and then soften. If you can thank someone with your eyes, that’s what he does, a warmth and love shimmering beneath them. I realize Bev must get this from him as well.
He relaxes as I sing, and his eyelids flutter shut, peaceful in sleep.
A chip bag rustles in the doorway, and I look up. Bev leans against the doorjamb holding a bag of Doritos, which she seems to have forgotten about, because her eyes are very focused on me. I don’t know how much she saw, but I know by her expression we’ll be okay.
__ _
Horniness. This shouldn’t be the time for it. But I’m a man, and I can’t fight nature.
Before the reading, I hadn’t seen Bev in three days. I thought about her every waking moment and dreamt about her when I managed to sleep.
Did I mention the fifteen years thing? What it’ll do to a man?
I can’t take my eyes off her. Her hair is swept up, revealing her neck, and the silky skin there. Sometimes I catch her pulse, beating against her neck, or that little hollow at the base, and how I want to kiss it. She wears a skirt and her yellow Converse. I’ve wanted to slide my hands up her legs to touch under her skirt, just like what happened at Azalea Beach, our secret, a secret I don’t want to keep, but I will because I’ll do what she asks of me.
I’ve behaved. More or less. Kept my thoughts to myself. Tried to turn my attention elsewhere.
But Bev’s dad’s nurse, Viktoria, has arrived, and after a day and a half at the hospital, Viktoria insists we go back home, get some rest, and let her take over for a bit. The doctors agreed. Bev’s dad too.
Bev didn’t want to go back to her place—too many memories of seeing her dad lying there in the kitchen.
So I drive us back to mine. She falls asleep in the car, and I don’t wake her. When we arrive at my house, I open the car door to carry her inside, but she surprises me by rubbing her eyes .
“I’ve got it,” she says as if she guessed what I was about to do.
“Okay.” I’m a little disappointed. I want a reason to touch her. To breathe in that beach rose scent on her neck.
We walk to the front door. I carry her makeshift bag I brought to the hospital for her yesterday, but I’m careful to hold it on the shoulder not closest to her. I welcome any opportunity for our arms to brush, our skin, our fingers. I want her so bad. I feel it in my lungs, my breath, my thundering pulse.
“I don’t think I can sleep,” she says, shoving hair back from her face.
“You just fell asleep in the car.”
She shrugs. “It helped.”
“It was like a four-minute drive.”
She frowns.
“Okay, like fifteen.”
“Thirty.”
It is true—her dad did end up getting transported off the island for care, and we missed the most recent ferry back. I guess when I’m with her thirty minutes feels like four.
I punch in the house’s security code. Ironically, it’s the date of mine and Bev’s first kiss from high school. Or maybe that’s not ironic? I don’t know. I’m tired too.
“Want a drink?” I offer as we walk into the kitchen. I toss my keys on the counter.
She shakes her head. “Want to walk on the beach?”
“Sure.” It’s a beautiful night. Bright moon, balmy, not too many bugs. I grab a blanket from the closet in case we want to star gaze.
I walk through the house, looking for Moose, although I know he’s not here. He’s staying with Chandra while we figure things out. Her niece isn’t visiting, so at least, that worked out well. In the meantime, Xavier is looking into doggy passports. I haven’t told Bev though because I don’t want to disappoint her if it doesn’t work out.
We saunter through the lawn, damp with dew, heading to my private beach. I allow myself to reach for Bev’s hand, and she accepts. I want her so much, the thought returns. I try to tell myself it’s not the time. But the heart wants what it wants.
We reach the sand and kick off our shoes. She carries hers in her hand.
“You don’t need to do that,” I remind her.
“What?”
“You don’t need to carry your shoes. No one will take them.” I try not to sound like too much of an asshole when I say, “Private beach.”
“Right.” She tosses them next to mine.
My heart continues to thud, almost tin-like, it’s so fast and quick as I debate what to do. I want to pull a move, but my instincts are all wrong. It’s not the time. I can’t let my need for her take over.
“I saw you in the hospital room,” she says in a low voice.
There’s something about her tone, a bit seductive; I feel it beneath my skin; her voice zips down my spine; raises the hairs on my forearms. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” It’s almost a sigh.
And I want to make her sigh. “How much did you see?”
“You singing to my dad.”
I rake a hand through my hair. I’m unsure what to say, and I always know what to say. You don’t become famous if you can’t work a crowd.
She grabs my arm, so she can seemingly look at me. “Nate? ”
The tin drum in my ears— beatbeatbeatbeat . “Yeah?”
She doesn’t answer. She just stands on her tip-toes and swings her arms around my neck.
My lips meet hers. Softly. Oh god, so softly. A whisper. The slightest of touches. Like trying to touch a cloud. Like trying to hold a twinkling light in your palm.
I snake my arms around her, pulling her closer. The heat radiates off her, warming me, hypnotizing me.
Fifteen goddam years of wanting her. It tests my sanity. I nearly came undone at Azalea Beach. She came that night, but I didn’t. It’s created an obsession, a need, like something I’ve never felt before.
Her tongue is warm, sensual. I want more.
What happens next is furtive, needy, and builds into a frenzy.
I clasp at her lower back, pulling her close, crushing her breasts into me.
She moans, driving me crazier.
I shove up her skirt, stroking her with my fingers, cherishing how damp she is for me. She trembles in my arms, writhing in pleasure, throwing tinder into my own desire.
It feels unbelievable good, feeling her. In fact, I’ve never felt this good in my life. It’s like some kind of sex drug, and she’s given me a shot, a vial, made me an addict. My cock aches for her.
“Ohhh,” she groans, hips moving against me.
“Baby.” I swim my fingers around in her dampness. “How do you want me to make you come?” I throw down the blanket and pull her down with me.
Her words nearly slur with pleasure like she’s drunk on feeling good. “I want you to fuck me. ”
My heart races wildly like a snare drum at the highest of tempos. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” she gasps.
“I don’t have a condom,” I say. “But I can run up to the house.”
“I’ve been tested recently for my annual, and I’m on birth control.”
“I’ve been tested too.”
“Please.” She unbuttons the top button of my jeans, and it sets arson to every sense of self-control I have.
I yank off my briefs, and my cock springs free. I can tell by the widening of her eyes that she thinks I’m as big as everyone else does. And then surprising me, she kisses the tip.
My breath intakes sharply. “Fuck, baby.”
She sucks some more.
“You’re going to make me come.” I kneel in front of her. “And I need you.”
She lays back, ready for me.
I lower my body onto hers. My voice chokes with pleasure, making it hard to even talk. “I wasn’t just edging you on Azalea Beach. I was edging me too. All this time…”
She feels for my dick and guides me to her.
“There’s no way to do one without the other,” I groan.
I gaze into her eyes, as she grasps my hair in her fists, and I tease her entrance. We both nearly explode. I try to tease again, but we both give each other a look, “Like who are we kidding?” We can’t wait any more.
I slowly enter her, and I’ve never felt anything like this before. The pleasure is out of this world. The way we feel like we’ve been united, together, as one is cosmic. There’s gentle beach waves; her bourbon eyes; and filling her up so good that I couldn’t ask for anything more.
I’m not even all the way inside before she’s a quivering mess. She grips me as if her life depends on it. “I’m-I’m-I’m going to come,” she stutters.
“Come for me, baby,” I say.
I grow impossibly hard as she spasms around me. It’s unbelievable. I can’t seem to stop thinking, I’ve never felt this way before .
The pleasure builds to the point where it’s almost unbearable. And I don’t have to tell her because I know she knows. I’m going to come too.
It’s like the sky lights up with shooting stars, and I’m off this planet, shaking over her, pleasure exploding through me.
I gaze into her eyes as I pulse deep inside of her, twitching and throbbing. After I’ve regained some bodily control, I kiss her neck, inhaling her smell.
“I love you,” I whisper as a few aftershocks rip through me.
___
Six months later, here we are in Melbourne, sitting in our own private room at the fine dining establishment, Belle Vue. When I say Bev and her dad have been talking about this nonstop, I mean nonstop. I think their excitement over this restaurant single-handedly conquered their jetlag—even though there’s a fourteen-hour time difference. Meanwhile, I’ve been struggling to not pass out with exhaustion. But it’s like anytime Bev says, “Extra charcoal on the side, please,” they both start laughing hysterically and are wide awake like they took shots of espresso.
I check the doggy cam for Moose, but he’s doing fine at our hotel with my sister. He went for a swim in the ocean earlier—his first ever. He was unsure about the water at first, but as soon as I got in, he chased after me like he was my own personal lifeguard, afraid I might drown unless he was right there beside me. He’s become my favorite shadow. I don’t know what I’d do without him.
And I don’t know what I’d do without Bev either. My life used to be empty rooms, echoes down hallways, voids in crowds, and now, here I am surrounded by love and adorable commotion. I can’t ever go back to how I was before.
So, of course, I want to propose to Bev. It may be old-fashioned, but I want to ask for her father’s blessing, and while her dad and I are better, I’m still worried he might say, “No.”
It’s one of these things where I’ve held practice conversations in my mind at least a million times, planning for all different types of scenarios—strategizing—but I can never actually bring it up with him. Hell, my sister, Lucy, and I even role played with her as Bev’s father, but three weeks have gone by, and I still haven’t broached the topic.
“May I take your order, sir?” the waiter asks Bev’s dad, startling me from my thoughts.
He orders about twelve different things.
Bev then orders the “char”—winks at her dad—who starts laughing so hard he has to put his head down on the table. When he finally looks up, tears stream down his face.
“Charcuterie” she finishes.
Fortunately, our laughter seems to be contagious because the waiter starts laughing too. Everyone seems to enjoy themselves.
Between courses, Bev excuses herself to use the bathroom, and her dad and I are alone in the room with expensive wines in a glass case lining one wall and a big-window view of the city in the next.
“There’s something else on my bucket list,” he says, startling me from my jet lag exhaustion.
“Anything.” I want so much to make his final dreams true. But what if I can’t? What will I tell him?
“I haven’t told Bev because I didn’t want her to feel any pressure.”
“Okay?”
“I want to walk Bev down the aisle.”
“The aisle? As in marriage?”
He nods with a big ol’ smile.
Elation whirls through me, happy like a stream. “Sure thing,” I say and shake his hand.
He looks satisfied then, and we grin at each other.
“Well, I don’t know about you,” I say, “but I might order another round of charcoal.”
“Let’s celebrate.” Her dad raises a glass. “Champagne and charcoal.”