Chapter 10 Beckett
BECKETT
~JUNE~
She’s been here for over a month, and I’m starting to notice things that I shouldn’t.
There is always a candle next to the stove. She goes through about one a week, and we never have the exact same scent twice.
She mostly wears leggings, tiny shorts, or sweats.
Her shirts are either extra baggy or skin tight.
She almost never wears her hair down.
She doesn’t really wear makeup.
Her nails are almost always painted, both fingers and toes.
There’s a bowl full of cherry, heart-shaped suckers on the kitchen island.
I hate how much I notice things. I shouldn’t be noticing anything about her. She shouldn’t even be a thought in my mind, and for some reason, she is.
I try to remind myself that she’s Sloane; little, dorky Sloane, but that doesn’t work. I close my eyes and try to picture her as the girl that she used to be, and I just can’t.
All I end up seeing is the beautiful woman, who accidentally calls me pretty.
A woman who makes me dinner every night and lunch every day.
The woman who waits up to make sure that I make it home, no matter how late it is when I walk in the door.
The woman who talks about cars with me, even though she has no idea what half the words I say mean.
The woman who has come into my life and made my house feel like a home.
Even before the permanent candle and the sucker jar, her presence lights up the place simply because she’s in it. She’ll leave in September, and I’ll probably never see her again because she would never have a reason to come back here. She isn’t close with any of her family who lives here.
Why does the thought of her leaving sting?
Why does the thought of her laughter not echoing off the nearly empty walls make my heart tug in my chest?
It’s only been a month, I shouldn’t be thinking these kinds of things. If she were gone, I could go back to my routine, the one where I wake up, go to work, come home, and go to bed. I could go back to the way things used to be.
The way things should be. The way things have to be.
I make it home Wednesday night around nine. I’d taken my sweet time filling out paperwork.
It’s not that I didn’t want to be home; it’s more the fact that I didn’t want to risk what could happen if I did. Not that I’m thinking about doing anything.
I open the door, and I’m surprised by what waits for me on the island.
A bouquet of lilies sits on the island, with the note and a little Matchbox car that looks like the one in my garage.
It’s been twelve years since my dad passed.
Twelve years, and this is the first time anyone has done something that makes my chest ache.
Sure, I had people give their condolences to me at the funeral.
The normal pity that one receives when a loved one they were close with dies.
But never once has anyone gone out of their way like this.
Briar didn’t even call or say anything, and my dad was a second father to him. Not that I expected him to, but it would have been nice.
I hold the note in my hand for far longer than I should.
Lillies were Mom’s favorite flowers, and Dad always kept them in the house for years after she passed away.
I feel a knot form in my throat as I look at the flowers.
Sloane would have been close to ten when he died. Yet she remembered something so little, almost insignificant.
I pick up the little car and stare at it for a long time. It’s almost an exact replica of the one I’d been working on with Sloane for the last while.
I take a slow breath, letting myself just have a moment before I place the flowers in a vase with some water. I grab the car and the note and go upstairs.
I need a few minutes to myself. I haven’t let myself miss him today. Not like he properly deserves.
I set the car on my nightstand and place the note in the drawer. I shed my clothes and take a hot shower to decompress.
I should stay in my room, have a night to myself.
Maybe watch a movie, or read a book. I shouldn’t go to her room.
I shouldn’t be opening my door right now and heading down the stairs to make us some hot chocolate.
But I am doing exactly that. I’m making us hot chocolate, and I’m adding marshmallows, caramel, and flaky sea salt (not the regular kind, there’s a difference, apparently) because I know that’s how she likes it.
I take the mugs back up the stairs and knock on her door softly. After a few seconds, she answers, her voice soft as she tells me to come in.
I twist the knob and push open the door. She lies on her bed, curled up in a ball, watching something on her computer, dressed in spandex and a hoodie.
This is the Sloane that I remember, but even now as I look at her, I can’t tell myself that this is wrong. I can’t seem to convince myself that I don’t want her.
She closes her laptop and sits up, leaning back against the pillows and headboard. “Sit,” she says, gesturing to her bed. I nod, taking her up on the invitation. I pull one of my legs up, and I watch her for a moment. She pulls both of her knees into her chest, taking a small sip from the drink.
“Mmmm. That’s good, thank you,” she says, and I nod.
We fall into a comfortable silence, neither of us really knowing what to say.
“Thank you,” I say after a few seconds, looking up from my drink that I haven’t even touched yet, finding her eyes.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she whispers, her arms still wrapped around her legs. A piece of hair falls in front of her face, and I have to fight the urge to brush it away, to place my hand on her cheek and kiss her soft-looking lips.
To thank her for everything that she’s done for me in the last few weeks. To just give in to what I know that we both want.
I know that I shouldn’t be thinking like this, but I can’t help myself. It might be emotions, or the flowers she left downstairs.
But for once, I want to give in to whatever it is I’m feeling.
I want to know if she tastes as good as she looks. How her nails would feel on my back, or tangled in my hair.
I shake my head of my inappropriate thoughts.
“I know that I don’t have to, but I want to.
It’s the first time that anyone has done something for me, outside of the funeral,” I admit.
She tilts her head as she listens to what I have to say.
I’ve never been good with words. But there is things I could think of that would show her how grateful I am, but none of them are appropriate.
She shrugs and tilts her head to the side as she watches me carefully, like she’s trying to figure me out.
We fall into easy conversation, both of us just talking about my dad, sharing our favorite memories of him.
“My favorite memory of him was from when I was probably like eight, maybe nine. We were all at the Fourth of July party, and it was right before the fireworks were supposed to start. It was the first summer I’d really started to put on a noticeable amount of weight.
All the other kids were eating ice cream.
” Her voice cracks, and I watch as her eyes get glassy with tears.
“I reached out to grab one, and Monica smacked my hand away and told me that I’d had plenty of calories for the night.
It was the first time I’d ever felt huge.
The first time I ever wanted to sink down into the earth and never come back.
Lottie giggled at me, took a second ice cream, and Monica didn’t stop her.
She smirked at me and forced me to watch her eat both of them.
” A tear leaks down her face, and she doesn’t even try to stop it.
My heart clenches, anger and sadness warring with each other, because no one should ever be forced to feel that way, especially not at nine years old.
She takes a slow, shaky breath before she continues.
“Everyone had moved down to the grass. As I was getting ready to go join Mason and Kaden, Grandpa grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. We hid in the garage, and we ate ice cream together. He listened to what I had to say, and he never once said anything about my weight. Never stopped me when I reached for a second ice cream. He just smiled and told me jokes that made me laugh so hard I was crying. It was one of the many times he made me feel seen. He was always there for me, no matter what was going on. I have no idea how many hours I spent at his house. How many hours he wasted trying to explain hockey to me, or how many games of checkers we played. He always had a silly jar of suckers, and he never ever stopped me from eating them. He let me eat all the treats I wanted, and he called me beautiful no matter what I looked like. I’m sorry, I have no idea why I’m crying so hard right now,” She whispers, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.
I don’t know how it happens, but before I know it, I’m scooting across the bed and pulling her into my arms. I hold her tight, and she doesn’t fight me; she just hides her face into my chest.
I absentmindedly run my fingertips up and down her back, trying to soothe her.
“Is that the reason for the cherry suckers?” I ask as the pieces slowly start to slip into place.
She takes a few moments to respond. “Yeah, I guess. I don’t allow myself very many treats, with the occasional exception. But there is just something that’s comforting about a sucker. It feels like…”
“Like home,” I whisper, finishing her sentence. She nods.
“Yeah, it feels like home.”
We fall into silence for a few more minutes, neither of us moving or saying a word, and I’m not sure why it feels so good. I shouldn’t want to hold her like this, but I can’t find it in me to pull away, either.
“You remind me a lot of him. In the best ways, you always have. After he died, I didn’t really have a lot of people. But I knew that if I ever needed anything at all, I could call you.”
Her words take me by surprise. “You can always call me.”
“I know,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around me just a little tighter.
I lay us back against her pillows, and she follows me down, both of us snuggling up as if we’ve done it a hundred times. I don’t remember the last time that I ever held someone like this. It’s been a long fucking time.
She rests her head back against my shoulder, and I lay my cheek on top of her head, breathing her in. She starts another story about my dad, something about hockey. The more I listen, the more I realize that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be, even if it’s only for the night.