Chapter 70 Adela
It's a bad day today.
Not a crisis. It’s just one of those days where everything feels slightly off, and nothing goes right.
I got a C on my Political Theory paper — the one I spent two weeks researching.
My shift at the café ran long because someone called in sick.
And now it's raining, the kind of Seattle rain that soaks through your jacket no matter how waterproof it's supposed to be. I should know better than to wear a windbreaker because it’s sticking to my skin, and it’s driving me haywire.
I text Beckett from the bus.
Bad day. Can I come over?
He responds immediately with his address.
Perfect.
I buzz up fifteen minutes later, dripping water all over his building's entrance.
He opens the door on the second floor and looks at me — wet and tired and probably pathetic-looking in his doorway.
He doesn't say anything as he steps back and lets me in.
I've never been here before.
In all the nights he's stayed at my place, all the mornings we've woken up tangled together, I've never seen where he lives.
I look around at the books stacked on the coffee table, the hockey gear by the door, and a blanket on the couch. The kitchen is small but clean. Everything is simple.
He goes to the kitchen without asking if I want anything and starts pouring something into two cups.
I sink onto the couch, pulling the blanket around my shoulders. It smells like him — clean and familiar and grounding.
By the time he brings me the mug, I can already feel my bad day starting to dissolve in the way it always does around Beckett.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
He sits beside me. "Rough day?"
"Just long." I take a sip. "Got a C on my paper. Café was hell. Everything felt off."
He nods and doesn't try to fix it. He listens.
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the rain hitting the window as I sip on my tea.
My phone rings.
Maeve.
I look at it for a moment, guilt twisting in my stomach. I haven't talked to her properly in weeks. I haven't told her half of what's been happening.
Beckett nods at the phone. "Answer."
I do.
"Oh my god, she's alive!" Maeve's voice is immediate and warm and too loud in the quiet of Beckett's apartment.
I laugh. "I'm alive."
"Are you though? Because you've been so quiet and I'm starting to think you've been abducted by aliens or joined a cult or–– oh my god. I know what it is. It’s Cody, isn’t it? You’ve always fallen off the face of the earth when it came to him."
"No, it’s not him. I've just been busy."
"Busy doing what? And don't say school because I know you, Adela Kalkaska, and you're never too busy for me unless something's really wrong."
I glance at Beckett. He's in the kitchen now, giving me space but still present.
"I'm okay," I say. "I promise."
"Are you actually okay?" Maeve's voice softens. "Like genuinely? I've been so worried about your leg and how you're doing after everything."
I watch Beckett as he moves through his kitchen.
"I'm okay," I say again. "Actually okay."
A pause like Maeve doesn't quite believe it but wants to.
"I'm always here, Adela. I won't judge. I really miss having sleepovers at your parents' house. Should we plan something soon? I would love that."
The offer makes my chest tighten.
"Yeah," I say. "We can plan that. A girls' night sounds like something I need."
"Let's try this weekend."
"Okay."
We talk for a few more minutes about nothing important — her classes, our friends, some drama I've completely missed. When we hang up, I feel lighter.
Beckett walks over and kisses my forehead. "Good?"
"Yeah. Good."
Later, we're watching something neither of us is really watching when my mother's name appears on my phone.
"I'm so sorry," I say, already standing. "Everyone's calling me tonight."
"It's fine." Beckett pauses whatever we're pretending to watch. "Take your time."
I answer in the hallway.
"Hi, Mom."
"Hi, sweetheart." Her voice is careful and warm in the way it's been since the hospital. "How are you?"
"I'm fine. How are you?"
"Good. Your father and I were just talking about you."
I lean against the wall, waiting.
"I was in that waiting room a long time," she says quietly.
She said this once before, during my recovery, and I deflected. Changed the subject. Pretended I didn't know what she meant.
I don't deflect this time.
“I want to press charges, Adela––”
"Mom, I know," I say.
“I want her to––”
“Mom, I said no. I said no. You’re going to drop it.”
“But Adela––”
“If you do anything, I will not forgive you.”
“Why are you protecting her? She could hurt someone else. Adela, you could have––”
My mother would never understand, and I don’t need her to. “Mom. I’m not having this conversation again, okay? I said no. You need to drop it.”
"Are you choosing for yourself?" she huffs, changing the subject immediately. "Whatever you're doing, Adela — is it yours? Did you decide it?"
I close my eyes and think about the lake house. Theo. Cody. Beckett.
"Yes," I say. "It's mine. I decided."
My mother is quiet for a moment.
"Okay," she says finally. "That's all I needed to know. I've been worried about you. How is your leg?"
We talk for a few more minutes about ordinary things — physical therapy, classes, whether I'm eating enough. She doesn't ask for details about the men from the waiting room. Doesn't press for explanations about Cody or why I don’t want to press charges against Nessa Rhodes.
"You can always transfer back to Puget Sound and come home," she says softly.
"No, Mom. I'm staying at UW. I want to stay here." I pause. "It's not for Cody. It's for me, okay? I promise. I'm choosing this for myself. And I'm not far from home. I'll be back this weekend."
"I know, sweetheart. I just want to make sure you know you always have options."
After we hang up, I stand in the hallway for a moment.
I think about my mother in that waiting room with three men.
I think about I know more than you think.
I think that my mom has always been smarter than anyone gave her credit for.
When I come back to the living room, Beckett looks up from his phone.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah." I sink back onto the couch beside him. "My mom was just checking in."
"How is she?"
"Good. Worried, but good." I pull the blanket back around my shoulders. "My father's been quiet since the hospital. I don't know if he’s okay."
Beckett nods slowly. "Probably waiting to see what happens next."
"Yeah." I lean my head against his shoulder. "Probably."
We sit like that for a while, the TV still playing something neither of us is watching, the rain still hitting the window.
I feel my eyes getting heavy.
I know I'm falling asleep. I can feel the way my body relaxes into Beckett's side, the way my breathing slows, the way the bad day finally, fully dissolves.
I don't fight it.
Because this is Beckett, and this is exactly what Beckett is.
He’s my comfort, my safety net, and the shoulder I lean my head on when I’ve had a rough day.
And I let myself sleep.