Chapter Seventeen Deeply. Desperately. Hopelessly. #2
“How would Ava know how to be a good person if you’re not? She gets it from you.”
“Nah, that’s all from her mom.”
“What was she like?” Beverly asks, quickly adding, “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Ava squirms, as if this conversation is suddenly too boring. It would almost be comical if it didn’t hurt. She’ll want to talk about Robin one day, but for now, I set her back on the carpet. She snatches her red toy car—far more interesting than adult talk.
“Sorry” rushes out of Beverly. “You don’t have to talk about her. I was just curious.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.
She’s…Robin was lovely. She wasn’t bothered by anything in life.
And she wasn’t intimidated by me. One time she told me, ‘You’re not special, Harv.
You just work hard. But that’s better, I think.
’ She talked to me like I was a person—not some famous guy.
And she laughed loud, y’know?” A small smile twitches at the corner of my mouth.
“I like the way you talk about her,” Beverly says.
“There’s no other way to describe her. She lived every day like an opportunity to explore something new.”
“That sounds amazing.” Beverly’s voice has grown dreamy. “There’s a lot of things I’ve never done.”
“Like?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never owned a hit children’s show.”
“Yet,” I amend. “What else haven’t you done?”
“What about you?” she volleys back.
“I’ve never…hmm. I don’t know. I’ve done a lot, Beverly. I won’t lie. I got my start in bars. Got way too drunk every night and embarrassed myself too much. Did a lot of things I’ll never remember and a lot of things I’ll never forget.”
“Interesting.”
“Are you judging me?” I joke.
“No!” Her eyes widen. “No. I just…you’re not alone in that. I’ve done stuff I’m not proud of too. Maybe not the same, but I get it.”
“I find it hard to believe you’ve ever been arrested.”
She gasps. “Have you?”
“Shoplifting,” I answer. “I stole an ashtray once.”
“Thief.”
I shrug. “It was pretty, and I was a sixteen-year-old rebel. Honestly, that was kind of a trend.”
“Did you even smoke?” Beverly asks.
“Like a chimney.”
“Really?”
“What about you?” I ask. “Any arrests?”
She freezes, then raises her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “Uh…no, not really.”
I pause. Her eyes avoid mine.
“Go on,” I coax.
Beverly bites her lip. “I’ve only gotten in deep trouble one time. I was suspended from a school play. My senior play. Last one. It was devastating.”
“Why?”
“I…me and…Beau—”
“The butt.”
She huffs out a laugh at my jab, but it fades to a groan.
“What happened, Bev?”
“Well…we had”—she glances at Ava, then censors—“S-E-X in the sound booth. And got caught.”
My lips twitch, and she gives me a sheepish smile—the one with her beautiful pink cheeks growing pinker by the second.
“Beverly Alice Lark.”
“We were eighteen and reckless. So I got suspended and didn’t perform in my very last high school production.”
“I’m sure they missed their golden boy, too, huh?”
“Oh, no. He was the lead in the play that year, so he didn’t get in a lot of trouble. They couldn’t afford to lose their Seymour in Little Shop of Horrors.”
And just as quickly as I was intrigued, I’m irritated. I scoff.
“Stop,” she says. “Like you’ve never done anything like that.”
But it’s not the deed I’m judging, and she knows that. It’s disdain over Beau, always getting whatever he wants, despite Beverly drawing the short straw. Why does every story about them turn out that way?
I watch her expression shift to a more painful one. She clearly doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, so I won’t make her.
I change the subject. “So, you never told me about what you want to do,” I say. “The adventurous thing you’ve never done.”
“You’ve had enough adventures for the both of us.”
“I’ve left that lifestyle behind me,” I say, shifting uncomfortably on the bench seat. “Tours aren’t what they were years ago. Not for me, anyway.”
I was a different man in my twenties. I’m not proud of it. I’ve had flings backstage, in the bed of a truck, and in a pool with the tiled stairs grinding into my spine as a wild brunette rode me like a bronco.
Does Beverly think of me as that reckless musician I once was? That maybe I’m just as bad as Beau, getting women into trouble and leaving without consequences? Does she think that’s what happened with Robin?
Beverly blinks at me, chewing her bottom lip. I wonder if she can read my mind right now.
Instead, she smiles. “Wow, you’re so serious, Griffin.”
“I’m not always serious.”
“You’re even serious about this conversation.”
“Well, it’s a very serious conversation.”
“But you’re serious about everything,” she says. “That’s my point.”
I tongue my cheek and shrug. “Not everything.”
“Name one thing.”
“Well, I’m living in a guesthouse with my secret daughter to make music for a children’s-show puppeteer while criminally behind on an album deadline.” Her lips curl in, holding back a laugh. “I’ve never been more unserious in my life.”
She smiles. “Fair enough.”
“So,” I continue. “Tell me something. Your secret adventure you want that nobody else knows.”
“You’re gonna laugh.”
“I never laugh.”
That only makes her stifle laughter.
“Seriously. Don’t,” she says.
“I would never.”
She sighs. “Skinny-dipping. I’ve always wanted to go skinny-dipping.”
My eyes widen, and I nod slowly. My mind is suddenly processing everything that entails: Beverly’s bare shoulders, the smooth skin across her arms, the way her collarbones glisten with droplets of water—
“You’re making fun of me,” she says, slouching.
“I’m not. But…” I shake the crude thoughts from my head. “That’s almost like a rite of passage as a teenager. Why haven’t you?”
“I was too busy. Or maybe not cool enough to be invited,” she adds with a self-deprecating laugh.
“Invited? Was this a common occurrence?”