Chapter 30
I google the band Untethered to look up their tour dates.
They’re in Barcelona. Then Paris. Then London.
If Beckett is with Analise in Barcelona, it would be six o’clock in the morning for him.
But he wasn’t with her a few days ago in Brazil.
Fuck it, I tell myself.
I pick up my phone, scroll through my contacts, and hit the green phone symbol next to his name.
I sit up in bed and cross my legs. In front of me are his book and the hacky sack.
It rings.
Twice.
“Hello?” a groggy voice answers.
“Beckett? It’s Melody. I’m sorry it’s late.”
“What time is it?”
“Just after midnight?”
“Oh,” he says. I can hear him stretch. “Okay.” His voice slips away, asking me why I’m calling without saying a word.
“I finished it.”
“You did?”
“Just now.”
“And?”
I sigh. “Is it true?”
“Which part?”
“I don’t know, Beckett. All of it?”
“You were the one who told me that fiction is just the truth, hiding in plain sight.”
“So, is that a yes?”
He’s quiet.
I try a different approach. “Let’s back up. First of all, are you home?”
“Yeah.”
“Is she with you?”
“Ana?” he asks. The nickname cuts me.
“Yeah.”
“She’s in… What day is it? Barcelona, I think.”
“How do you not know where your fiancée is?” I ask.
“Because I’m not there with her.”
“Oh.”
“Mel?” he says.
“Hm?”
“Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?”
“Because,” I reply, “I have questions.”
“Ask away. My life is an open book.”
“Did you really see your dad at the airport?”
“Yes.”
“My God, Beckett,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s old news now.”
“Did you tell your mom?”
“Not right away. But eventually, yes. Once my book got picked up. Since it was in there.”
“And how did that go?”
“It was weird. Not what I expected.”
“How so?”
“Turned out, she already knew.”
“She knew he was…” My voice trailed off.
“Remarried. Yeah. With a son. His name’s Hunter.”
“Wait. So she was keeping it from you?”
“She thought it would hurt me too much.”
“Shit. That’s insane.” I breathed. “Are you okay?”
“I wasn’t. But I’m fine now.”
“Are you and your mom okay?”
I can almost hear him shrug. “This is a lot of questions for the middle of the night.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Especially when I feel like there are more important things that were in the story.”
“Well, your relationship with your dad was pretty important,” I point out.
“It was. A long time ago. But that’s not what the book was about.”
“I know,” I concede.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Are you calling because of what happened with my dad? Or is there something else?”
“I just—I was surprised to learn that happened to you,” I admit.
“Well, it would explain why I wasn’t on the plane.”
“True. But I didn’t know that you weren’t on the plane.”
“Huh?”
“I wasn’t on it either,” I say.
“Wait, what?” he asks. “You weren’t? Did you miss the flight?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Oh. This whole time I thought you were mad at me for not showing up at the airport.”
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t that.”
“Did you get my messages? The ones I sent through your agent?”
“He mentioned that you tried to get in touch. But that was a long time ago.”
“I know—it was after we got back.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Several weeks after.”
“Three days,” he corrects me. “I flew back the 4th instead of the 2nd. And I reached out to you that same day.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Mel—was any of it real to you?” He sounds…exasperated.
“Our time together?” I ask.
“Yes. Did it mean anything to you?”
“Are you kidding me, Beckett? Of course it did.”
“Then what happened?”
I sigh. I have to tell him the truth.
“Please just tell me.”
“Not now. Not like this. I want…”
“Want what?”
“I want to see you,” I say.
“When?” he asks.
“Tomorrow?”
“Okay. Name your time and place.”
“It’s the last day of school,” I add, not that it matters.
“Want to have dinner?”
My heart flutters. I can’t help it.
“I’ll come to you. Just tell me where you want to meet,” he says.
“Portofino. It’s an Italian restaurant. It’s walking distance from the Long Island Rail Road.”
“I don’t live in Long Island anymore, remember?”
“Oh. Right. I forgot.”
“Makes no difference. I’ll find it.”
“Queens Boulevard at Ascan Avenue.”
“7:00 p.m.?” he asks.
“Yeah. I’ll make a reservation,” I say.
“Melody?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
He pauses. “For calling, I guess.”
“See you tomorrow, Beckett.”
“Night, Mel.”
“Bye.” I gulp.
I set the phone on the nightstand, flip the switch on the lamp, and lie down, clutching his book to my chest with one hand and the hacky sack with the other hand.
“You okay?” I hear Mom say.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
“He wrote you a book, Pretty Girl.”
“I guess. But that was a long time ago.”
“Sweetheart?”
“Yeah?”
“I think it’s time you stopped punishing yourself.”