8
Penny
It took me an entire workday of aggressive baking, two batches of burnt muffins, and then a long, hot shower when I got home, most of which was spent sitting on the tiled floor while the water poured over my head, to come to the conclusion that I may have slightly overreacted when Beckett told me he loved me. And now, here I stand, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror with a fluffy white towel wrapped around my body, trying to get out a sequence of words I manage to string together every single day for Molly, Evie and Emma, like some kind of naked lunatic.
But these are for Beckett.
“You’re an idiot,” I say to myself, clutching the knot of the towel between my breasts.
I love him.
I may have freaked out and said some stupid shit, but he knows me. He knows I didn’t mean it…
The man drives me insane, has an oddly obsessive need to always be touching me, and he can’t cook to save his own life, but I love him, and for some reason, he loves me too.
So why can’t I just say it?
Tilting my chin a little higher and looking directly into my own eyes, I do my best to push all other thoughts from my brain. I don’t think about Paige or her messages. I don’t think about the tiffs Beckett, and I have had, or the way I’d just sit there and wait for him to tell me he’d had enough after every single one.
No.
I think about the night I told him about my father. How he looked at me. How he responded, not with pity, but with understanding.
I smile, remembering the day he spent two hours in the kitchen with me, doing the dishes while I made a mess, creating a new triple chocolate muffin recipe.
I think about the time I crashed out on his couch after a huge day at the café, and he scooped me into his arms just before I fell asleep, and whispered, “C’mon, gorgeous. I got ya.”
And suddenly the words come out.
“I love you.”
My shoulders drop, my body relaxes, and I nod to the mirror.
There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?
Three words are not going to turn me into my mother.
Three words will not turn Beckett into my father.
With that thought put out into the universe, I spin around and head to my bedroom.
Thirty minutes later, I’m standing at the front door, mumbling to myself while running through my mental ‘leaving the house’ checklist, dressed in a pair of black bike shorts and an oversized light blue graphic Tee, because if I’m going to apologise, and drop the L word, all in one conversation, I’m going to be comfortable while doing it.
“Keys, phone, purse, note! Note, note, note…” I whisper while rummaging through the drawer of the antique, Queen Anne style entry way table, that Evie decided to paint bright yellow. I grab a pen and the first scrap piece of paper I can find, which just happens to be the receipt for the fifty dollars’ worth of Chinese food Evie and I ordered last week, and I place it down to scribble out a message for her to find when she gets home from her date.
GONE OUT.
WILL BE HOME FOR MOVIE NIGHT.
SO MUCH TO TELL YOU!
xxx
I toss the pen back into the open drawer, nudge it shut with my hip, and grab the bright pink photo frame sitting beside the note, planning to use it as a paper weight so the damn thing doesn’t blow away when Evie opens the front door.
I pause for a moment, my eyes lingering on the photo held within the frame.
Molly, Evie, Emma, and I are all sitting, huddled together on an old picnic blanket at the duck pond down the road, smiling up at the camera.
I can still remember the way the older woman we got to take the photo rolled her eyes at us when we asked her for one more.
The bitch .
We all look so damn happy, and the realisation makes me wonder why I’m the only one out of the three of us that still seems to be affected by the past.
I’ve let my dad leaving me, leaving us , shape my entire life, and yet the two other women in this photo have experienced far worse than I ever have, and look at them…
Molly has a kid . She’s been abandoned by every male figure in her life, and somehow, she’s moved on from that. She trusts Ryan with not only herself, but with Emma, and while I think that’s stupid because Ryan’s a fucking idiot that somehow can’t see that his ‘friend’, Jess, who followed him down here from Melbourne, is a lunatic, she’s happy. They’re happy…
And Evie… shit. If anyone had a reason to question the intentions of every person they met, it’d be Evie, but instead of doing that, she welcomes everyone with opens arms and a bright smile. She is so ready to fall in love that she started a social media account to document her dating journey. The Serial First Dater has a ridiculous number of followers, and Evie enjoys each and every date she goes on. I’ve yet to see her go on a second, but that’s only because she’s picky as hell, as she should be, and she’s waiting for ‘the one’.
I’m the odd one out.
The one that can’t just let it go .
The overly competitive, stubborn part of me can’t have that, so with newfound enthusiasm, I place the frame back on the table, weighing down my note, and I walk out of my house with intent.
Time to go get my man.
“Found you. You sneaky bastard,” I say out loud as I eye the floor to ceiling windows that make up the storefront of Inked on Agnes . While the neon sign hanging above the door, which is normally a vibrant green, is not illuminated to signal that the shop is open, Beckett’s Subaru is parked right out front, so I know he’s here.
Even though I’m the one coming to apologise, he’s still going to cop an earful about the amount of exercise I’ve done in the past hour, walking from my place to his, and then from there to here after realising he wasn’t home.
I will never again decide that ‘fresh air’ is better than driving.
It’s not.
As I approach the entrance, I can hear the faint sound of music coming from inside, and I pause with my hand flat against the door as the same uneasy feeling that’s been stirring in my gut since I left Beckett’s place in search of him intensifies.
He’ll forgive me. He has to, and if the speech I practiced on the way over here isn’t enough, Plan B is a blow job, so surely one of the two will straighten things out.
“You’ve got this,” I whisper to my reflection in the glass before taking a deep breath and letting myself in.
The lyrics to “The Meadows” by Dear Seattle become clear, and while the music is so loud that the sound of the doorbell is barely audible, the song enhances the vibe of this place as you take it all in.
Inked on Agnes is immaculately decorated in an almost grungy kind of way, but it also has this edge of sophistication given the hand carved front counter, the expensive leather couch and the black pendant lights hanging from the ceiling.
I smile as I walk further into the main room, my phone in one hand and the strap of my handbag in the other. Ryan’s sketches hang proudly above the couch, and my favourite, the one of Emma, sits right in the centre of them all. I take a moment to appreciate the tiny details of her face, that he’s so perfectly captured on paper, and then a noise, muffled by the music, catches my attention.
I turn toward the direction it came from, down the hall, and I open my mouth to call out, to let Beckett know that I’m here, but something stops me. So, instead, I stand there, perfectly still, and I hold my breath to try to hear something, anything, through the breaks between lyrics, but it’s impossible. That is, until the song stops entirely, and the shop goes silent.
“Tell me you missed my pussy.” It’s a woman’s voice, and it’s coming from the room closest to me. From Beckett’s room…
I try my best to rationalise what I’m hearing. Maybe is the beginning of the next song. A weird, recorded intro or something. Maybe…
Well, hell, maybe he’s fucking someone right now.
“He wouldn’t,” says one side of my brain. “Yes, he would,” says the other.
Maybe it’s Ryan and Molly, who just decided Beckett’s room was the best place to mess around.
Maybe someone’s broken in and… decided to have sex in a tattoo studio?
That sounds like fun, right?
A high-pitched moan that sounds nothing like Molly echoes through the shop again, and then all my maybes disappear.
“Oh, please, Beckett ,” she whines.
My heart stops. It physically hurts, aches, to the point it makes me gasp for air. Needing something to hold me up, I stumble over to the front counter, toss my phone and bag onto the wooden surface, and lean against it for support.
“You bastard,” I whisper, my eyes beginning to sting. “You fucking bastard.”
The lack of music now makes the sound of whimpering and panting much easier to hear.
A normal person would leave or barge in there and lose their shit, but not me. No. I force myself to close my eyes, and to listen, because something inside of me is just self-destructive enough to want to burn the sound of the man I love fucking someone else into my brain so that I will never, ever , forget why I don’t do this again.
“You’re such an idiot, Penny.”
I drop my forehead against the counter and huff out a sad laugh while internally scolding myself for allowing this to happen.
I stood in front of the damn mirror and practiced saying I love you, for fuck’s sake.
For what? For him ? For this ?
I should have known how this was going to play out.
“Please,” the woman begs, her voice breathy and low, and I almost laugh again. At her, at me. At this situation.
This is exactly what happens when you trust someone not to hurt you, not to find something newer, shinier, more exciting to play with.
This is what happens when you fall in love.
This is why I couldn’t lay my shit bare the way Beckett did earlier today.
Because I knew. On some level, I knew.
She moans again, over and over, and I die a little more every time.
The lid of a bottle catches my attention from the other side of the counter, so I stand on my toes and peer over to find a half empty bottle of vodka.
“That’ll do,” I say out loud.
After swiping the bottle and unscrewing the top with shaky hands, I take a sip and cringe as the vile liquid washes away the taste her voice has left in my mouth.
I’m a tequila girl for a reason, it seems.
“I’m so close,” she whimpers. I snort around the rim and chug more down, needing not to feel everything I’m feeling right now.
It hurts. So. Fucking. Bad.
And I let it. Alcohol does nothing to ease the ache in my chest, but the burn as it goes down feels great.
Suddenly, a loud thud comes from the room, followed closely by Beckett’s voice, booming down the hall. “Enough!” he barks. “Get the fuck out of here.”
Jesus. That’s not very gentlemanly.
“You’re a fucking asshole!” the woman screeches back, and I can’t help but smile, the alcohol now coursing through my veins, allowing me to find a little humour in this situation.
She sure changed her tune real quick.
Beckett laughs at her. Laughs at her, and I’m confused. Is this some kind of weird sex game that I haven’t played before?
“What the fuck did you think was going to happen? You’d come here, we’d fuck, and I’d just forget everything?” he asks.
As I try to wrap my head around what he just said, I hear footsteps approaching, so I place the bottle of vodka on the counter, widen my stance, and hold my head high.
She is the first one to reach my line of sight. Her slicked back, blonde bun is still perfectly styled, but the fabric of her dark grey, fitted dress is hiked up so high on her hips that I’m sure I could see her vag if I bent down just a little.
At first, I don’t recognise her, but then she lifts her head, and our eyes meet, and it all clicks together. Paige .
Well, well, well.
I expect her to look ashamed, or at the very least, a little embarrassed that I’m standing here within earshot of the room she just emerged from, but instead, she looks me up and down and then grins.
Fucking grins at me.
The self-restraint it takes not to slap that smug smile right off her face…
She tugs at her dress, and the expensive fabric falls down her thighs and into place without a crease. Seconds later, Beckett emerges, head down, his white t-shirt wrinkled, and his belt undone, hanging on either side of his open fly.
Unsure what else to do, I begin to slow clap, and he stops right beside her as the sound of my palms connecting echoes around the room.
He looks shell-shocked, his body rigid and tense. Paige looks the opposite. She looks victorious. The glint in her eyes tells me this is exactly what she wanted.
“Ah, this is her , is it?” she asks Beckett, feigning boredom as she once again looks me up and down.
“Go,” Becketts voice booms a second later.
I can’t look at him, so I watch her instead as she drops the smirk and turns to him.
“Beckett, I think we should talk,” she whispers, as if I can’t hear her from right here.
I can feel his eyes on me, burning my skin, as he once again says, “Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
Surprisingly, she doesn’t put up a fight. She huffs, looks at me, then back at him, and then stomps her way across the room to the exit.
The sound of her heels hitting the floor pounds through my head as Beckett stares at me and I stare at the wall behind him.
“Penny,” he says once she’s gone. His voice is low and rough, and my heart clenches in response. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” I repeat back to him, moving my gaze from the wall to his red-rimmed eyes, my voice rising with every word. “What am I fucking doing here? What are you doing here?”
“I…” He frowns and looks away for a moment, as if trying to remember. Slowly, realisation spreads across his face, and then his wide eyes meet mine.
That’s right.
I. Heard. Everything.
“Go on then,” I say, doing my best to control the emotion in my voice. “ Explain .”
“I didn’t. It wasn’t-”
“If you say it wasn’t what it looked like , I swear to God, I will punch you in the throat. Surely you can think of something better than that. You’re creative!”
He steps forward, a little unsteady on his feet. “I didn’t fuck her. I swear. I just…” He shakes his head and looks behind him, at the doorway to his room. As he does, the shadow that was cast along his neck shifts, and I see it; the large dark mark just above his collar bone. I glare at it and then at him, feeling my self-control pull tighter and tighter to the point of snapping.
Oh, this hurts.
I take three steps forward, place both hands on his chest, channel every ounce of pain I’m feeling, and shove him as hard as I can. He stumbles back, just a little, but damn, it feels good. “You have a fucking hickey on your neck, you piece of shit! Don’t fucking lie to me. Don’t you look at me and fucking lie. You told me you loved me hours ago , and now, here you are, screwing your ex-fiancé in your shop. Real goddamn hygienic, by the way.”
I may have very quickly crossed into hysterical territory, but who cares? Screw him and this. I’m allowed to be hysterical.
Immediately, he places a hand on his neck, but he picks the wrong side, so the mark is still perfectly visible.
“Say something!” I scream.
But he doesn’t. He just stands there, clutching his neck, looking down at me, eyes glazed.
“Why?” I ask, hating how weak I sound right now, unable to keep my voice from cracking as the lump in my throat continues to grow.
I’m not expecting venom, or any kind of anger from Beckett, so when he narrows his bloodshot eyes at me and barks, “You left me,” I flinch. The words hit like an actual strike. “You left me . I told you I loved you, and you left. Walked out on me, and now you’re standing here accusing me of what? Cheating? You made it real damn clear that we weren’t together, Penny. I got the fucking message when you slammed my own goddamn door in my face.”
“The fuck we weren’t! What is this? An episode of Friends ? I freaked because you told me you loved me, and I get it, my reaction wasn’t what you were after, but instead of just giving me some time and space, you went out and found the first person available to fuck your misery away! WHO DOES THAT?”
“You-”
“And also!” I snap, “If you wanted to be with me so badly, you should have told me so when I asked! You chose to show me those messages instead of-”
“I thought you were going to freak out and bail on me after I showed you! Fuck! I didn’t want-”
“WELL GOOD THING I SAVED MY REAL FREAK OUT FOR WHEN YOU FUCKED HER THEN, HUH?” I scream the words so loudly that my ears ring.
The room falls silent, and we both just stand there, staring at each other, our chests heaving in unison.
“I… I thought…” he begins, shaking his head at me as if he can’t believe what’s happening right in front of him. “You left-”
“Fine! I left! And it took you a whole of what?” I pause and look down at the imaginary watch on my wrist. “Fourteen hours to stick your dick somewhere else! In someone else!”
He takes a deep breath and runs a hand down his face and through his stubble before lowering his voice and speaking. “I didn’t... I just wanted to get loaded and draw. Paint. Whatever. I was sad. Angry. That fight was brutal, Pen. I just, I needed a minute, and then Paige showed up-”
“Well, wasn’t that convenient?” I hiss, bile sitting at the back of my throat. “You were sad, and horny, and your ex’s vagina just magically appeared for you to fall into.”
“We didn’t-”
“I don’t believe you!” You’d think by now I’d have lost my voice, but it’s still going strong.
“Penny.” His eyes bounce back and forth between mine, pleading with me to listen.
“Fuck you!” I scream, picking up the bottle of vodka I abandoned earlier and throwing it directly at his head.
He manages to dodge it, and the bottle hits the wall behind him instead, shattering into a million pieces.
I can relate.
I loved you, you bastard.
With a raised chin and a clenched jaw, I look at him, really look at him, one last time, and then I use every ounce of energy I have left inside of me to steel my spine.
I can’t prevent the tear in my left eye from breaking free when I blink, but I do my best to pretend like it doesn’t exist. He doesn’t miss it, though.
“Fuck, baby. Don’t cry,” he says, moving closer. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Well, shit. I guess it’s all good then, huh?”
“Penny,” he pleads, his eyes now watering too. “Please…”
I stand there for a moment, looking from him to the broken shards of glass now littering the floor, before my fight or flight instinct kicks in, and I turn around so quickly that it makes my head spin. I grab my phone and my purse and head for the door.
“Don’t,” Beckett yells, his heavy footsteps gaining on me as I cross the room. “Don’t leave again.”
Yeah, okay.
I tug open the door and allow the breeze to push past me and into the shop. The warmth of the air does nothing to thaw my ice-cold skin.
“Penny,” Beckett calls again, just as I step out of the shop and my shoe makes contact with the concrete. “Just- Fuck! Just wait!”
I don’t stop, and each time he calls out my name, my composure breaks a little more. By the time I reach the sidewalk, my vision is blurred, my face is wet, and my chest is aching so badly I’m half convinced I’m having a heart attack.
“Penny!” he calls out, his voice breaking.
I hope he’s in as much pain as I am. I hope it fucking kills him.
When I hear him curse, and something else inside the building smash, it takes every ounce of will power I have left to continue putting one foot in front of the other, and as the sound of his voice, and everything else fades away, I only have one thought.
I am my mother’s daughter.