Chapter 3
Ellery
Whenmy eyes finally crack open, morning sunlight is streaming through my bedroom window. I can’t remember the last time I slept as long. Or as soundly.
My stomach rumbles a reminder that I also slept through dinner.
“All right, all right,” I mutter, slipping out of bed.
Across the room, I start to rummage through whatever clothes are in my dresser. Partly for the nostalgia, but mostly so I don’t have to deal with my luggage.
Simon’s high school football jersey is hidden under a pile of my old t-shirts, unearthed as I sift through them for something to wear. My hand pauses when it touches the soft material. A smile pulls at my lips.
After he graduated, I was forever borrowing Simon’s jersey and he was forever making me give it back. At some point, he must have realized it wasn’t worth the effort.
Pulling the garment out, I head into the bathroom. The thought of a steamy shower is honestly the only thing keeping my legs in motion at this point.
That and the promise of coffee.
I take my time going through all the motions to make myself feel human. Shower. Dry off. Slip into my favorite pair of leggings. Tug the jersey over my head.
Now, my body is completely focused on the impending caffeine rush. I move on autopilot down to the kitchen, zombie-shuffling toward the coffee machine and the promise of a sweet, reviving brew. Thank god Simon splurged on one of those large, expensive models after the old one died.
He may be more of a caffeine addict than me.
When the machine powers on and the heavenly scent of fresh ground coffee fills the air, I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning out loud. Behind me, someone shuffles around. I hear the faucet turn on briefly, then the clink of a dish as it is loaded into the dishwasher.
“Gotta say, big brother,” I quip, “you have seriously upped your barista game.” I open a cabinet door over the machine and rummage for my favorite coffee mug. “Not sure what heavenly ambrosia you put in this thing, but it smells amazing.”
“Thank you.”
Those two words are spoken by a man who is most definitely not Simon. I freeze in place. My mind, however, is firing on all cylinders.
Because—oh, god.
I know that voice.
An imposing figure steps toward me and reaches into the cabinet over my head. He gently closes the cabinet door, and suddenly I am staring up into the intense, glacial blue eyes of Beckham James—Simon’s closest childhood friend.
Star of all of my childhood and adult fantasies.
The man who disappeared like smoke from my life as soon as I was old enough to stand on my own two feet.
Who broke my young heart in the process.
“Hello, Ellery.”
My brain short-circuits when he says my name. His voice is smooth and rich. Better than the most decadent chocolate. It takes me several seconds of staring like a deer in headlights to realize he is holding something toward me. I look down. When I notice the porcelain cup in his grip—the one I had been looking for—a flush steals over my cheeks.
Of course, he remembers something as arbitrary as my favorite coffee mug. He always was way too observant.
Quiet as ever, too. He just stands there and watches me try and compose myself. There is a faint look of amusement on his face when I jolt into motion and grab the mug.
“Thanks,” I say—because where Beckham is quiet, I always need to fill silence with chatter.
Especially when I am nervous.
And Beckham makes me nervous.
“Simon failed to mention that we had visitors,” I say, starting to ramble. “Not that you’re just a visitor. Of course, you aren’t. But, I had no idea anyone else was here. That is you. Though, I guess I did just get here, so he wouldn’t have had time to say anything. He could have said something before I got here, but you know how oblivious he is.”
Ellery. Stop. Talking.
But I can’t seem to get my mouth to cooperate.
“When did you get back? Are you staying here at the house? I mean, I guess you are since, here you are, standing in our kitchen. Are you here for a while? No deployments or anything?”
Beckham’s lips twitch like he is fighting off a grin at my sudden word vomit.
Mylips press together to keep anything else from spilling out.
I am blushing and suddenly, painfully aware of how I must look. My face is free of makeup. My damp hair is starting to curl and frizz. And don’t get me started on these old, frumpy clothes. Feeling self-conscious, I turn away and press a series of buttons to start the coffee drip. The machine whirs to life.
Eventually—and reluctantly—I return my attention to Beckham.
“No deployment,” he says, settling on one of my many questions to answer. “No more military, either. I’m just your average civilian now.”
“Wait. Really?”
He watches me with a curious expression on his face. Suddenly it hits me why: because I should have known he got out of the military. I should have known that he was living back home.
I had no clue. All the times Simon and I have talked over the years, he never once said a thing. He never mentioned Beckham to me at all.
And, to be honest, I never asked.
“Wow, I…” My words falter. It takes me a minute to process. “That’s a surprise. I know the military was always your dream.”
“Yeah, well. Life happens. Dreams change.”
Pain flashes across his face before his expression shutters, so fast that I almost miss it. But I don’t. Because I am watching him quietly while his words sink in. Wanting to ask him why. Holding myself back because I don’t feel like I have the right.
Beckham notices—because, of course, he does—and sighs. “Mission went wrong a couple of years back. Some of my team got injured, including me. One man died. It was…” He shakes his head and breathes out heavily. “I needed out after that.”
The guilt pouring off of him could drown a man.
Oh, Beckham…
Everything in me wants to give him some small measure of comfort, to wrap my arms around him. But I don’t move—I can’t. Then the moment is lost.
Instead, I say, “So you got out a couple of years ago. When did you move back home?”
“Last year.”
“…and you’re still living with Simon?” I let out a low whistle. “You must have the patience of a saint.”
Beckham chuckles. The lingering tension in the air dissipates. He relaxes against the counter with one hip, crossing his arms.
“I was looking for a place,” he admits, “but decided to custom build. Simon has graciously let me crash here until construction finishes. Beats dealing with a rental.”
“No kidding.”
Instead of peppering him with questions like I desperately want to, I hold my tongue and focus on finishing my coffee. The machine dings. Beckham’s gaze caresses me while I methodically go through each motion. Pour the creamer. Add the sugar. Stir. Then I take a fortifying sip of the steaming liquid.
“Still drinking sugar with a side of coffee, I see.” Humor laces his words.
My nose wrinkles. “I need about a pound of both to function this morning.”
“Long drive?”
“Eight hours, give or take. Then I passed out.”
“One thing I don’t miss about military life: the never-ending travel.”
Beckham moves to make his own cup—black, of course. Then I watch as he absently starts to drum his fingers against the ceramic. The action is a familiar one. Something he always used to do when he was feeling unsure or uncomfortable.
My throat tightens at the realization that I am the cause. That we have no idea how to act towards one another.
Everything about this moment is awful. Being around Beckham used to be as easy as breathing. I hate how different he feels now. I hate this awkward silence.
But, most of all, I hate how we’ve become little more than strangers.