Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Madison
I am, for lack of a more professional term, delightfully toasted.
Beckett is sprawled on the other end of the leather sofa, his long legs stretched out with his ankles crossed on the coffee table. He showered and changed into a fresh T-shirt that’s tight enough across the shoulders to be a distraction.
But the best part? Talking to him is easy.
My perception of men has become warped and defensive over the years.
Usually, I’m doing one of two things: overcompensating with a sharp tongue and a power suit to show a room full of suits that I’m the smartest person in the room, or I’m shrinking.
I’m making myself smaller on dates, softening my edges, dampening my light so I don’t bruise some guy’s fragile ego with my “intensity.”
With Beckett, I’m just Madison. I’m the woman who plays knock-and-run with kids and the woman who wants to be pressed against a kitchen counter. I’m a mess of control and softness, and he hasn’t blinked at either. It’s scary as hell. It’s also the best thing I’ve felt in years.
We’ve spent the last few hours dissecting the ridiculousness of our lives.
He told me about a residency prank involving a cadaver and a stolen golf cart that had me nearly choking.
I told him about the time I had to convince a senator that his “accidental” midnight skinny-dip was actually a bold statement on water conservation.
We laughed until my ribs ached, and for a while, the looming disaster of Piper’s life felt like something I could actually handle. I haven’t solved it yet, but the static in my brain has cleared.
I set my empty takeout container on the table with a satisfied hum. Beside me, Beckett does the same. He shifts and turns toward me, one arm draped over the back of the couch.
“So,” he says. “What makes the Shmiper situation so personal for you?”
I lean my head back against the cushion, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above us. I can feel his gaze on the side of my face. I look over at him, then quickly back at the TV, which is currently muted on some cooking show.
“Hypothetically?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips.
I take a breath, the tequila giving me just enough courage to pull back the curtain. “I’m loud, Doc. I know I am. I’m opinionated, I’m fast, and I don’t apologize for taking up space. It’s how I survived my childhood, and it’s how I built my career.”
I trace the rim of my glass with my thumb. “But back in college, I met someone. He was older—a professor in the political science department. Sharp and very, very sure of himself. I thought he was the sun, and I was just lucky to be in his orbit.”
I swallow hard, the memory tasting like ash.
“He didn’t like the noise. He’d tell me my laugh was too piercing for a dinner party.
He’d tell me my ambition was just a mask for insecurity.
He didn’t tell me to be quiet, not in so many words.
He just made me feel like the best version of me was the one that stayed in the background.
The one that nodded and looked pretty and kept her mouth shut. ”
I finally look at Beckett. He’s watching me with an intensity that makes the air feel thick.
“I became quiet. I spent two years shrinking myself until I barely recognized the girl in the mirror. I let him talk me out of an internship in D.C. because it would have been ‘too much stress’ for our relationship.”
I think of Piper, of her violin sitting in its case, of the concert she just threw away for a man who wants her to be his shadow.
“So, when I see her doing it? When I see her letting him dim her light because he’s too small to handle how bright she is? It’s not just about her. It’s about the fact that I know exactly how that silence feels. And I know how long it takes to find your voice again once you’ve given it away.”
I let out a shaky breath, feeling more exposed than I had when I was naked in his shower earlier. “I just don’t want her to wake up one day and realize she’s become a stranger to herself.”
Beckett doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just reaches out and slides his hand behind my neck. He tugs gently, forcing me to keep meeting his eyes.
“You’re not quiet now,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin behind my ear.
“No,” I whisper. “I’m definitely not.”
“Good,” he says, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “Because I like the noise. Every single bit of it.”