Chapter 55
Fifty-Five
I’m halfway through reorganizing my cutlery drawer for absolutely no reason when my front door swings open.
No knock or warning. Celeste chose violence this afternoon.
“Hello to you too, my dear friend,” I call to her as she strides into the kitchen. “You have a key for emergencies. You know that, right?”
“This is an emergency. You didn’t make brunch.”
Right. Brunch.
I cough. It’s a terrible fake cough, but I texted them this morning with this excuse, so it’s the best I’ve got. “I told you. I’m sick.”
“Bullshit.”
I narrow my eyes. “What crawled up your ass?”
“Emmy’s got something with the kids, so she couldn’t make this intervention.”
I freeze. “Intervention? Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“Celeste, I’ve had the week from hell.”
“I know,” she says, and that softness in her voice makes me immediately defensive.
“So I really don’t need—”
“How’s Beckett?”
The words hit the floor between us.
I drop my gaze to the counter because I’m suddenly very interested in a scratch in the granite.
Silence stretches.
“Madison.”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Because you’re self-sabotaging.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Beckett. You’re shutting him out.”
“No—”
She raises her eyebrows. “Don’t even try to deny it. We’ve been here, Madi. Remember?”
I inhale slowly.
“We’ve seen what it’s like for you when your mother breaks,” she continues gently. “Christ, we see what it’s like when she’s healthy. You are constantly in fight or flight.”
“I am not—”
“No.” Her voice sharpens. “You’re going to listen to me right now. I love you, and you’re going to listen.”
That shuts me up.
It physically hurts to see her looking at me like that. Like she’s scared for me and tired of watching me brace for impact.
“Me and Emmy know you better than anyone,” she says. “But there are parts of you not even we have seen. And that’s okay. You don’t owe us every layer of you. But lately… God, lately, we’ve seen you smile.”
“I always smile.”
“Not like this.”
I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat.
“You deserve something for you, Madi.”
I look at the floor, at the wall, anywhere but at her.
“Can you answer something for me?”
I finally meet her eyes.
“You don’t have to tell me. You don’t even have to say it out loud. But answer yourself honestly. How does he really make you feel?”
I hate that my brain doesn’t hesitate.
Instead, it instantly shows me him.
Beckett in my parents’ kitchen, calmly taking control while my mother unraveled.
Beckett standing close in my hallway on one of his check-ins, asking me if I’d eaten.
His hand on the small of my back when I didn’t realize I was shaking.
The way he looks at me like I’m not too much. Like I’m not a project or a problem to solve.
The way he lets me win arguments sometimes because he knows I need to feel steady.
The way he doesn’t flinch when I snap.
The way he doesn’t leave.
I scrub at my cheek and realize there’s a tear there.
Traitor.
I let out a laugh that sounds nothing like me. “He makes me feel…” I shake my head once, incredulous. “He makes me feel soft.” I whisper it, as if saying it too loudly might make it true.
Celeste tilts her head, a small smile tugging at her mouth.
“Soft, Celeste,” I repeat. “For fuck’s sake. I’ve been giggling. Me. Giggling.”
She snorts.
“I can show him those parts of me, and he won’t use it against me.”
That’s the thing I don’t say out loud most days. In my job, softness gets eaten alive. You show a crack, and someone pushes.
I’ve built a life on being sharp.
Soft isn’t a survival skill.
“And I can be the strong version of me too,” I add, because I need that on record. “He doesn’t make me smaller.” I rub my lips together, searching for the right word. “He makes me feel like… like…”
“An equal?” she supplies gently.
My chest tightens.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “Yeah.”
He feels steady.
He feels safe.
He feels like someone standing beside me instead of across from me.
And he scares me so much.
“Feels amazing, doesn’t it?” Celeste says.
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I nod.
She steps forward and wraps her arms around me. I let her, which is how I know I’m really unwell.
“You are not selfish for choosing yourself,” she murmurs into my hair. “You’re allowed to have something that’s just yours. You’re allowed to be happy.”
I close my eyes.
Soft.
Christ.
What am I supposed to do with that?