Chapter 14—Beck
On the cab ride back to the office, I chuffed out an unamused laugh at how wrong things had gone in my trying to tell Birdie that I still loved her. That’s what I got for trying to push things ahead instead of sticking with just being friends. But I’d been so shocked when she’d asked me to lunch that I got ahead of myself.
“Jesus,” I mumbled pulling my phone from my pocket. I still had her number from two years ago, and it was a longshot that she’d kept it, but it was worth a try. Dialing the number, I heard it go to a default automated voicemail message. All right, I’d text then since she didn’t want to speak to me.
Text Message—Fri, Jan 6, 12:49 p.m.
Me: I’m sorry. Nothing I said came out right. I meant being away from YOU was like a living death. Everything I said, I was talking about you…
When she didn’t answer after several minutes, giving up, I started to put my phone away when it buzzed.
Text Message—Fri, Jan 6, 12:55 p.m.
Birdie: That was all romantic and shit, but I think you have the wrong #
Me: Is this Birdie?
Birdie: Nope. You got Jason here
Me: Oh. Sorry about that
Birdie: No problem. Good luck getting her back, man
Me: Thanks
I guessed if Birdie and I couldn’t patch things up, Jason and I could become pals. Fuck.
The rest of the ride, thoughts ping-ponged around inside my head as I tried figuring shit out. I knew I needed to talk to Birdie right away, explain everything and let her know how I felt about her. Not that I thought she’d fall into my arms and suddenly everything would be perfect between us. No, there was a lot we had to talk about, a great deal of hurt and betrayal that had to be addressed, but for now, I just needed her to know. I mean, shit. I’d held it in for two years, denying my feelings for her while trying to make things work with Sonya. And that made me sound like a goddamned flake. But I’d be damned if I was going to continue feeling guilty any longer since Sonya and Grant the Tech Guy had started their fling long before I’d even given Birdie a second thought. But I felt I had to get everything out and explain things to her, or I’d go crazy. For the past several days when I’d been avoiding her, I’d found myself falling back into denial mode—the same mode I’d employed for the past two years—hoping that what I felt would magically go away which was fucking distressing. When my feelings hadn’t disappeared, I’d gotten sick of keeping it all inside and decided she needed to know now.
Ping-fucking-pong.
But after all the ruminating, I found I was prepared for whatever she had to say. If she still loved me and there was a chance for us, halle-fucking-lujah. If not, at least she’d know how I felt and I’d walk away having laid it all out there.
Damn. Look at me, adulting and shit.
At the office, I didn’t stop to take my coat off and headed right for the boardroom, but as I got closer, I saw it was empty.
“Hey, Beck,” Joel called. I turned to see him walking toward me. “I hear congratulations are in order. Fulton told me about the COO position. Good for you.” He grinned as he shook my hand and clapped me on the shoulder with his other hand. “Always like to see Fleishman promoting from the inside.”
“Thanks, Joel.” I nodded toward the boardroom. “Hey, you haven’t seen Birdie, have you?”
“She called and said she had some work to do at her office but she’d be back here on Monday.” He shrugged. “You and your wife got big plans for the weekend?”
“Just going to see an apartment tomorrow,” I disclosed. I’d been using the company’s broker, which he’d recommended and the company was paying for, which was cool, and had narrowed down my choices to the one I’d be checking out in the morning and one other. And, obviously, Joel didn’t know about my imminent divorce but I didn’t feel like getting into it right then. All he knew was I was looking for an apartment and if he wanted to assume it was Sonya and I, then so be it.
“Good, good. Again, let me know if I can help.”
“Thanks.”
Back inside my office, I pulled up a few accounts that needed my attention and worked on them until two. A couple minutes later, I noticed movement outside and saw Dana wave then mouth, “Have a good weekend,” and remembered she had to take her five-year-old son to a dentist appointment as I waved back. Then seeing how I was caught up and then some, I packed it up and headed out.
“McNamara, how may I direct you?”
“Birdie Chapman,” I answered then listened to the swanky background music playing over the phone as I waited.
“This is Birdie Chapman. I’m unable to take your call right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Thanks.”
She wasn’t at work or at least wasn’t answering her calls. I called back.
“McNamara, how may I direct you?”
“Yes, I just called for Birdie Chapman. Is she in?” I inquired.
“One moment,” the woman said leaving me to listen to a jazzy saxophone piece. “I’m sorry, but Ms. Chapman is out of the office. May I connect you with her voicemail?”
“No, thank you,” I said and hung up.
A man on a mission, I gave the cab driver Birdie’s apartment building address and upon arriving took the elevator to the fifth floor. I could hear a talk show on the TV through her door when I knocked. A few moments later when an older woman answered, I didn’t know if it was Birdie’s mom, an older sister, or her Aunt Martha who was visiting from Timbuktu. And it hit me that I didn’t know a whole lot about the woman I loved.
“Can I help you?” the attractive woman asked. She had long, brown hair and green eyes like Birdie, so maybe it was her mom.
“Uh, hi,” I said, looking a bit over her shoulder into the apartment to see that everything was different. I knew Birdie’s friend was an interior designer, so maybe she’d changed things up for her. “Does Birdie Chapman live here?”
The woman frowned. “No? I’ve been here for going on almost two years now.”
“Oh,” I muttered. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
The woman smiled and closed the door and I turned to walk toward the elevator. Of course, Birdie had moved. She wouldn’t have wanted to stay in the same apartment she’d shared with her husband, I guessed. As I waited for the lift doors to open, I wished I’d paid more fucking attention because for the life of me, all I could remember about Birdie’s designer friend’s name was that it had something to do with a gemstone. That, and the fact that her friend was about the only link I had at the moment in trying to find Birdie, pissed me off. I did know Birdie’s dad ran a sandwich shop but I didn’t know the name of it or even her maiden name to find him. And the thought of checking every sandwich shop in NYC, which would’ve been an impossible mission, made me even angrier at myself for being so oblivious when we’d been together two years before.
“Fuck,” I mumbled as I got on the elevator, making a man who was already on it give me a look, arched eyebrow and all.
I gave up just before midnight having scanned through dozens of websites trying to find her dad’s restaurant and also her friend’s name, I was nearly cross-eyed. But I had learned how to make a Monte Cristo sandwich and gotten some good ideas for decorating my new place.
Perfect.
I met the leasing agent the next morning at an apartment building on West 101st Street, an area New Yorkers called Manhattan Valley. Although the neighborhood had seen rougher times, due to gentrification, its reputation had improved immensely. Besides, I kind of liked its colorful past along with the hodge-podge of buildings that gave the place a cool vibe. It was also fairly close to work and just blocks from Central Park, Paul and Taylor’s apartment was nearby, and from what I saw, there didn’t seem to be a lot of foot traffic, so I was hoping it meant the place was quiet, all of which was amazing. Of course, I’d be paying out the nose for it, but it appeared to be worth it.
“Large living area.” I followed the agent into the seco
nd-floor apartment letting her do her thing. “Fireplace, exposed brick. Dining area.” She pointed at a space ahead and just off to the right of the living room then walked forward. “All-new hardwoods, new stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops,” she said when we entered the kitchen. “Bar stools come with.” She opened a door showing a laundry room. Motioning to another door on the left, she stated, “Bedroom or den.” Going to her right, past the kitchen bar and out to walk down a hallway, she stopped at an open door. “Tiled bathroom with shower and tub.” At the end of the hall, we reached a bedroom. “The master has a walk-in closet and its own bathroom,” she said still walking, then opening a door went inside. “Glass shower, marble floor, double vanity,” and yada yada yada. She’d basically told me everything on the phone when we’d gone over my online application the day before, so none of what she was showing me was really a surprise.
I took my time looking around again and felt a twinge of sadness. Don’t get me wrong. The place was great. It was the fact that I was closing a chapter in my life that’d been pretty fucking emotion-filled for the past two years that got to me.
“I’ll take it,” I said as I looked out the living room window down onto the street.
“There’s not a gym in the building, but there’s one about four blocks away. There are also lots of restaurants in the area,” she continued. Thinking she was used to having to “sell” these places, I let her babble on about all the amenities. “Pets are allowed and rent also includes heat and water.”
Downstairs, after negotiating a bit, she told me my application had been approved, handed me the keys and said I could move in immediately. Sweet. I’d have to send Fleishman’s broker a gift basket for making this so easy.
Once outside, I decided to walk to Central Park to see how long it took: eight minutes at a casual stroll. Nice. It was a cold January morning and snow was on the ground, but people were still out and about in the park, jogging, walking or sledding on the appropriately named Sledding Hill.
I headed back to try out the keys to my new apartment thinking I’d made a good choice. The woman walking in front of me who was wearing running tights that made her ass look incredibly fabulous had me thinking I’d made a very good choice. As I got to checking her out even more, I felt my heart start beating faster.
No. It couldn’t be her.
But when she ran up the steps at an entrance of the apartment building right next to mine, I saw it most definitely was.
“Hey,” I called.
Imagine Birdie’s surprise when she turned to see me grinning up at her. Then imagine her even bigger surprise when I walked up the steps, took her in my arms and kissed the fool out of her.
It was fucking epic.
Chapter 15—Birdie
Holy cow.
I was on the stoop to my apartment making out with Beck.
And it was fantastic.
I hadn’t been kissed in over two years, had almost forgotten how it worked, but when my lips finally caught on to what was up, I was not disappointed.
Best kiss ever.
When he pulled back, I was afraid to open my eyes for fear that I’d only imagined it. Then I heard him chuckle and, well, things kind of went downhill from there because, you know, reality.
He’d blamed me for his divorce. He still loved his wife and was miserable without her. What was it he’d said? He was experiencing a living death being apart from her?
Gag.
Then why for God’s sake was he kissing me?
Both my palms were already on his chest, the blue bag I carried was looped around one arm and I would’ve whacked him with it, but it held precious cargo. But using the position of my hands to my advantage, I shoved hard, once again catching him off-guard like I had in the elevator at Fleishman, and he had to take a couple steps down, which gave me time to punch in the security code, get inside the building and close the door behind me.
“Birdie!” he yelled, sounding so desperate, that, damn it, I stopped and turned to see him looking at me almost in a panic. “Don’t go!” he called. Upon seeing my hesitation, he pleaded, “Please! Let me explain!”
Ugh.
Against my better judgment, I opened the door and let him inside. “Look, Beck, I don’t really want to hear about how much you love your wife,” I muttered as I opened my mailbox pulling out mostly junk. Riffling through it, I continued being blasé, which I knew was coming off as rude, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Or about how every moment away from her feels like a living death…how you’re miserable…and you don’t wanna let her go.” I tore a credit card application in half and tossed it along with several flyers into the trashcan nearby and looked up at him, challenging with a shrug, “So if you still feel the need to explain things, your call.”
I started up the steps to my second-floor apartment feeling vaguely triumphant. I felt a little bitchy too, but triumphant nonetheless. I mean, he’d hurt me, had practically destroyed me when he’d walked out on me when I’d really needed him, and now he wanted to wax all melancholy about how he loved his wife? I didn’t think so. When he didn’t reply, I thought maybe he’d gone, but the creak of the old stairs let me know he was still behind me, which got me thinking.
“How’d you know where I live?” I asked kind of snottily, glancing suspiciously over my shoulder at him as I stepped onto the landing then walked to my door, unlocking it. He remained silent and when I turned back to him, I saw an almost dangerous yet playful look on his handsome face which made my eyes go wide. “What?”
He smirked as he nodded for me to go inside my apartment ahead of him, and still he hadn’t uttered a word.
Inside, I set my bag on the table then unzipped my jacket and took it off, throwing it over the back of a chair. “Do you want some coffee? Hot chocolate?” I asked, heading into the kitchen. Opening a cabinet, I pulled out two mugs setting them on the counter then turning, ran right into him. “Beck!”
“You done?” His eyes burned into mine as he backed me against the counter.
Confused, I frowned and asked, “Done?” The backs of my palms rested on the countertop as he boxed me in.
Putting his hands down on either side of mine, he got right in my face and said, “Gotta admit, it’s cute, but your attitude needs to go, Birdie.”
Shit. He’d let me spew my meanness and was now calling me out on it.
I puffed out my chest a little and looked him in the eye. “I just meant I can’t do anything to help you get back with your wife. I’m sorry if I came off…bitchy. But I really can’t help you.”
“I need you to listen to me, Birdie. Can you do that?” When I rolled my eyes at his talking to me like I was a child, he moved a hand up to grasp me at the back of my neck, his fingers sliding up into my hair.
At his warning look, I muttered, “All right, jeez.”
The side of his mouth twitched as his eyes danced with amusement at my obstinacy, I supposed, right before he knocked me for a loop.
“When I said I was talking about you at lunch yesterday,” he paused, probably to make sure I was paying attention, which made me want to belt him for speaking so slowly as if I couldn’t keep up, “I meant, you’re the reason I was miserable.”
Okay. I’d had enough. Bending at the knees, I ducked under his arm and headed to my door to let him out. I didn’t quite make it because he grabbed my hand, and pulling me into him, wrapped his arms around me so I couldn’t go anywhere.
“I was miserable because I wasn’t with you, Birdie. You’re why it felt like a living death because I love you and I wasn’t with you,” he explained.
Giving him a fixed stare, I whispered, “You love me?” At his nod, I panicked a bit and blurted, “Well, let me go.” Looking puzzled, he dropped his arms and I spun to go back into the kitchen. “So, coffee or hot chocolate?” I called distractedly.
“Birdie…”
“Which one, Beck?” I insisted, my back to him waiting for his answer.
“Coffee.”<
br />
My mind was racing as I inattentively prepared the coffee, glad I’d made it a million times before because right then, I was on autopilot. Holy crap. What he’d just said wasn’t something to be taken lightly. God. As I went through the routine of water, filter, grounds, my heart seized up a little because this was huge.
I’d loved him. Granted, I’d fallen for him in a time of great turmoil, but it was still love. And now he was telling me he loved me too. Did I want to go there again? Could I go there again? Did I even trust him? Also, was he only telling me he loved me because he was getting divorced and didn’t want to be alone? If he still loved me and had been so miserable, why hadn’t he found me and told me or at least given me some closure since he said he’d tried making his marriage work? And why had it all come out only now, when I happened to be working at his company? Was it because it was convenient?
So many questions! So much to freak out about!
I turned to see him watching me closely, looking a little freaked out himself, which made me feel better, and letting out a breath, I settled down a little.
“You still take it black?” I asked. At his nod, I jerked my head at the dining table. “Go ahead and have a seat. And get the stuff out of the bag, would you?”
As I got the cream from the fridge, from the corner of my eye, I saw him take off his jacket. Next, the bag crinkled and he mumbled reverently, “Levain?”
“Cinnamon rolls, pumpkin ginger spice bread and oatmeal raisin cookies,” I answered as I poured cream into my cup then put the carton back inside the refrigerator.
“That’s where you were coming from?”
“Yeah. It’s only about two miles away, so I justify getting to eat anything I want from there since I exercise by walking to get it.” I chuckled as I poured our coffees, placing our cups on the table, then went back for forks, two small plates, napkins and a knife for the bread. “It’s become a Saturday morning ritual,” I explained as I sat. When I felt him staring, I scowled. “I don’t eat everything in one day! It lasts me for the week, you know.”
Mondays (The Wait Book 2) Page 6
