Delicate
K. L. Cottrell
Delicate
by K. L. Cottrell
Copyright 2021 K. L. Cottrell
Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and incidents depicted are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Cover design: QDesign
Table of Contents
1: Noelle
2: Beckett
3: Beckett
4: Noelle
5: Noelle
6: Beckett
7: Noelle
8: Noelle
9: Beckett
10: Noelle
11: Beckett
12: Beckett
13: Noelle
14: Beckett
15: Noelle
16: Beckett
17: Beckett
18: Noelle
19: Beckett
20: Noelle
21: Beckett
22: Noelle
23: Beckett
24: Noelle
25: Beckett
Epilogue: Noelle
Dear Reader
More Works by K. L.
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N O E L L E
now
It’s not as bad as it used to be.
It helps to remember that.
On days like this, when I feel like I’m on the edge of breaking apart, of losing my mind, of screaming my lungs out, of being sick from heartache, of withering away…I have to remember I’ve endured worse.
Have to remember that not so long ago, I wasn’t on the edge—I was over it, falling through thin air with no one to grab my hand and keep me from going down.
This isn’t me shattering, I have to remind myself on days like today. Can’t be. I’ve already been shattered. This is the pain of trying to glue the jagged pieces back together.
Lying here curled up in my bed, I wrap my left arm around my middle, like I’m holding that part of myself in place. Listening to the rustle of windblown leaves outside the window, I stare at where my other hand rests limply beside me, like I’m inspecting actual slices and cuts from picking up those jagged pieces of who I was.
My skin is unmarred and perfect, but my entire being stings so much it feels like that’s not true.
Just like how there’s nothing on the other side of my bed, but I can still recall so clearly who used to lie next to me that it almost feels like I never lost him. Doesn’t matter that we didn’t live in this little house together or that this is a relatively new mattress because my previous one sustained some damage during the move that was necessary after he….
I swear I can still see him here.
His body used to be so warm in the mornings—somehow, it was simultaneously uncomfortable and addictive. And his voice used to sound so good; there wasn’t much he ever said first thing in the morning that didn’t drift over me like low, throaty song lyrics.
My eyes steadily fill with tears, blurring the engagement ring I recently moved to my right hand because it hurt that we never got to add a band to it.
Blurring the rumpled blanket he isn’t sharing with me.
Blurring the pillow he isn’t holding beneath his head with a curled arm.
I close my eyes, bury my face in my own pillow, and give myself a minute to weep.
Just one minute.
No, this isn’t as agonizing as it used to be, but it’s still not okay.
No, I’m not plummeting through thin air again, but I’m still not steady on my feet.
And a minute will go by fast, but it’s all I can spare, and it’s better than nothing.
If I’ve learned anything in the nearly two years since Cliff died, it’s that you have to take each and every sliver of self-care you can get—even if it means crying at 6:42 AM where your four-year-old can’t hear because it’s Valentine’s Day and her daddy used to greet you with as much teasing, cheesy romance as he could muster once you were both awake.
So I quietly cry. Loudly think about what I had. Deeply ache over what I lost.
What we all had and lost.
He was ripped away from all of us. From his fiancée and his daughter and his best friend. From his coworkers and the children in need that his job helped. From everyone else who knew him. From his parents, distant and estranged though they are.
But I can’t think too long on it because my minute disappears on me every bit as quickly as I expected it would.
Sniffling and wiping my eyes, I push myself to sit up.
It isn’t easy to get a halfway decent breath in my lungs.
Still, I work at it until I manage.
I’ve just moved the blanket away from me when my phone dings on the nightstand. Someone is texting me.
Beckett, I know.
Could it be somebody else? Sure. Could be my mama. Could be Ceceli. Could be my cell service provider alerting me that my bill is due.
But I know it’s him. Just do.
He and I have gotten to where we talk all the time. More than we talk to anyone else, I think, not counting his girlfriend and Theodora.
Losing Cliff didn’t slice through anybody the way it sliced through us.
Indeed, his message is on the screen when I pick up my phone.
BECKETT: Hey, I’ve got some Valentine’s Day presents for Theo. Should I bring them to her little school party or drop them by the house later?
It doesn’t quite get a smile out of me, but almost.
Cliff and I met at twenty-one, and it took me no time at all to learn that he and Beckett had been best friends since middle school. Theirs was the kind of bond brothers have, for better or worse. So when I got pregnant after a year, it was no shock to anybody that Beckett was hugely excited to be an uncle.
“That is gonna be my favorite not-my-kid ever!” I can still hear him declaring after hugs and high-fives, his smile bigger than I’d ever seen it. “And I’m gonna be their absolute favorite not-parent.”
My and Cliff’s laughter is still with me too. We knew Beckett’s words would come true, and they have. Theodora is almost five now, and it’s clear their crazy love for each other will stand the test of time.
And I’ll be honest: right after Cliff died, that fact hurt. A lot.
It used to hurt me to see them together, because all I wanted in the universe was to see Theo with her daddy again.
Beckett was every bit as dependable and kind and patient as Cliff, but…he was Beckett. He wasn’t….
I still remember how he used to say that very thing to me.
Especially in those first months, things would randomly remind us of Cliff—often Theo herself—and the stark truth of him being gone would crash into us. And every now and then, when it got to be too much, sometimes quietly and sometimes in a burst of breath but always with his cracked soul visible through his blue-gray eyes, his best friend would tell me he was sorry.
‘I’m so sorry it’s me and not him.’
‘I’m sorry I’m not him.’
He was trying and it was invaluable, but that stuff used to hurt him a lot too.
Like so much else, though, it’s not as bad now as it was. We’re making it. The passage of time and the forward march of life do help, in their slow and strange a
nd often unwelcome ways.
There’s still a lot of pain hanging around, unavoidable…but for the most part, the days haven’t been strictly awful.
In fact, more and more all the time, gratitude is what I feel most toward Beckett Slater.
Indescribable, core-deep gratitude.
It can’t even be shaken by my knowledge of the words that passed between him and Cliff on the worst night of our lives—the night that changed everything for all of us.
There were times when those words bothered me and filled me with doubt, but I’ve left them behind. I know better than to dwell on them, because I know what kind of man Beckett is.
After I sniffle and rub at my drying eyes, I finally answer his text. Theo doesn’t know he’s coming to her preschool party; she’s going to love it when he shows up.
ME: That’s so sweet of you, Beck. Thank you for doing that for her on top of coming to the party. I think it’d be more fun if you gave them to her tonight, though. Keep her Valentine’s Day going, ya know?
As I get out of bed, I know it’s time to think about what I should wear today. My entire being is heavy with sadness, but I’ve also always been a festive dresser on days like today (save for much of my first year without Cliff; I was a gray Crayon of a woman during that time). Plus, yes, Theo has a pre-k Valentine’s Day party in a few hours, and I’m the assistant manager of the sure-to-be-busy chocolate shop my best friend’s family owns and operates. Today calls for at least a little bit of festivity.
Living as a gray Crayon isn’t sustainable. That’s something else I’ve learned.
Another text comes in while I’m pulling on the dusky pink jeggings I decided to wear with a soft white sweater. I check it once I’ve gotten socks on my feet.
BECKETT: You know there’s no need to thank me. It’s always fun to pick stuff out for her, and I love being in her life. But yeah, you’re right, giving her the stuff later would be a double surprise. I’ll just bring myself to the party :)
A tiny smile does pull at my lips now.
ME: Sounds good. Seeing you always makes her happy, whether you have presents or not
On the heels of this, I think about adding that I do need to thank him. That his little flickers of thoughtfulness make my heart swell just as much as his enormous shows of devotion do. That him accepting yet another invitation to a preschool event means the world to me and my daughter.
But I know he’ll argue back, however lightheartedly. The things he’s been through in his life have had quite an effect on him; while the impact of Cliff’s friendship brought a lot of strength and warmth and playfulness out of him, sometimes he’s still not comfortable in his own skin. He can be reluctant to applaud himself, even timid. And I don’t have time right now to try to convince him that my thanks are serious.
Maybe later, when he comes over to see Theo again.
In the time it takes for me to tend to my hygiene, get some mascara on, and make a travel mug of coffee, Beckett and I have exchanged, ‘See you in a while,’ messages. Now it’s time to get my girl up.
As usual, my heart flutters when I step into her room and lay eyes on where she’s peacefully sleeping—and as usual, I sigh to myself at how quickly she’s growing. She wasn’t always in a princess-themed kid’s bed. She didn’t always have so much of Cliff’s golden hair on her head.
And as has become my usual, I feel immense sorrow that they’ve lost each other.
Talk about a love that would’ve stood the test of time.
I take a moment to breathe slowly, measuredly. Then I head over and nudge Theo out of her slumber.
She’s an uncooperative little angel at first, of course. Typically is. But once I’ve gotten her attention with promises of mini pancakes and a reminder about her Valentine’s Day party, she’s more open to crawling out of bed. She’s still slow walking with me to the kitchen since it’ll be a bit before she really comes out of her grogginess, but that’s okay. At least we’re moving.
We’re moving.
The words echo in my head as I stroke at her sleep-mussed hair.
I recall how gently Cliff used to do the same to her baby hair. And I imagine how he would grin about the cute way she looks now if he were still here. And I know he’d say to me, ‘Babe, our kid is so much cuter than we are.’ I know he’d say that.
The sorrow pours through me again.
Tears jab at my eyes again.
My fingers seem to sting again; even the beautiful piece of me that Theo is still has those jagged edges that make rebuilding hurt.
But I don’t stop stroking at her hair until I have to get her breakfast ready.
I don’t stop imagining his voice until I can hear it saying sweetly, encouragingly, ‘Have a happy Valentine’s Day, holders of my heart.’
It’s a difficult notion, you know—that of a lost loved one wanting those left behind to be happy. What survivor could want that for themselves? Who could want to smile, laugh, enjoy a life that doesn’t have their special person in it?
Yet there’s truth in the notion. When you lose someone who loved you, you lose them, not their love. You don’t lose the way they hated your sadness and pain. You don’t lose who they were.
So another little sliver of self-care is within reach.
I resolve to keep moving. To trade the bittersweet swirl of memories and daydreams for the knowledge that I’m allowed to experience the unfolding of this lively day…that I should experience it, for myself as well as Theo.
I hear a breathy noise beneath that of me getting a Disney plate out of the cabinet for her. I glance over to see her yawning big, her sweet face slightly scrunched up, her hair still a mess, her little-kid hands resting in her lap, her short legs dangling off the edge of the chair.
She really is cuter than me and her daddy. Cuter than everyone.
Thinking about that makes me think about the Valentine’s clothes my mama bought for her—God, she’s going to be so cute in those things, no one will be able to stand it.
A flash of something else comes to me now: the goofy, exaggerated way Beckett always reels when Theo is dressed up special for something. Like on Halloween, for example, when he first sees her and theatrically exclaims things like, ‘Whoa, I didn’t know royalty would be here! Please allow me to bow, princess, before we all go trick-or-treating!’
Between picturing that and hearing Theo start to make up a drowsy song about nothing, I find myself being nudged at by another small smile.
—
Theodora is in preschool in the childcare wing of my mama and daddy’s church. I haven’t been a churchgoer in a long time, but the people I know through my parents are nice, and the preschool has been great. Not only is the church in a good neighborhood, but they also take security seriously; since enrolling Theo when she was three, I’ve consistently felt like it was a safe place with reliable staff.
Ms. Louisa taught that age group back then, but now she teaches Theo’s current four-year-old group, and she has an especially wonderful vibe.
On the days when I had to go to work despite how badly my broken heart didn’t want to be away from Theo—and there have been many of those days—knowing she would be closely cared for by Ms. Louisa helped set my mind at ease.
Today was kind of like that.
Theo was wide awake by the time we arrived (and she really did look outrageously adorable in those clothes), and I was doing a bit better yet, but I still felt a pang in my chest when it was time to leave her. I already miss Cliff—I didn’t want to miss her too. Ms. Louisa helped me without even trying, though. Her happy greeting for Theo was genuine and welcoming, and it earned her a cheerful greeting right back. My daughter wasn’t sad like I was, but if she happened to become so, the kind glow in her teacher’s eyes promised me that comfort would be ready and waiting.
So Theo and I said our goodbyes, and I reminded her that I’d be back soon for the party. I left her contented with Ms. Louisa and the other pre-kindergarteners in her class.
&n
bsp; That was over an hour ago. I’ve been at The Chocolate Shop since then, handling the usual morning tasks that need to be out of the way before we open at nine-thirty, as well as the special Valentine’s ones. I’m still not in a steady mood, but it helps to remember Theo’s endearing self and to have work to focus on.
Also helps that my best friend has an amazing singing voice. It’s pleasant to listen to her singing along with the radio where she’s working in the kitchen area.
Right now, she’s handily owning “Sucker” by the Jonas Brothers, and I just know she’s back there moving to the upbeat music while she sings and gathers the rest of the confections we need to put in the display case. Upbeat music is her favorite. Years and years ago, when we were in dance classes together, she was awesome at tap and hip-hop.
Ballet was my strong suit. I won’t say I can’t move to quick beats since not all ballet is slow, but I can’t pack as much of a punch as Ceceli. She’s like a crackling fire while I’m like a drifting snowfall. Sure, sometimes snow is swirled into a storm, but it often just feels graceful—meanwhile, fire is what explosions are made of.
Indeed, just as I’ve finished counting the cash drawer, she comes to the front of the store holding a tray of truffles, dancing rather than walking. As her sneaker-clad feet carry her to the glass case, they tap out improvised yet complicated steps that match the fast rhythm of this part of the song. She even works in a couple of spins while she goes, her blonde ponytail swinging.
I hope her fire never dies out.
The song ends in the middle of me checking that our front-of-the-house essentials are adequately stocked for this day. Ceceli gets to breathe.
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