Delicate

by K. L. Cottrell

  In his pause, he glances back to me almost nervously.

  The timid discomfiture he was wearing at the door hadn’t really gone anywhere, just shifted out of focus, but it’s creeping back up. Once again, I note how it makes him seem younger, like the defenseless kid he once was is still hiding in a corner somewhere inside him.

  “I almost didn’t come in,” he goes on quietly. “Cliff is the only one who’s ever…uh….”

  Seen you like this.

  His timidity makes a world of sense, yes.

  The last three and a half months may have started up a good friendship between me and Beckett, but this is still a difficult thing for him to let me in on. Me hearing a lot about his abusive family is not the same thing as me seeing the aftermath of their abuse.

  Thus, it also now makes sense that he didn’t run to the girl he’s been casually dating.

  I murmur kindly, “Yeah.”

  He looks away again and finally puts the ice pack back on his lip. I don’t say anything else just yet, though, because his expression suggests that he’s trying to put more of his thoughts into words.

  Soon, he tells me, “But you’re not like any of the girlfriends he had before. You guys have something real, and…honestly, you’ve started being my second best friend, and….”

  His shoulders lift and drop in a feeble shrug. His cheeks are on fire.

  And I feel beyond complimented.

  I swallow at the lump trying to form in my throat, then reply, “That means so much to me. I’m so glad you trust me. You’ve been a great friend to me, too, and I’m here for you every bit as much as Cliff is. If you ever need anything and he isn’t around, you can count on me.”

  His, “Thank you,” isn’t mumbled this time. It’s only soft.

  In spite of what’s going on, it makes me smile a little.

  The tiny smile that shows up on him, too, makes me think again about his busted lip, which makes me think about all his other injuries.

  I re-wet the washcloth and respond to his thanks differently than I did before: “You’re very welcome.”

  Then, tsking, I inspect the cut on his cheek from across this short distance. I hate the thought of hurting him while I tend to it and his other wounds, but I’m not going to leave them like they are—he would try to tend to them himself if I did. I’m sure he feels like hell quite enough already without having to move around a lot.

  “Okay,” I say, leaning toward him with the washcloth in hand. “Let me get the blood off you, and then we can work on getting you patched up.”

  I spend a second debating my next thought, then voice it as I start gently dabbing beneath the cut.

  “And if you feel like talking about your family, we can. It’s totally fine if you don’t, but…if you do, that’s also fine. Just so you know.”

  He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh—but weariness and shame aren’t all I pick up from it. There’s relief amid those heavier emotions.

  It’s in his voice as well when he says, “Okay.”

  A minute ticks by without anything else being said. I carefully wipe the blood off his cheek, and he sits still and breathes deeply, probably trying not to cringe too much.

  Poor guy.

  At length, he divulges that his phone screen ended up shattered during the altercation with his dad. I wonder what exactly happened, wonder if he had tried to call the police even though it never worked very well in the past or if he got rammed into something that damaged the phone even from inside his pocket. But I don’t ask. Like I told him, whatever he does or doesn’t want to say is fine.

  I only care about three things: being thankful he isn’t hurt even worse than this, doing my best to fix up where he is hurt, and him knowing Cliff is no longer the only person who has his back. Those are the most important things—conversation would just be a bonus.

  Like that awesome guacamole on top of the already delectable nachos at Wings by Del.

  It sucks to think of Beckett’s lip keeping him from eating those nachos per the lunch plan we had before. I know how much he and Cliff love them. But maybe he’ll still be able to pull it off somehow. We’ll just have to see.

  Speaking of Cliff: he calls me just as I’m finishing cleaning the blood from the ugly scrapes on Beckett’s hand and arm. I put him on speakerphone, and even though he and Beckett only talk for maybe a minute, it’s a comforting conversation. They’re glad to have Cliff updated and Beckett safe.

  After reminding Beckett that this is his home, too, and he can stick around as long as he wants, Cliff says, “Noelle, babe, I fucking love you. Thank you so fucking much for being there for my brother. I know he’s in good hands.”

  I’ve never been the type to cry easily, so I keep my composure on the whole, but those words do plant an emotional ache in my throat.

  Then I look at Beckett and see how at-peace he is, and my composure truly threatens to crumble.

  He doesn’t mention it—doesn’t say anything at all—but I can see the peace about him. He’s as relaxed as possible in his chair. He’s managing to give me a contented smile. His eyes are lighter than they were before.

  He feels like he’s among family.

  It’s emanating from him the way his embarrassment was earlier.

  I wobble out to Cliff that I love him back, and I give Beckett a wobbly smile.

  They both say, “Aw, Ellie,” like they almost want to chuckle affectionately.

  Oh, Jesus.

  I should’ve known mentioning my annoyance with a nickname would carve their use of one in stone. They’ve been tossing this one around here and there for the last two weeks.

  But I’m not going to complain about it right now.

  I’m not even going to complain about them being tickled that I’m on the verge of crying.

  It’ll definitely come up later, but for these minutes, I’m just happy to be part of their world.

  - 6 -

  B E C K E T T

  now

  “Good God,” I sigh, flopping down in my office chair.

  My colleague Blaze leans against the edge of my desk and runs a hand down the side of his ginger-bearded face.

  “Freaking Derek,” he draws out. “What a way to end a work week. Jesus.”

  We work in IT for a medical clinic organization that spans across Texas. Because of our branch’s nearness to a handful of others, we have what is considered a decently-sized department of four people: me, Blaze, Derek, and our boss. It often feels like Derek isn’t part of the team, though, because somehow after working here even longer than my three years, he generally acts either like he’s new to the job or like it doesn’t matter much to him.

  This afternoon makes a great example of both. A bit after one o’clock, our meeting-flooded boss realized Derek still hadn’t turned in the new and important company laptops he was put in charge of setting up three weeks ago. Derek only worked until noon today, claiming a headache, so our boss called to ask if the laptops were ready and was told they still needed a bit of attention. Blaze got sent to his office to knock that out since the deadline has been this coming Monday from the start, and the work needed to be done by five today. However, it quickly became apparent that the laptops needed much more attention than Derek said—setup on them had barely even begun. At that point, my boss rushed me onto the task, too, so Blaze and I could hopefully get everything done in time.

  The issue isn’t that it was difficult for us. We’ve dealt with some truly taxing and complicated situations in the past, way worse than this. It’s just the principle of the matter. If Derek had made any effort at all, or even asked for help sooner, we wouldn’t have had to stop what we were doing (which included some of his everyday support tasks since he’s out of the office) and rush to save the day.

  But this isn’t surprising behavior, no. He spends most days jacking around for one reason or another. On Tuesday, he told me he couldn’t help someone with a password reset because his wrist was hurting, but password resets don’
t even require him to type anything out. All he has to do is talk to the person over the phone and tell them what to do on their computer.

  I didn’t let him get away with that one.

  Blaze stage-whispers to me now, “How has that dude managed not to lose his job?”

  I shrug tiredly. “I think he used to be okay at it, and then when the department grew, he started thinking he didn’t have to try so hard. Or something.”

  “Didn’t have to try at all, more like.”

  No joke.

  He scoffs. “And you’re probably right about him getting lazy, since his excuse for not having this done was, ‘I thought the deadline got pushed back since no one mentioned it after the first time.’ Like we’re supposed to check on him when we’re all busy too.”

  I had rolled my eyes when Derek spouted that nonsense over messages and I roll my eyes again now.

  But I guess it’s good that we—

  “At least we caught it and got it done, though, huh?” Blaze shakes his head.

  Yeah, that.

  “For sure,” I agree, “though I’m not gonna say that to him.”

  “Naw, don’t want him thinking the end result is all that matters.”

  “Exactly.”

  I turn in my chair and log into my computer. I check my e-mails, then the time—nothing extremely important happened while we were handling that whole thing, and it’s 4:45.

  Mmm, come on, clock-out time. Get here. I’m ready for my weekend.

  Even before what just happened, Blaze and I were having a busy day. Our main focus had been on a very useful app project we’ve been working on for months, but we also ended up tending to two different internet outages and a scare with some equipment in an out-of-town branch (which turned out to be due to a power cord that somehow got halfway unplugged). On top of all that, covering for Derek after he left meant handling various menial help requests from a new hire in another out-of-town branch. We weren’t surprised to learn the lady had been asking for help all day only for Derek to half-ass deliver.

  Wonder how long our boss is going to keep letting this stuff happen.

  Anyway, yep, I’m ready to ditch this popsicle stand.

  Especially ready to work on my surprise for—

  “Say, man, whatcha got going on this weekend?” Blaze asks. “We’re having a cookout tomorrow for my wife’s birthday. You should come! I’m fixing to go invite the boss man too.”

  The invitation is a pleasant surprise.

  He and our boss are as great to work with as lazy-ass Derek is not, but work time is pretty much the only time we’ve spent together. Not for a lack of trying on their part—they’ve asked me to hang out plenty of times, but I never felt up to it. Eventually, they rather gave up and simply maintained our good work rapport.

  This cookout, though….

  To my surprise, indeed, it doesn’t put a feeling of niggling discomfort in my chest.

  Not sure what has shifted in my mind, but something seems to have.

  However, since I’ve got a plan with Noelle and Theo at noon tomorrow, I say, “Oh. Thank you. What time?”

  At this, Blaze, too, seems pleasantly surprised—friendly tone aside, he must’ve expected me to politely decline yet again.

  He recovers quickly and answers, “Around three! Weather is supposed to be a little chilly, but it won’t be bad. And we’ve got that fire pit I told you about!”

  I nod my comprehension. “The one you got on Black Friday?”

  “Yeah!” He claps his hands together. “That thing is awesome.”

  “I bet. Wish I could have something like that, but my apartment isn’t right for it.”

  He tsks. “Ah, for sure. Well, you can live vicariously through us if you stop by tomorrow. Just bring your own beer—we’ll handle everything else!” With a jaunty tap of his knuckles on my desk, he turns to leave. “You got my number, so let me know! We’d love to have you over!”

  “Yeah, I’ll let you know.”

  Once I’m alone, I ponder the details further.

  Blaze is a few years older than me and has been working here for almost a year now, and he’s cool. His wife seemed nice the few times she joined our department for lunch, and also at the company Christmas party. Our boss is older but has a good attitude. And grilled food sounds good.

  Hanging out with Noelle and Theo would be more fun.

  Unfortunately, our little noontime plan is the best we can manage—and we really won’t be hanging out the way we’d like. Noelle has to cover someone’s shift; the employee gave the best emergency notice they could, but no one else can arrive any sooner than scheduled. I’ve agreed to spend an hour with Theo at the shop until Noelle’s mom can come get her for the day.

  After that, my itinerary will be open. I’ll be free to do whatever.

  Maybe I’ll go to Blaze’s.

  This sudden thought does bring my usual nervousness back, but only a little. There’s a lot of room left for interest in the idea to grow.

  If I go, what’s the worst that could happen? I’d not feel up to it after all and excuse myself? Best case scenario, I’d enjoy an afternoon with work friends and a free plate of food.

  People, though, my nervousness whispers. People you don’t normally hang out with.

  My desk phone rings, so I sigh and brush the topic out of my mind. I don’t even have to worry about it tonight.

  “This is Beckett,” I answer.

  “Hey, Beckeeeett,” sings out the familiar hearty voice of Chartreuse from accounting. “It’s Char! Honey, I’m sorry to bother you this late on a Friday, but I can’t get Derek on the phone, and my printer is channeling vibes from my ex-husband and ignoring every single thing I ask it to do.”

  I laugh. Chartreuse is coming up on retirement age, but she’s as sassily young at heart as anyone. Spirit-wise, she hasn’t aged a day in the three years I’ve known her.

  “Yes, ma’am, Derek left at lunchtime,” I tell her, “but I’ll be right there.”

  “Woo! Thank you, hon!” She chuckles. “That boy might’ve broke it further anyway. He don’t seem to have the smarts you and Blaze do.”

  Thanks to Chartreuse’s ever-amusing attitude, my weekend kicks off on a good note even though I end up leaving the office fifteen minutes late.

  Besides, I don’t have anywhere to be. I’m not seeing the girls tonight because they have a dinner date with Ceceli. The plan is for me and Noelle to talk on the phone later, as we’ve done every night this week—even after the few times we did hang out in person.

  I recall one of those nights as I get in my car, and a thrill ripples through me.

  I’ve been planning a surprise for Noelle.

  A surprise she would never in a million years even think of dreaming of getting.

  When I was at her house on Sunday night and we and Theo were watching that old dance recital DVD, I couldn’t help noticing the way present-day Noelle looked. She was enjoying seeing her teenage self dance, but it was all over her face that she was also missing those days; more than a few times, I even caught a flicker of movement in her hands or shoulders or feet, like pieces of the routines were coming back to her and she was going through them in her mind. It especially happened during her solo dance to that “Rock Your Soul” song.

  Years ago, after she first showed me and Cliff the DVD, we teased her about the song choice. The dance was graceful and the lyrics were all right, but a lot of the singing wasn’t very appealing to us. I’ve minded it less and less as time has gone on, though—I daresay I enjoyed it on Sunday. Something about hearing it while I watched the dance with Noelle and Theo at that specific time, with all of us in such good moods…. I don’t know.

  But what really got me happened three nights later, on Wednesday.

  I had joined the girls for dinner again. While I was making my plate, I was too busy trying to be goofy with Theo to watch what I was doing, and I ended up with a burn on my finger from the hot spaghetti. Because of it, Noelle refused to
let me help her clean up after we ate; she insisted I sit down and relax. I caved eventually, and that turned into starting a movie with Theo. It was fun, but partway through 101 Dalmatians, I realized Noelle hadn’t joined us yet, so I got up to see what she was doing.

  I found her in the clean kitchen, turned away, silently and slowly flowing through old dance moves, the rest of the world tuned out, a half-prepared ice cream dessert forgotten on one counter.

  It was the first time I’d ever seen her dance in person.

  She gave up the sport after she graduated high school, a while before Cliff and I met her. I had witnessed some silly boogying a few times, but a show of her actual talent? No. Before Wednesday night, there hadn’t been one minute in six-going-on-seven years that she truly danced in front of me.

  It was beautiful.

  There was no music. She was cautious, almost unsure, as if she worried her body had forgotten what to do and might break. Some of the movements were stiff, having been collecting dust in her muscles and memories for almost a decade.

  But the scene was beautiful.

  She didn’t think so when she finally realized I was standing there. In fact, she went bashful as hell, blushed, fidgeted with her shirt and her hair, stammered out an apology.

  “I was gonna bring you and Theo some ice cream, and then I just felt like moving a little. Don’t know why. But I shouldn’t have bothered—I’m so out of practice it’s not funny, and you’ve been waiting on me. I’m so sorry. It was so stupid.”

  Then she bumbled me out of the kitchen, telling me to go back to the movie, promising she’d bring the ice cream right away.

  She didn’t buy my insistence that the whole thing was the opposite of stupid. She even told me to forget about it. At first, it kind of made me sad, but the surprise idea came to me later and turned that sadness into excitement.

  Since then, I’ve been watching online dance videos for beginners so I can learn some simple steps—so I can dance with her and bring fresh fun to something she misses.