Delicate

by K. L. Cottrell

  Maybe I did need it.

  “Ready for some ice cream now, little angel?” I ask.

  “Yes!” She lifts her small shoulders, twists her small hands together, bounces in her seat the best she can.

  The adorable sight plus our not-small conversation has my actual heart smiling too—because there’s no acting like it isn’t quite all right with almost exploding over her and Noelle.

  Even when surprising the latter with an Oreo McFlurry brings such a delighted smile to her face that it makes me ache.

  And even when she very obviously stops herself from coming to me to pair her enthusiastic thanks with a hug.

  And even when I have to backtrack from where she stands in her doorway because if I’m too close, one soft look from her will result in me recreating the Outback Steakhouse moment—the lowering sun is bringing that hint of fire to her pulled-up hair, some of which is loose around her ears again.

  One such soft look comes along after she asks Theo if she had fun this afternoon.

  The kiddo has decided to follow up her exultant confirmation with, “When can Uncle Beck come over all the time again? ‘Cause I love him so, so much and he said he thinks about us all the time and loves us so, so much too!”

  Damn, Noelle’s expression.

  She’s tense where she stands across the way from me, like she’s scared of me, but she looks at me like I’m all she wants in the world.

  If looks were touches, her hands would be cradling my face like they did when….

  Swallowing hard, I return her gaze.

  This separation isn’t just difficult. It’s exhausting.

  I’m so tired of it.

  What are we actually doing wrong? Why has distance hurt so much when it’s supposed to be helping? Why haven’t we gotten any better or made legitimate progress?

  The not-so-unfamiliar answer that drifts through my head interrupts my breathing, but Noelle doesn’t seem to notice because she’s trading McFlurry bites with Theo.

  Not letting ourselves be together is what we’re doing wrong.

  I cross my arms to try to still the tremor entering my hands, shuffle my feet to try to work the slight weakness out of my knees.

  Noelle glances up at me with a laugh-laced smile over whatever Theo has just said.

  God help me.

  Except not even the Lord can stop the truth from rising up in me.

  Somewhere in the last year and eleven months, I started losing my heart to my late best friend’s fiancée and daughter, in two completely different ways, and unknowingly started wanting them to gift their healing hearts to me.

  And I don’t know how it could’ve happened—I don’t—but it feels like they’ve been doing exactly that.

  And I’m finding I really don’t know how to act like it isn’t taking me over.

  Have they noticed any of this?

  I don’t know that either.

  What I do know is I can already feel certain quiet facts from our picnic day stirring in my head once again, and if I have anything left with which to block them out, it’s a paper-thin defense at best.

  And paper…

  …well, it doesn’t last long when it meets an ocean.

  - 18 -

  N O E L L E

  now

  I feel like I’m going crazy.

  And not just because I had a long day at work and am now hosting a five-year-old’s birthday party, complete with shrieking kids, newly-opened presents being admired, and forgotten snacks sitting all over my kitchen and living room.

  “Noooo, girlfriend,” I hear Ceceli say from nearby, “we don’t need to open that right now!”

  Glancing over from where I’m picking up giftwrap trash, I see she’s rescuing a bracelet-making kit from Theo’s eager fingers.

  My girl looks disappointed, but she quickly moves on to a Barbie DVD. “How about this? Let’s watch this!”

  Ceceli’s answer gets lost in more noise as several laughs burst up from across the room. I look that way and see a small group of parents, including mine, having what sounds like a fun conversation. I don’t catch what it’s about because two of Theo’s friends from preschool cut between them and me, giggling loudly as one chases the other with a goofy party favor.

  Yeah, it’s all a bit overwhelming. Everyone moved indoors when the time came for cake and presents; it was less chaotic outside.

  But what stands out—what has been standing out for the last hour and a half, refusing to be ignored regardless of where we’ve been—is Beckett.

  The way I see him treading carefully around the people he doesn’t know and happily around my loved ones.

  The way his expression alights with deep affection whenever we catch each other’s eye.

  The way not being close to him makes me feel.

  I really have tried to ignore all of it. Just like I have for three weeks now, I’ve tried not to let myself get twisted up about him and me, which includes not risking physical contact that will endanger our friendship agreement…which I worry would be any physical contact. This party has been a safe and fun event; I hoped it would be. Everyone has had a great time, especially Theo, and he and I have been present for it.

  But things haven’t gotten easier. I’ve gotten twisted up no matter how determined I’ve been to unwind.

  Nothing is making any of this thing with him any better—only worse. Self-control and the passage of time are feeling more and more like little moments of cruelty ticking me ever closer to outright madness.

  They’ve filled me with a kind of heartache I wasn’t ready for.

  And to top it all off, I can’t get rid of Ceceli’s words about Beckett from that one emotional morning in this very living room. They keep coming back to me, not caring how difficult they are for me to ponder, just laughing at my repeated attempts to fend them off.

  As nervous as they make some of me feel, they’ve started making the rest of me feel like…God, like maybe, just maybe, there is some truth to….

  But no, right?

  The things she said can’t be possible, right?

  My pulse jolts as I realize not only that I’ve been staring at how Beckett is picking up trash, too, across the room, but also that he has a piece of party-popper confetti in his hair.

  I hate that I can’t grin and go over to brush it away like I would have in the past.

  I hate that I wasn’t able to hug him as soon as he arrived, and that I had to refrain from helping with clean-up when one of the kids jostled into him and made him fumble his cupcake, and that we haven’t been able to stand close enough to chuckle and whisper about anything.

  I hate that we don’t feel like we’re us.

  It’s in moments like this that weakness really taints the denial I’ve been summoning when I think about what Ceceli said. In moments like this, there isn’t a lot of comfort or reassurance in having my guard up. There are only holes.

  Holes that are the same shapes as everything about him and me that I’ve felt the loss of over the last few weeks.

  They leave room for questions that are gently curious rather than fiercely defensive.

  ‘Is trying to stay in line worth crippling ourselves like this?’

  ‘Would it really be so bad to just be who we are? Because in reality, not allowing that is what feels truly awful.’

  Another jolt of my pulse as Beckett’s surprised laughter rings out through everyone else’s noise—he has just narrowly avoided being galloped into by Theo, who has joined those kids still chasing each other around.

  I love the way he laughs.

  To this day, I still think back on what it was like to make him laugh the morning of our picnic, when I was scrunched on top of him after my bad dream and he was nothing short of perfect.

  Quickly, I look away from him and finally resume picking up trash.

  If his gaze had caught mine just now, I might’ve grown fully tearful. Instead, I’m able to blink away the burn that has somehow crept into my eyes.


  There have been plenty of times lately when I scolded myself for thoughts and emotions like these—when, exasperated, I wondered what my problem was. But I don’t bother doing that now. My problem is that I miss him, and I’ve learned criticizing myself for it isn’t going to make it stop.

  Besides, I’m in the middle of Theo’s birthday party. She may not be paying much attention to anything that isn’t a friend or a present, but I still don’t have the freedom to zone out.

  On cue, my mom appears beside me, saying, “Hey, honey, Theo and the other kids wanna go back outside. Everything for the piñata is set up, right? They’ll be able to do that soon?”

  I nod. “Yeah, Beckett and Daddy got it fixed up earlier, I think.”

  “Yippee!”

  As enthusiastic as the word is, the look she follows it up with seems suddenly serious.

  Before I can question it, she asks, “Are you feeling okay? Lately it’s seemed like something is bothering you. Like you’re not quite your usual self.”

  I’m not my usual self.

  Obviously, I don’t confirm that out loud. I just summon a smile. “Yeah.”

  With her bangs pinned back, her lifting eyebrows are in view.

  “I mean, yeah, I’m okay.”

  Now her chin lifts in a half-nod, her eyes searching for some sign that I’m not telling the truth.

  If she finds one, she saves it for later.

  Patting my arm, she says, “Okie dokie. You want me to take care of this trash while you go outside with the kids?”

  “Oh, no, I’m almost done. You can go out. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  She smiles with me this time, then walks away. As she starts herding kids toward the back door, I bend down to pick up a piece of pink wrapping paper by my foot—and I have to laugh when I realize the bit of tape on it has stuck it to my shoe.

  I know this paper was what I wrapped Theo’s dress-up clothes in. I can still remember the delighted squeal she let loose when she saw all the sparkly fabric, can still feel the happy hug she threw around my neck.

  I’m really glad she has enjoyed all this.

  And I’m even more glad she enjoyed her time with Beckett yesterday. It meant so much to her to be with him.

  I know it meant a great deal to him as well.

  The love they have for each other is just….

  Thinking about that reminds me of what happened with the creep he said they encountered.

  Chilling horror coils around every single one of my cells at the idea of someone being any kind of threat to my daughter. Then the heat of fury rushes in and makes me want to snatch a bastard up and find out how hard I can punch.

  Then the thought of Beckett breezes in, calming, comforting.

  He handled what happened. He took care of Theodora like he should have.

  Like he always does.

  I thanked him half a dozen times, but I don’t feel like it was enough. It never is. No word of thanks I’ll ever give him for who he is will ever be enough.

  Could buy him some more caramels.

  The idea makes me smile, then makes me sigh.

  Upon glancing around, I see most everyone has headed outside. The only person in view is Cooper’s dad, who is exiting my kitchen. I can’t think of his name, though I’m sure he has introduced himself before. All I remember is him showing up earlier with the only boy preschooler in attendance.

  As he heads for the back door, he sends me a wider smile than I expect. It also sticks around longer than I expect—only after I’ve returned an amicable wave does he turn and watch where he’s going.

  I know it’s silly to worry even for a second that he might have any interest in me, but it still happens. I think it’s because his smile reminds me of the male customer who flirted with me at work last month or whatever. Same as back then, I don’t want to be flirted with.

  Unless it’s coming from B—

  I gasp and grab for the counter next to me, barely saving myself from slipping on something on the kitchen floor.

  Hell, when did I walk into the kitchen? And what is that on the…?

  I scoff as the smear of half-colorful mess comes familiar to me.

  A cupcake.

  Someone dropped a ballerina-themed cupcake on the floor in here and didn’t pick it up. Even the little plastic dancer that sat on top is lying pitifully down there on the tile.

  I carefully step away from the mess to grab some paper towels. Then I go back and crouch down.

  “Poor girl,” I murmur to the ballerina as I pick her up. “You deserve better.”

  She’s not damaged, so I take her to the kitchen sink and thoroughly rinse her off. I can put her somewhere safe later. Maybe on Theo’s bookcase? She would make a cute keepsake.

  I set her aside to dry, then get back to the rest of the smushed cupcake. Ugh, I’ve just noticed I left messy shoeprints here and there.

  After a minute, the majority of the mess has been wiped up, including the bottom of my shoe and a place on the counter where the cupcake appears to have rolled off the edge and left icing in its wake. All there is left to do is put a damp paper towel to use so nothing crusts up or gets sticky.

  I’ve only gotten one swipe at where I first found the cupcake when a light, “Oh,” has me looking over to the doorway.

  There’s no stifling the flutter in my veins.

  “Hi,” I say to Beckett.

  He lowers his large trash bag from earlier into a dining chair, then tips a hesitant smile at me. “Hey. Whatcha doing?”

  The little smile is contagious. “Just mom things.” I gesture at the floor. “Someone left a dropped cupcake over here and almost made me bust my butt, so I decided I better clean it up. Didn’t want a kid to find it.”

  “Uh oh. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  After a long breath of a look, I go back to my task. “Yeah. What are you doing?”

  It takes him another few seconds to say, “Oh,” again. “Do you know where the blindfold for the piñata is? Your dad and I couldn’t find it just now—we were outside making sure everything is ready. He sent me in here to ask if you know where it is.”

  The blindfold for the piñata. Hmm.

  I pause my cleaning again and squint at the faintly glistening tile while I think.

  “It might be in my closet,” I reply. “That’s where I hid all the party decorations and stuff. I didn’t want Theo to find them too early and not be surprised today.”

  “Ah. Good idea. You’re right, I bet it got left behind when you pulled everything out.”

  I don’t know if his eyes are stuck on me or if I’m just hoping for it so badly that my brain has tricked my nerve endings into tingling.

  I finish wiping at the mess remnants, then stand up. Once I’ve dropped the paper towel onto the counter, I scroll a look across the stretch of floor between me and Beckett, then up over his sneakers, his semi-slim jeans, his dark green shirt and pushed-up sleeves, his face.

  He really is already looking at me.

  Once again, that deep affection is firing straight out of him. It’s as if we’ve spent this day not being apart but rather finding new ways to be one hundred to each other. Charting new heart-to-heart territory. Standing close enough for gentle touches and tones only we could hear.

  And once again, I can’t pretend it doesn’t illuminate me—not even my patches of fear over its significance are big enough for me to hide in.

  Beckett reserves this affection for me, and I should be wishing he wouldn’t do it, but I don’t know how to.

  I don’t wanna wish he wouldn’t do it. I want him to keep giving me this and everything that goes with it because it feels good.

  The silent admissions make me gulp.

  There’s no time to try to argue with myself before he’s speaking again.

  “One of the dads out there…” he clears his throat and flicks his eyes over me, “…uh, his kid is the little boy?”

  It takes me a second to register who he means. “Ye
ah. Cooper—the son’s name is Cooper.”

  He nods.

  A lot.

  Then he rushes out, “Well, whatever the dad’s name is, he was out there talking about asking you to dinner. I was near where he was standing with the other dad who’s here, and I heard him say he just got divorced, and he—uh—”

  My stomach had already flipped with displeasure over the idea of being asked for a date by the guy with the lingering smile; it flips again with something completely different over Beckett’s expression.

  He looks like he’s withholding part of the story.

  And like he can’t stand the idea of anyone asking me out.

  And like he’s becoming increasingly aware that there isn’t an uncrossable canyon between us, just kitchen tile.

  When he looks at me straight from glancing around at the floor, I give a light shake of my head. “I don’t wanna go out with him.”

  “I know you don’t.” His eyes grow more intense on me, but his voice falls softer. “And that’s what I told him.”

  My stomach is flipping even more, still not with anything resembling unease.

  There’s the rest of the story. He cut into the conversation and spoke up about me, because in one way or another, I’m as unavailable now as I was back on Valentine’s Day.

  Standing beneath this gaze of his causes my own voice to soften. “What’d he think about it?”

  “Thought I was joking. Or ignorant.” Inhaling deeply, he ripples his fingers through the open air at his sides. “What I told him was, ‘Trust me, she isn’t interested,’ and he laughed at me, so I said, ‘What’s funny?’ and he said, ‘You don’t know that she would turn me down.’”

  Quite unexpectedly, that makes me laugh a little.

  I swear Beckett soaks it up just like how I soaked up his laughter in the other room. Then it’s here again for me to enjoy, as quiet as my chuckles but no less wonderful.

  I ask, “Did you tell him you do know I would turn him down?”

  “Yep. Said I know it like I know that today is Friday and that the sun is shining and that Theodora is five years old.”

  Now I can’t keep a grin off my face—a grin of adoration, of gratitude.