by Inda Herwood
Sitting down on the couch, I flip it open, excited to see what he drew. Feeling Beckham sit down on the other end of the couch, I sense his eyes on me when I eventually find Theo’s artwork near the back. I smile when I see an impression of Hawn. “Hey, where’s Hawn by the way?” I ask, the picture reminding me that he didn’t greet me with a sloppy kiss at the door.
Beckham points to the corner of the room, where Hawn is fast asleep in his doggy bed, his name embroidered on the front of it. “Aw, someone’s tired,” I coo, smiling at him.
“Yep, it’s pretty much his constant state when Theo isn’t here.”
“When did you get him?” I ask, continuing to flip pages, coming across a few pictures of dinosaurs and then small figures that I assume are the Lyons family.
“A few weeks after the accident,” he says, voice thoughtful.
When he says this, I look up, watching him stare aimlessly out the window, eyes focused somewhere on the fog-covered ocean. “My parents thought it might get him to talk again. A therapy dog of sorts. As you can tell, it didn’t work.”
My smile slips, my hands coming to rest on the page Theo drew of his parents, brothers, cousin, and Hawn. But at the end of the lineup is a girl with her hair up in a bun, wearing a yellow bikini. I don’t know whether I should laugh or be embarrassed at his interpretation of me.
“What is it?” Beckham asks, leaning over to see what I’m looking at, bringing him within inches of my own exposed skin. I don’t know why I decided to wear a tank top today. I usually never do. But the rain has made the air all muggy and hot, and I guess I hadn’t anticipated on Beckham Lyons getting so close to me. Ever.
When he sees the drawing, he chuckles, saying, “Yeah, that. I thought the bikini was kind of funny, too.”
“He drew me as a part of your family,” I say under my breath after I’ve gotten used to Beckham’s proximity, touched the longer I look at it. It reminds me that I need to set up another art lesson with Theo, that is if he’d like to join me.
Beckham coughs into his fist, leaning further back into the couch, eyes tired. I notice absently that he didn’t go back to his side of the sofa. “Honestly, I didn’t know if I should be worried about it when I first saw it,” he says, closing his eyes as he lets his head fall back.
I don’t understand. “Why would you be worried that he drew me?”
He sighs, deflating his chest. “Because he barely knows you and yet he saw you as a fixture in our family already. I didn’t want him to get attached.”
Great, we’re back to this, I think to myself. And here I had thought we were making progress. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere, or that I’m planning to abandon him. Jeez, where do you get these ideas, anyway?” I ask, knowing he must have a root cause to all this doubt and distrust. He seems to expect the worst in people, especially me, which I don’t understand.
“My ex,” he says eventually, eyes half-lidded when he looks at me. A flash of lightning strikes in the distance, a raging boom coming seconds later.
“Your ex?”
A slight nod. “The girl I was dating last year was from another school, and she lived farther away. But when I finally introduced her to everybody, Theo instantly got attached. She’d bring him comic books and candy, and of course he loved that. But then we broke up, and he was crushed. This was before the accident, by the way,” he says, almost like an afterthought. I don’t miss the detachment in his voice when he speaks of her. It’s how he used to talk to me.
“What happened with you two?” I ask, closing my sketchbook with a snap. It seems even louder in this huge house that rebounds echoes like a museum.
He gives me a look, one full of disappointment and expectancy when he says, “She was the wolf I was talking about at the bookstore.”
Oh.
I fall back into the couch cushions as well, watching the sky out the windows darken, just like our moods. A few moments of silence pass before I ask, “What makes me remind you of her?”
I continue looking out the window though I feel his stare like a pair of hands on my skin. His breath glides over my shoulder when he says, “You’re sweet. Quiet. And so was she. Until she wasn’t.”
Hearing the bitterness in his voice, I know it’s not something he likes to talk about, and I can’t blame him, but still. “It’s unfair to cast judgement on people that have yet to do something wrong, just because someone else hurt you,” I tell him, hating that he associates me with someone that left such a painful mark on his family.
“I know. But some scars cut deeper than others,” he says quietly. “When I found out she was just a gold digger, I kind of expected it even though I had hope I was wrong. What made me angry at her, though, was that Theo took it so hard. He’s just a kid, he didn’t deserve to be abandoned.”
A moment goes by, the sound of the rain falling on the porch the only noise in the house until I say, “I’m not a gold digger, Beckham. My family has their own money. I’m not your girlfriend. And I’m not a wolf. I’m just a girl your brother and cousin befriended. I don’t intend to leave, or to hurt your amazing little brother’s heart. And I think if you really believed I was any of those things, I wouldn’t have made it past the front door the day you answered it.” Turning my head to look at him and his profile, I boldly admit, “The only one who can get hurt here is me.”
Beckham
I can’t say I was expecting that answer, because I wasn’t. I assumed she would get mad once I compared her to my rotten ex. Which she did, in a way. But she came back with a rebuttal, and a pretty sound one at that.
What she said, though, has me curious.
The only one who can get hurt here is me.
Why would she say that? Or think that? It doesn’t make sense.
She stares down at the sketchbook in her lap, her index finger tracing the edge of the metal spiral holding it all together. Her artful bun is half falling off her head, making me wonder what she looks like with it down. I’ve never seen it that way before.
“How would you get hurt?” I finally ask, unable to keep the question in any longer.
She continues to stare down at the book when she says, “Your family cares a lot about your opinion, you know. You didn’t think so that day by the pool, but they do. After I said they were welcome to come over to my house, none of them did but Theo. And it’s because they didn’t want to upset you. Which is fine. But like you said, it…it hurts to be abandoned. I know exactly how Theo felt when your ex did it to him. People did it to me at my old school, too.”
When I look at her, imploring her to go on and finish the story that so evidently lies behind this statement, she seems hesitant.
She bites her lip under my stare, ultimately caving to my unasked request. “I was the designated rich kid everyone hated at my old school. What I didn’t know was that this also included my friends.” She snorts a laugh that holds no humor, going back to fidgeting with her sketchbook, saying, “When I didn’t give one of them what they wanted, they all left me like I was nothing, like I was expendable, and our years of friendship didn’t matter a bit. It was…” She stops talking, and I see her swallow, her eyes trying to hold back tears. It instantly makes me feel horrible.
“Devastating,” I finish for her, knowing that would be the word I’d use to describe Theo after my ex stormed out, leaving us behind. He was properly devastated.
She gently bobs her head in agreement. “I wasn’t expecting to make friends when we moved here. But then Leigha folded me into the loop without question, and so did Catcher, and I…I don’t know. I guess I liked how it felt, to be included in a group of friends again.”
“And then I went and screwed it all up,” I say, running a hand over my face, feeling the heat of my fever soak my skin in sweat. Hence why I’m shirtless. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, feeling my heart clench just looking at her tiny form sitting on the couch with me, imagining her being left alone to roam the halls at her old school. She’s so delicate, breakable. It’d
be like someone kicking a kitten. Unthinkable.
“You were right,” I say, making her look at me. “I have no right to place judgement on you when you haven’t done anything to deserve it. And because of it, I’m no better than your crappy friends.”
She shakes her head at me. “At least you’re kind enough to apologize for it. They never even thought they did anything wrong.”
“Either way, I’m sorry. I hope it doesn’t break our truce,” I say, actually meaning it. When I think about not seeing her in her window anymore, or at our front door, a flash of pain goes through me, the feeling blindsiding.
Where the hell it’s coming from, I have no idea.
She smiles, unaware of the revelation I just experienced. “It won’t. As long as you don’t continue to be an ass.”
I laugh, but it quickly turns into a coughing fit. When it ends, I say, “I’ll try my best,” quoting her from yesterday. It makes me think to ask, “So, did you win Twister?”
She nods. “I did, but it’s not like I had any other option. I was doing it for a decidedly ill boy, if you must know.” Her cheeky grin has me chuckling, forcing me to take back what I thought of her earlier.
She may be delicate, but she also has some fire in her as well.
“Pray tell, who was this poor sap you speak of?” I ask, deciding to play into her antics.
“Just a rich boy who came down with fever. It was his dying wish that I annihilate his kin in this game of skill.” She fans herself with her sketchbook, batting her eyes like a debutante.
“Wait,” I say, confused. “When did we decide that we’re southern?” We both make faces that say we have no idea. It causes us both to break out into hysterics, Blaire trying to catch her breath as she clutches her stomach, and me trying not to fall into a coughing fit.
And that is when the power decides to go out.
CHAPTER 11
Beckham
Just like that, the house goes dark, the only illumination coming from the gloom of the low-hanging clouds outside. At least I can still see her enough to pick up on the panicked look on her face, no longer filled with laughter, but fear. Though I doubt she’d agree that’s a good thing.
“What happened?” she asks, eyes glancing around the room aimlessly.
“Do I really have to explain that to you?” I ask, letting out a snort.
She smacks her hand into my stomach before quickly retreating with a gasp. I’m guessing she forgot I was shirtless. But it still tells a little truth. She must be comfortable enough with me to not even think twice about touching me.
“Stop smirking. It may be dark, but I can still see your face you know,” she says, sounding annoyed. “What I should have asked was what do you plan to do about it?”
I sit up from the couch with a groan, feeling my head spin. “I don’t know.” Looking at her profile once my vision is clear again, seeing the flashes of lightning reflect off her skin, I ask, “Why are you upset? I’m sure if you go back over to your house your dad will know what to do.” Everyone has a generator around here. It’s kind of the norm for the power to go out on a regular basis because of all the storms we get with our proximity to the ocean. Too bad I have no idea how to start ours.
Standing up, she starts pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table, saying while squeezing her hands together, “My mom and Nana went out to lunch, and my dad is in town, buying parts for his mower. And odds are, my house is as dark as yours is right now. So yeah, I’m a little upset knowing I’m going to have to go over there and sit by myself in the dark.”
Shaking my head at her, I say, “Will you sit down? You’re making me dizzy.” Grabbing her arm, I stop her before she can wear a hole in the floor.
Big mistake on my part.
It takes only a second for me to calculate how nice she feels. Her skin is smooth and cool under my warm palm, giving me the urge to wrap her up in my arms and wait for her to bring down my fever naturally. It doesn’t sound like such a bad way to pass the time in the dark…
It’s times like these where I don’t know if it’s the cold that’s talking, or my hormonal brain. Either way, it isn’t good, I decide.
Her eyes sweep up from where my hand is connected to her arm and into my eyes. I can barely see the hazel blue of her own looking back at me. “I don’t like to sit when I’m nervous.”
I cough a laugh, causing her to scowl. “I can see that.”
She continues to stare at me. “You’re still touching me.”
“I can see that, too.”
She grunts, asking the obvious, “And why are you still touching me?”
Uh… “Good question.” I slowly remove my hand, and the instant I do, I feel the heat return to my palm like a fire was lit under it. “I need to get an ice pack,” I say out loud, though the thought was more for me than her.
I start walking back towards the kitchen, opening the freezer side of the fridge once I get there and taking out a thing of frozen corn when I can’t find the stupid ice pack. It’s not great, but it’ll do the trick for now. Placing the bag on the back of my neck, I sigh in relief, keeping it in place with my hand while the other rests against the counter, keeping me upright.
When I see a dark figure walk past me, I ask, “Blaire?” Hoping beyond hope that was her and not some ghost that decided to show itself for fun.
“What?” Her voice comes from the shadow, which is still walking away, and before long, I hear her steps reach the foyer.
Jogging with the corn pack on my neck, I try to catch up, asking her while I run down the hall, “Where are you going?”
When I meet her again at the door, she gives me an odd look. “I’m going home. I’ll just wait on the porch until someone comes back.”
I stand there, stunned, and maybe a little hurt as well at the thought that: “You’d rather sit on your porch in a lightning storm than stay here with me?” Seriously? She’s choosing inevitable electrocution over me. That’s probably the hardest rejection I’ve ever suffered from a girl.
A silence passes before she points out, “You never asked me to stay here. I didn’t want to just assume I could.”
“Well I’m inviting you now.” Honestly, I don’t want her to go yet. Storm or no storm. I like – I like her being here.
She goes back to looking undecided, making me wonder if she dislikes my company that much. But then the truth comes out when she asks, voice soft and nothing like the flirty Blaire from the couch, “Is it because you think I’ll tell Leigha or Catcher if you don’t?”
I shake my head, looking down at the marble under my feet, ashamed at myself. It didn’t hit me until this moment how much I’ve made this girl think I hate her, which isn’t the case and never has been. “No. It’s because, as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t like being left alone in a big house, either. And anyway,” I say, smiling when I tell her, “I want to show you something.”
I can tell this piques her interest, because she takes a couple steps away from the door, body language no longer defensive. Standing in front of me, looking waaaay up, she asks, brow raised, “What is it?”
I shrug, turning around and heading for the stairs while I holler over my shoulder, “I guess you’ll just have to come see.”
A low grumble sounds behind me, and then reluctant footsteps.
Bingo.
Blaire
He is so freaking frustrating. He knew exactly what it’d take to get me to stay, like he knows me or something. The first was sympathy for him feeling the same way about being alone in a dark house, and the second was this great and magical thing he wants me to see. For all I know, he could be showing me a dead bug he found earlier in Catcher’s bedroom. It’s probably just a hoax on his part to get a rise out of me. The man seems to love pushing my buttons, and he knows just the right ones and where they are.
Muttering to myself about how stupid this is, I follow him up the stairs, feeling the first tingles of wariness when we stop in front of his door. Sensin
g me pause, he looks over his shoulder at me.
“In case you were wondering, this isn’t a ruse to get you in my bedroom, Cromwell. So get that thought out of that big old noggin’ of yours,” he says, bopping one of his knuckles on my forehead, along with voicing the sound effect. He opens the door, apparently not noticing that I’m two seconds away from stomping my heel into his shin.
His room has a different energy to it when it’s steeped in darkness. It has a creepy vibe, what with the tall ceilings and equally tall bookshelves casting dark shadows on the floor. They look like looming giants, staring at us as we enter.
He casually walks over to one record shelf in particular, finding what he was looking for with relative ease, considering he was looking for it in the dark. Walking over to where he stands, I ask next to his shoulder, “A record? That’s what you dragged me up here for?”
“Not just any record, but one I think you’ll have a particular fondness for.” I can feel his grin as he takes the record out of its sleeve and places it on one of the many record players, being careful when he drops the needle. A few seconds later, Whitney Houston is singing about wanting to dance with somebody, and I let out a surprised and delighted laugh.
“Oh, my gosh,” I giggle. “Did you buy this for me, or did you already have it?”
His victorious smile falls the tiniest bit, sounding put out when he answers with, “No, Catcher got it for me as a gag gift a few years ago. He said I had everything else but the classics.”
“I’d have to agree, this is a classic.” I can’t help but tap my feet to the beat, loving how the scratchiness of the record only adds to the song’s character. “What are some of your favorites?” I ask, dancing my way back over to his impressive collection, my eyes trying to read the names on the covers in the dark. A small flash of lightning brightens the room for a second, showing me a few I couldn’t make out before.
