by Inda Herwood
He lets a small amount of his disappointment show before giving me a nod.
“Keep up the good work. I look forward to seeing what you do next,” I say, handing him back his drawing.
Another nod, and then he’s galloping with Hawn down the hall, answering his mother’s call to the kitchen.
I look back at Beckham with remnants of the smile his little brother inspired. It slowly dies from my lips when I see his frown.
“I’m sorry. I thought Leigha or Catcher would answer the door. I just wanted to…leave something with them.” That’s when I remember that Theo still has my envelope in his hand.
Oh no. What if he gives it to Beckham at the table over breakfast? What if his parents ask what it is and read it before Beck does?
Crap.
“Leave what?” he asks, looking me up and down, eyes skeptical when he doesn’t find anything to corroborate my story.
Skipping right past the question, I say, “You don’t have to worry. I won’t be coming by anymore and bugging you. Today was the last of it.”
He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “That’s too bad.”
“Really?” I ask, ashamed at the hope I can hear in my voice.
He nods, putting his hands in his pockets. “My brother will miss your porch drawing sessions. He’d come to my room after every one and show me what you helped him with.”
That beautiful blossom of hope from before wilts down into nothing, leaving me with a hollow feeling.
It’s his brother that will miss me.
Not him.
I study his face, searching for a hint of the Beckham that was once my sweet, loving, affectionate boyfriend. The one who held my hand at every opportunity, kissed me like a dying man when no one was watching, and texted me at three in the morning with Moana memes just to make me laugh. But I can’t find a single trace of him in this stranger’s face, who’s looking at me now like we’ve never met before this moment.
Has – has he gotten over me? Was it really that easy for him to do? I’ve been gutted for weeks, coming here every day just to get him to listen to me, trying to save what we had because I thought it was special, the kind of love that doesn’t just happen every day. But here he is, acting like he did when I first moved in. As if we had never been together.
As if he never loved me.
It hits me hard, the fear that I wasted all this time on a man who won’t even look me in the eye anymore. If the roles were reversed, I would have at least heard him out, given him a chance to explain why he did what he did. But he couldn’t even do that for the girl he supposedly loved.
In the end, it makes me ask myself: do I really want to keep fighting for someone who judged me so harshly and completely? Someone who didn’t respect me enough to give me the benefit of the doubt? The question never occurred to me until now.
“Did you really love me?” I hear myself ask him, my voice a whisper.
I watch him visibly still, only his mouth moving when he says, “What?”
I take a step closer to him, looking up into his eyes, giving him no other choice but to do the same. “If you really loved me, wouldn’t you have at least given me a chance to tell you why I did what I did? If you really knew me, the real me that I’ve been with you all summer, wouldn’t you have known that I’m not the kind of person who would hurt you just to hurt you?” My eyes turn glassy, I can feel it. But I want him to see it this time. He needs to know how much this has been killing me, especially now.
“Maybe I’m the one who kidded myself in the end. I took it seriously when you said you loved me. But now I wonder if it was just a lie. Because real love is patient, and kind, not prideful or judgmental. It listens and comforts and forgives.” A few hot tears slide down my cheeks, thinking of Nana and Mr. Lyons in this moment. I was there when my parents told his family the truth, and I paid special attention to Mr. Lyons’ reaction in particular. I feared for my nana, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn’t reject her after what we had done. But he had simply turned to her, taken her hand, asked her if that was all of her secrets, and when she told him yes, he believed her. He then kissed her hand and told her that he loved her. And that was that.
It was the purest show of love I had ever seen.
I thought I had found that kind of love, too, but it’s obvious that I didn’t.
Turning my back on him, I jump off the porch and into the grass, jogging my way home before I let the devastation take me over completely.
Beckham
“Who was that, hon?” Mom asks when I step into the kitchen, feeling numb and out of sorts. Picking up on it when I don’t respond immediately, she asks, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m going to skip breakfast,” I tell her, turning around to head for the stairs. Blaire’s words replay in my mind until I’m in my room, lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling without focus. She looked crushed when she asked if I had really loved her, as though she had already convinced herself that the answer was no before I even answered. It hurt like hell to see her in the first place, but to see her look so dejected was like an arrow to the heart, and that was before the tears started. There’s still a huge part of me that doesn’t want anything to cause her pain, or give her grief. Knowing I’m the one who has been doing both of those things to her…well, it sucks. Everything about our situation sucks, and I don’t even know where you would start to try and fix it.
Must be I fall asleep sometime later, because the squeaky hinges of my door opening wakes me up. I turn over on my side with a groan, seeing my baby brother tiptoe his way into my room, Hawn not at his side for once. When he sees that I’m already awake, he quits the quiet act and just walks right in, dropping a wrinkled envelope on my pillow, next to my head.
It smells like Blaire.
“What is this?” I ask him through a yawn.
He shrugs.
“Did Blaire give this to you?” I ask, remembering her saying that she had wanted to drop something off.
A nod yes.
Hmm.
Staring at the words To Beckham written on the front, I almost don’t hear it when he says, “Read it.”
My fingers pause over her handwriting, not knowing if my ears are playing tricks on me, or if my brother really did just speak for the first time in over a year. Schooling my features so I don’t show him just how freaked out I am, I ask, “W-what did you say?”
He taps the paper again, words a little wobbly, but clear enough to understand. “Read it…please.”
Holy – he really talked.
“Is this the first time you’ve talked?” I ask, wondering if maybe he’s spoken to Blaire before and she just never told us, that way we didn’t put pressure on him to do the same with us. It seems like something she would do.
He nods, then adds, “Yes.”
I can’t help but ask, “Why now?”
He tangles his fingers together in front of him, looking down at them when he admits, “I didn’t think…you would read it unless I told you to.”
Surprise doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling. I can’t believe it. My brother talked, and he did it to help out Blaire.
“Did she ask you to give this to me?”
He shakes his head. “I said I would since Catcher and Leigha weren’t home.”
I return to staring at the envelope again, wondering what it contains while at the same time trying to figure out how I tell my family that Theo is no longer mute. It’s the news they’ve been waiting to hear for far too long.
“I hope you start being nice to each other again,” he says after a few minutes, readjusting his glasses where they fell down his nose. “I can tell she’s sad even when she smiles at me. You too.” Without another word, he turns on his heel and walks out my door, like he didn’t just come in here and change everything.
CHAPTER 21
Beckham
I wait to read the letter until well after midnight, when everyone’s asleep and I know I won’t be interrupted. As
much as I hate to admit it, my brother was right. Unless he had broken his silence and asked me to read it, I probably wouldn’t have. But between that and Blaire’s questions today, I feel I have no choice but to.
Tearing at the seam of the envelope, I simultaneously wonder if I made the right choice by keeping mum about Theo suddenly speaking again. All day he remained silent, doing his usual miming and note writing when he wanted or needed something. I decided against saying anything because I realized it wasn’t my news to give. It should be his decision to come out about his speaking again when he’s ready. And who knows, maybe he plans to come to us one by one and explain. I think all at once would overwhelm him and my family equally, and he knew that.
If so, I’m honored that he chose me to be first.
Sitting back against my headboard, I finish opening up the envelope, taking out two pieces of paper with purple ink covering both of their sides. I smile despite myself, seeing that she numbered the pages for me. Once I find the first one, I begin reading, only to question if after our run-in today, would she still want me to? The problem is, I’m too curious to stop even if that’s the case.
Dear Beckham,
I’ve decided to write you a letter. One that I hope will explain what you haven’t given me a chance to in person. Words seem to have a greater effect on you anyway. And if I could find the patience and talent to write you a book about it, I would. But seeing as I’m an artist and not a writer, I settled on this instead.
You asked me once if anything was real that I told you about myself, and the answer is yes. It was all true. I never lied about myself or my past. I just never gave you all the details, and I should have. So I’m doing it now, hoping this time you’ll believe me.
My full name is Blaire Delfina Cromwell. I’m seventeen years old and I used to live on 274 Carrol Drive in Dunnings, Maryland. I wasn’t lying when I said Mom was in the medical industry and Dad was in the auto business. My mother was a medical assistant for fifteen years and my father worked in a car factory. If you remember, you asked me what they did when we first met, not if that’s what made us all our money.
I worked two jobs to help my family pay the bills. I was a part-time barista after school, and I did babysit for my neighbor’s two boys like I told you. I had a couple of friends I was close to at school, but I mainly hung out with Nana and worked on my art when I had the spare time.
This all changed, though, when we won the lottery. My mom bought the ticket on a whim for my father for his birthday, and the next day our lives changed forever. I thought it would be positive change, but I was quickly proven wrong.
The letter goes on to tell me about the backlash her family faced after they won the money, and the trouble she faced at school, mostly from her friends. And how it led them to Airings, where they thought they would be able to live in peace, so long as no one knew the truth.
The betrayal from my friends, combined with the hate my family faced, gave us enough fear to swear we would never tell anyone about where the money came from again. We didn’t want to have to pick up our lives and move for a second time if we faced the same outcome here.
I know it’s not a great excuse, but it’s the truth. There were a thousand times when I wanted to tell you and your family about us, but then I’d be reminded of what happened the last time I did that, and I couldn’t stand the thought of having you look at me like I was less, or as Danielle so nicely put it, a fraud. Because deep down, Beckham, I’m still that girl that lived in the poorest county in Maryland, who wore sneakers from Goodwill and owned a flip phone. I still like discount books and clearance deals. I don’t drive a fancy car nor do I wish to have one.
The lottery didn’t change me or my family, Beck. Just look at Nana and her leopard PJ’s and you’ll know it’s the truth. All that changed was that my parents got the retirement they deserved, and I could now go to Pratt like I had always dreamed. I guess we did buy the house. That was a splurge. But otherwise, we’re still that family on Carrol Drive, and I’m still the girl that fell in love with you. Whether you were rich or poor, it wouldn’t matter. You’d still be my Beck, and there’s nothing anyone could do to change that, including you.
What I’m trying to say is – I’m sorry. I really am. And I know that doesn’t mean much after being hurt, when the damage has been done, but I wanted to at least say it. I understand if you can’t forgive me. And if you want me to leave you alone after this, then I will. But I need you to know that when you told me in the closet that you loved me, I wanted to say it back. I had wanted to say it since the night of your parents’ party for your grandfather, and maybe even before that, when you held me close in the water, telling me about your deal with the ocean.
I love you, Beckham. And I just want you to know…you were by far the greatest thing the lottery ever gave me.
Love Always,
Your Kahlo
I drop the letter in my lap, letting my head fall back into the pillow. No matter how many times I rub my eyes, I can’t stop seeing her loopy handwriting telling me she loves me. It hurts even worse when I think that after this morning, there’s no way she can feel that way about me anymore. Because I was an idiot, a jerk, selfish, just like my cousin told me I was. And she was right. All this time I was letting myself compare Blaire to Jenna and what she did, calling it the same thing. But it’s not. Blaire was protecting her family. Jenna just wanted to use mine. And yet I gave them both the same punishment, all because I didn’t listen. I didn’t give her the benefit of the doubt, just like she said. And yet in my heart, I know she would have done so for me.
Tossing and turning all night, I wonder how I could have let this happen. How did I let one person’s actions wreck me so completely? Jenna has physically been gone from my life for a while now, but her memory has lingered far longer. I just couldn’t see it until I read Blaire’s letter, felt her sincerity – her love; neither of which I ever felt from Jenna. And to think I threw it all away because I couldn’t just let it go.
But I’m…I’m done living in the past. I’m tired of being the cruel, bitter man my ex made me into, and I’m sick of letting her ruin my life. I want to be the guy I was with Blaire again. I liked him. He wasn’t angry all the time, and he smiled a lot more. He was a good man, the kind that deserved her.
I just have to figure out how to get her to see that side of me again, and actually have her believe it’s permanent.
And I think I know just the people to help me.
***
“We’re not helping unless you’re really serious about this,” Leigha says, putting her makeup on in her vanity mirror, lips puckering when she applies her bright red lipstick.
“Why would I come to you and ask if I wasn’t?”
“I don’t know,” Catcher says, staring at his phone, laid out flat on Leigha’s bed, “maybe because you’ve been acting like Blaire is the plague up until now?”
“Things change,” I mutter, starting to wonder why I thought it would be a good idea to ask Things One and Two for their advice. All they’ve done is bust my balls since I came in here.
Leigha stares at me in her mirror, arching a black brow in challenge. “Then tell us what changed in this case. What has you not hating her all of a sudden?”
Shaking my head, I say, “I never hated her. I wanted to at first, hoping it’d make me get over her quicker. But…” I think of the letter in my back pocket, feeling like a hundred-pound weight, “something happened that made me realize my mistake. I should have listened to her from the start. Now I’m willing to eat crow to get her back.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” Catcher points out. “What made you change your mind?”
Dang it, they’re not going to let this go, are they?
My fingers twitch, debating if I should show them the letter or not. It feels incredibly personal, letting them take a look into our relationship, reading her words. But then if Blaire had been willing to give the letter to Leigha or Catcher, knowing the
re was a small chance they might read it, then maybe she wouldn’t mind if I told them about it.
Making the decision, I take out the rolled-up letters, holding it in my hand for them to see. “She gave me this.”
Leigha makes a grab for it, but I sneak it out of her reach at the last second. “What is it?”
“A letter explaining everything I was too stubborn to let her tell me in person,” I admit, holding the papers up in the air when she goes to jump for them again.
Since my brother isn’t vertically challenged, he easily grabs them from me while I’m distracted by Leigha’s attempts. Eyes scanning the first lines, he says under his breath, “So this was her new strategy.”
“Wait, what?” I ask, snatching the papers back from him, rerolling them and placing them in my pocket again.
Leigha clarifies for him, saying, “She told us she had come up with a new way to get you to listen to her, but she never told us what. I guess now we know.” Squinting her eyes, she asks, sounding surprised, “You really answered the door and accepted the letter?”
“Not exactly,” I say, telling them how it had been Theo that accepted for me, but leaving out the part where he verbally told me to read it. “But after I read it, I realized what I’d done. That I should have listened to her from the start.”
“Damn straight,” my brother chimes.
“You can say that again,” Leigha agrees.
“Okay, I get it. I messed up. Now I need you to tell me how to fix it. Because yesterday, before she left, she basically told me that she didn’t think I ever loved her, and now I’m guessing she doesn’t love me anymore because I didn’t contradict her,” I say in one long breath, my fear growing with every word. What if my silence did permanent damage yesterday? Would she even hear me out now if I tried?
Looking at me with the first signs of compassion since I walked into her room, Leigha says, “A girl who doesn’t love you would never have gone to such lengths to get you back. And that doesn’t just change because of one fight. What you need to do now is grovel like your life depends on it, and show her that same kind of determination.”
