Page 27 of Solitude

Beck raises a brow, ignoring that last part. “What’d you expect?”

“I guess I expected you to act like it wasn’t a big deal.”

“I like to think that even though my frontal lobe hasn’t fully formed yet I’m emotionally mature enough to understand that, even if it’s not intentional, we still hurt people’sfeelings. I don’t get to say that something I said or diddidn’tmake you feel that way.”

I can feel my brow furrow in a way that makes it seem like maybe Beck has grown a second head while we’ve been talking instead of talking maturely.

Looking towards the other stone entrance to the park that exits near the street our childhood homes are on, I chew on my bottom lip. This conversation certainly isn’t helping me get over the obnoxious crush I’m harboring for Beckett. In fact, being able to say that I know for a fact that he’s emotionally mature for his age makes it even harder to tell myself to stand tall in my avoidance.

“As for the other thing,” he continues, “it doesn’t have to mean anything more than what it does.”

“What?”

“Friends care about each other, right?” Beck asks, looking at me expectantly. “And we’re friends, right?”

Friends? There’s no way I could be just friends with Beck when a single look from him makes my heart go into overdrive and parts of my body come alive for the first time ever. But I don’t know how to say that to him.

So I say, “Right.”

Beck smiles softly, like that one word makes him happier than it should. “Good.”

Swallowing, I hook my thumb over my shoulder towards the exit. “We should get to the beach before they send a search party…”

“Sure.”

Beck steps around me with a small smile, seeminglycontent to drop the subject and continue on with our trash pick-up. His t-shirt is too big, and it flaps in the breeze as he bends to pick up another piece of plastic.

The problem is that I don’t know what to say now.

I had built Beckett Hale up in my head to be somebody that he’s never been because I didn’t know him. I’ve had to conjure up this version of a guy and mold him in my mind to something that might resemble him, and it turns out that the real Beck is better than anything I’ve ever been able to think of in my brain.

Sure, I always assumed he’s a sweet and kind guy. I also assumed he’d act like he might be better than me and half the people in this town, but he acts like going to college and playing a sport so well coaches are scouting you to play professionally isn’t that big of a deal.

He treats me like we’ve been friends forever. Like even though we haven’t really had a conversation in two years, we’re old friends. He acts like he’s never noticed the way I hang on every word he’s ever spoken, like Shakespeare himself possessed Beck and wrote every thought just for me. He acts like he’s never noticed the way my eyes seem to find him in every crowd, pulled to him even when I’m visibly trying to pull them in the opposite direction.

Beckett Hale acts like he’s neverseenme before now, and that revelation feels like a punch to the gut and transcendent at the same time.

Sienna would tell me to stop overthinking and enjoy the fact that he’s seeing me now.

Beck pauses when he realizes I’m not following him,and my breath catches when he flashes me a small grin, his dimples barely there in his cheeks.

“Coming?”

My lips twist as I watch him. Then I take a step toward him. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

“Oh, is that strawberry?”

Cole swipes his finger through the top of the cupcake I just finished icing, and I let out a squawk as he twists away quickly with a laugh to evade my wrath.

“That’s it! No cupcakes for you,” I tell him, trying to figure out if there’s going to be a way to keep his greedy fingers away from the sweet treats. “You probably have cow poop all over your hands.”

Cole holds up his hands, palms facing me, as he grins. “Nope. I could perform surgery right now. These things are that clean.”

Rolling my eyes, I bend over the counter and keep piping icing onto the vanilla cupcakes. There were only twenty-four cupcakes to pipe, so it’s nothing compared to a typical workday for me with Gwen.

In fact, it was Saturday, which is a prep day for all the cooking Beth and I do on Sundays.

Sundays were something sacred in Magnolia Hollow. Not for religious reasons, really, but more so for the way there seemed to be an unspoken rule that Magnolia Hollow seemingly came to a halt on the seventh day. TheFletchers always make a big meal for anyone who wants to come to Bluebird Ranch and eat something homemade. Since the first week they moved to town and opened their ranch years ago, the Fletcher’s have always welcomed the community through their gates.

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