Page 29 of Near Miss

Her voice is nothing more than a squeak. “You’re welcome.”

Practically ripping my tray off the metal rungs, I roll my eyes and tip my elbow towards an empty table in the corner of the cafeteria, pushed up against one of the giant paned windows.

Glancing back over my shoulder, I notice she’s moved from staring to texting frantically on her phone. “Are you always such a flirt?”

“I wasn’t flirting.” Beckett shakes his head, lips pulling down in confusion. “I was just being nice. Likeable.”

“You were being likeable?” I ask, incredulous. “Who tries to be so likeable they’re actively aware of it?”

He shrugs, stopping in front of the table to pull out my chair for me. “Lots of people.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” I eye him as I sit. He makes his way around the table and folds into a chair, long legs stretching out underneath.

“What can I say?” Beckett unrolls his cloth napkin and holds up his fork before stabbing at one of his two salads. “It’s how I grew up. Sarah healed, Nathaniel studied, and I became likeable. Reliable.”

“That’s...” I pause, pulling my head back. “Kind of a depressing sentiment.”

“Is it?” he asks vaguely, but he glances up at me and by the way the corners of his eyes crinkle, the way his cheek twitches—I think he knows it is.

I feel a bit like reaching across the table and telling him I understand. Maybe it’s not quite the same—but it’s close enough. He became someone else, because other people needed him to be, and I gave away pieces of myself so other people could be whole.

But I tip my head to the side, make a show of unfolding my own napkin, and start to chase the salad around my bowl like him. “I imagine it was difficult, to grow up while your sister was sick so young. We see it a lot. You know, we talk a lot about what it does to the parents, to their marriage. But no one ever talks about what happens to the other children in the home.”

Beckett makes a noncommittal noise, but I notice his fork hits the bottom of his bowl harder.

I feel like asking a bit more. Because I’m not so sure anyone ever cared enough to ask before.

But I think of all the things I don’t like to talk about and I blink at him, this man who pretends to be so carefree, who’s really, maybe, too wonderful to be so sad, before changing the subject. “How’d you become a kicker, then?”

“Do you always ask such hard-hitting questions?” He’s grinning again, but his eyes don’t seem quite as bright.

I point my fork at him. “You were the one who wanted to have dinner.”

“I was actually a wide receiver in college. Went to school in New York on a partial athletic scholarship. But I was probably never going pro. I was okay, but nothing special. The kicking thing was kind of serendipitous. I played soccer too, and one day both our kicker and punter were injured, and I stepped in. Turned out to be really, really fucking good at it.” Beckett sets his fork down and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. The material of his sweater pulls taut over his biceps. “Kind of a stupid thing to be good at.”

“Talents aren’t stupid.”

He points to my hands. “Yours aren’t.”

“Maybe I’m bad at my job.” I shrug one shoulder, stabbing at a particularly tricky piece of lettuce. “What did you study in college?” I ask another question before he can. I can already hear the inevitable follow-up on the tip of his tongue—why did I really become a surgeon, why did I choose my specialty?

I hear the questions and I don’t want to answer them.

Beckett stays there, leaning back in his seat when he answers. “History.”

Looking up, I widen my eyes at him. “Oh no, you’re one of those.”

His lips turn down. “One of what?”

“One of those white boys who loves history a little too much.”

Beckett blinks before tipping his head back—this deep, reverberating laugh shakes the column of his throat.

It’s a picturesque sight—all of him relaxed, leaning back in this chair, laughing in this beautiful and real way with the last rays of sunlight streaming through the window.

He finally sits up, grinning at me, and the lines around his eyes crinkling, but in happiness this time. He picks his fork up andpoints it at me before moving onto another plate. “I will give you that one, Dr. Roberts.”

I smile at him, and it’s real.

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