Page 32 of Near Miss

“Who are you calling?” I purse my lips.

“Bringing in the expert opinions.” Stella snaps her fingers before pointing to the flowers, sitting in an old, chipped vase beside a stack of books on the shelf. “Where did these flowers come from?”

“Oh.” I glance over at the flowers; the edges of the lilies starting to brown and wilt. “Beckett gave me those when he finished at the hospital.”

Stella isn’t listening to me anymore; she’s waving excitedly into the phone and spinning around the room. I catch a glimpse of two different screens, slicked-back ebony hair, high cheekbones as sharp as the girl expertly highlighted against olive skin—Willa—and a red bun stacked on top of a head, a small upturned nose smattered with freckles—Kate.

She called my two best friends, which seems a bit absurd, seeing as I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself. They both compliment my style all the time, actually—modern grunge, according to Willa, and comfort in one’s own skin, according to Kate.

My sister stops twirling abruptly, pointing at me, and the corners of her lips turning up. “Oh my fucking GOD, Kate—Willa—did you hear that? Beckett Davis—Gatorade-commercial abdominal Adonis—gave Greer those flowers!”

They speak at the same time, and it’s a fairly accurate representation of their personalities. Willa speaks with disdain, her voice flat and dripping with poorly veiled displeasure when she says, “Don’t you mean Beckett ‘Near Miss’ Davis?” at the same time Kate gasps and tells me they’re beautiful.

“Don’t call him that.” This weird, innate need to defend him—to defend little Beckett who grew up shouldering expectations he never should have had to bear—rises and makes me want to reach through the phone and pinch my best friend’s arm like a child.

Her mouth pops open, expertly lined lips filled by a plastic surgeon who probably charges too much but probably has better work-life balance and brain chemistry than any of his counterparts because he’s existing outside of a surgical system meant to break you. “Do you know what he did?”

“What did he do?” Kate peers closer to the camera of her phone, chin propped up on a hand.

Willa speaks before I can, sitting taller in the high-backed leather chair in her office. She’s still at work. “He missed not what would have been a record-breaking kick, but a championship-game-winning, first-in-franchise-history kick.”

Kate nods, drumming her fingers along her chin. “How unfortunate. Canadian sports fans are so mean, too.”

“Greer told me someone threw a Timbit at him.” Stella nods sympathetically.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I told you that in confidence, Cash.”

Stella swings the phone around. “And it remains, in confidence. Inner circle shit. Not to worry.”

I see a flash of Willa’s palm, followed by her voice. “Wait. How do you even know him? Why is he giving you flowers?”

Before I can answer, another grin splits across Stella’s face. “He’s volunteering at the hospital. Dr. Roberts generously took him under her wing. But I think it’s more than that. She invited him to this gala tonight where she’s getting an award for clinical excellence!”

It’s not more than that, but I don’t know how to explain to my sister that looking at Beckett is a bit like looking in a mirror. A different life, a different path laid out, but it’s a reflection all the same.

Kate says congratulations at the same time Willa says it sounds like a date. My sister darts over to me and pushes her face against mine so we’re both in the shot and starts singing. “Greer and Beckett sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!”

I close my eyes briefly and shake my head. “I don’t—”

Willa rolls her eyes and bangs her head against the back of her leather desk chair. “We know. You don’t date. You’re choosing you; you’re picking yourself against a job that leaves nothing foranyone else. All pieces of your heart belong to you. We’ve heard the whole soliloquy.”

“I don’t think that’s fair.” My voice drops and cracks a bit, even though I don’t want it to. “You’re reducing it to some pedantic diatribe when it’s not like I got this idea on some self-help infomercial.”

My hand finds my rib cage, and I press down. All eyes flick to me, and they watch me make this innocuous, nothing gesture.

But it’s not nothing and everything gets heavy. Kate frowns, golden eyes misting over. My sister presses her head to mine, softly—a gesture of love and comfort and not one of mocking. Willa blinks an apology.

“How’s your dad?” Kate breaks the silence, and her voice lightens in this way that I know means permission to change the subject.

And I do. Happily.

“Fine. But flu season is coming up, so, Stella, don’t forget to get your shot.” I take a step back from her and give a pointed look towards the phone. “You two either.”

There’s a unanimous sort of groan, and a resigned mumble of “Yes, Dr. Roberts,” even though I know they mean it fondly.

“Stella—” Willa cuts in, glancing away from her phone. “Can you show us these dresses? I have a meeting soon.”

Stella snaps her fingers again, a wide grin stretching across her face when she starts fanning out the dresses on my bed.

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