Page 72 of Near Miss

He doesn’t feel warm, and I swipe my hand through the feathers of his hair. I hope he knows it’s all because I care—because I do mean well even if it hurts me when he forgets. I’m not trying to be harsh or mean.

“I feel fine, Greer.” My dad glances up at me, the ghost of an apology waving up at me from the lines of his smile. “YourfriendBeckett delivered everything, and I’ve taken my meds. I’m a bit nauseous, but I ate, and Beckett brought ginger ale.”

I roll my shoulders and force the weight of the intonation he put on the wordfriendoff my body and try to ignore the fact that not only is Beckett still here, but he stayed all afternoon, and now they’re on a first-name basis.

“The nausea should subside by tomorrow.” I run my hands through my dad's hair one more time, against the burning in the back of my throat. All these things I want to say—that I love him, but it hurts me when he does this, and can he please, please stop?

But I take a measured step back when I feel Beckett’s eyes on me.

His features are soft, and he’s looking at me with something I can’t quite place and it makes me feel a way I’m not sure I like.

I clear my throat. “You can take your mask off now.”

Wonderful, calloused hands find the loops around his ears, and when he takes it off, he’s grinning, dimple on display, all of him looking radiant and entirely unbothered.

“You didn’t have to stay all afternoon. I didn’t mean to imply you had to.”

Beckett shrugs, raking a hand through his hair, muscles of his arms flexing underneath his sweater. “All good. We got to chatting when I was dropping things off and I mentioned I’d never seenGame of Thrones—”

“You’ve never seenGame of Thrones?” I ask flatly.

“Nah.” He shakes his head, right leg starting to bounce up and down, and I wonder if he skipped his stretching to get here. “Didn’t sit quite right with Henry over here, so I said I’d watch an episode or two. And here we are, about to watch something called the Red Wedding.”

I cross my arms and drop to the couch opposite my dad. Closest to Beckett. “That’s in the third season, and I don’t think that surgery was a time portal to another dimension, so you certainly haven’t been here that long.”

“Oh, I just”—Beckett smiles, brushing his palms together with a clapping sound, pointing his right hand towards the TV—“dove right in. Headfirst. You know me.”

“I told him that’s not how the series is meant to be consumed.” My dad shakes his head, finally dropping the remote when the opening credits start rolling across the TV. “But he was insistent on just joining in where I’d left off.”

“You know me,” Beckett repeats, winking at me.

I do know you, I think. And I’m not sure there’s anything scarier than that.

The room dims when my dad turns off the light, not even bothering to ask if I’m going to stay. He knows I won’t leave until I’ve checked his temperature at least three more times and watched him consume at least a litre of fluids.

Fingers brush across my thigh, gentle, soothing circles just like those ones they painted on my calves all those weeks ago.

Before I can think better of it, I grab Beckett’s hand, interlacing our fingers in the dark. I squeeze it three times and I hope he hears what my heart whispers to him.

Thank you. I see you. I know you.

And I think you know me, too.

Greer

Shadows from the streetlights inch across the hallway, past my front door and along the worn hardwood of my living room. My shadow, and Beckett’s, right behind me, stretch down along the floor, but they disappear when the door clicks shut behind us and I flick on the hallway light, illuminating everything.

“It smells nice in here.” His voice, low, rough, and almost a whisper, skitters across the back of my neck.

“What? Oh.” I inhale. It’s mostly him I smell—whatever that is. But I can faintly smell Stella’s eucalyptus. “It’s the eucalyptus in my room. My sister put it there. She thought it would be calming.”

I take a pointed step into the living room, turning on those lights, too.

Beckett follows, giving me a wry grin. “Does it help?”

I shake my head through a small smile. “Not really.”

Beckett raises his eyebrows at me, and he waits.

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