Page 82 of Near Miss

“Do you like it?”

“I’m not sure what I like anymore.” He tosses me a rueful grin, but there’s this thing his eyes do—they track over me and they lighten for a minute. But he clears his throat, and I can tell what he says next has been bothering him. “Don’t think poorly of them.”

I tip my head, ponytail falling across my shoulder. His eyes go with it. “Of your family?”

Beckett nods, a wave curling over his forehead.

“I don’t. If anything, I feel more sorry for them.” I prop my elbow on the back of the couch and drop my chin to my hand. “Their child was sick. They almost lost her. But in the process, they lost sight of you.”

You, I think. This happy, wonderful, funny, endlessly kind, patient, and enduring person who looks in the mirror and sees nothing.

Beckett makes a noise in the back of his throat and jerks his chin. “I was there the whole time.”

“Have you ever—” A laugh bubbles in my throat. It’s terribly ironic, this thing I’m about to say. “Have you ever set a boundary with them? Told them no when they wanted or needed something? Maybe told them how you feel?”

“Have you ever told your sister? The whole story. How you feel now, what it makes you feel about being a surgeon?” he counters, but his words aren’t harsh.

“I’m not even sure how I’d start that conversation,” I say truthfully.

Beckett smiles. “That makes two of us.” He leans forward, and I’m keenly aware of how much space he’s taking up, the shared oxygen we’re breathing, and how I feel a bit like I’m wearing my earmuffs again. Protected against a world that can be loud and can hurt. But like it can’t get me while I’m in here with him. Beckett holds his pinky up, hand so much bigger than mine, and he isn’t smiling anymore. Everything about him is serious.“Promise me you’ll think about telling her. As long as it’s right for you.”

I hook my pinky with his and whisper back, “Promise me you’ll try setting a boundary. Only if it feels right.”

He smiles at me again, but he brings our joined fingers to his mouth, brushing them briefly before letting go.

He leans back, but not as much as before. He’s close enough that I can see the amber nestled in the green striations of his eyes.

“You make more sense to me now,” I tell him, drumming my fingers along my cheek. “An unfortunate missing piece to the puzzle of you. I understand why it’s all”—I wave my hand around, like the entirety of professional football and all his achievements surround us—“all-encompassing. You were their caretaker. A parent, a provider. And then you were Beckett Davis, NCAA record smasher and kicker extraordinaire. But still a parent. Still a provider and never quite ... you.”

He gives me a wry grin, eyebrows lifting. His hands find my thighs, thumbs pressing down. His voice drops when he speaks. “You make sense to me, too. I wish you didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

Beckett swallows. “I understand why you don’t—why you can’t—it’s okay. Why you only havefriends. Why you need to keep everything you have left.”

He doesn’t like the word friends anymore, I can tell. But it’s all I have to give.

And it’s never been more important it stays that way.

He clears his throat, one hand coming up and gripping my chin. He tips it upwards, so our eyes are level. His voice is rough, and I feel it all over me. “We can be just friends. But I’m not sleeping with anyone else. I haven’t, and I’m not interested. And you—”

I don’t know what he’s about to say but I shake my head. “I’m not. I haven’t. I don’t want to.”

“You don’t have any other friends?” His eyes flash, and if we were in one of my books, I’d say he was feeling possessive.

But we aren’t in one of my books. We’re in real life, and he knows I can’t give him what he wants, that it’s only this tiny, little piece of me, and he’s never asked for anything before, but he’s asking for this. “No. I don’t have any other friends like you. I don’t think—”

“They could fuck you like I do?” His eyes lighten and he gives me a lazy grin.

I jerk my head back, pull my chin from his grip, and push his shoulder. “Okay!” I laugh, and he looks at me like it’s his new favourite sound.

I straighten my shoulders, even though they shake with laughter, and wipe at the corner of my eyes. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

“I think I can fill in the blanks.” Beckett holds his hands up and nods, face entirely alight, dimple curving in his cheek. “No one else has fucked your brains out the way I have. I understand. It’s my cross to bear.”

My mouth parts, but my cheeks flush, laughter still caught in my throat. “Shut up. You are so full of yourself. Seriously, you should see someone. I can recommend several psychiatrists.”

His grin turns lazy again. “You can be full of me, if you want.”

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