Page 93 of Near Miss

Abandoned leaves on the sidewalk crunch under my shoes, and he looks up, green eyes dull and devoid of all the life that usually lives there, jaw tense as he tugs on the ends of his still-wet hair.

We say nothing as I follow the path to my porch, but I pause on the second step, running my hands through his hair, and he rests his head to the side of my thigh.

My eyelids flutter closed, and I inhale, my lungs already tight enough without the scrape of the fall air. Beckett presses his forehead harder against my thigh, and I twirl my fingers in his hair before whispering, “Come inside. It’s cold.”

I feel him nod against my leg, but he stays silent when he stands, and it’s just his heavy shoulders, crushed under the weight of whatever expectation he thinks he failed to meet today.

We don’t say anything when I open the door and he follows me in. It’s silent when we both kick off our shoes, and he looks like he’s seconds from finally crumbling when he sits back on the couch.

Our legs brush when I sit beside him, instead of on the opposite end, and I turn, exhaling gently. “It’s okay. It’s just—”

Beckett cuts me off with a shake of his head, practically wincing, voice dropping to a rough whisper. “Please don’t say it’s just a game.”

I shift on the cushion so I’m facing him, knees digging into the side of his thigh, and I reach forward, grabbing one of his hands. “I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say it’s justonegame.”

“But it’s not though.” His voice cracks, I think a part of me does, too—his fingers wrap around mine before he breaks away and gestures around my living room, like everything hurting him exists in the oxygen that makes up the air he’s breathing. “Because if I don’t have it—if I’m notthatat the end of the day—who am I?”

“Beckett,” I murmur, learning forward. My fingers stretch out for his again, but he makes a fist and digs it into his thigh. “Why is it always on you? This game, orthegame—whatever game. There’s a whole team of players who have a responsibility.”

His eyes pinch closed, his fist tightens before he starts slowly pounding into his thigh. “Because it’s fucking always on me. If I don’t show up—if I’m not reliable—”

He cuts himself off, the words hanging there between us, and I think I do see them eating up all the air in the room. I think of all that weight, how hard it must have been to breathe his whole life.

“Reliable? Likeable? Is that still all you think you are?” I ask. “Beckett, you’reyou. You show more grace and understanding to people than anyone I’ve ever met. You accept people as they are. You see them and you love them anyway. Flaws and all.” Ireach forward and trace a finger along his jaw, the stubble rough underneath. “You’ve told me—and your brother told me—all the things you’ve done for them. You bought your parents’ house. You’ve taken care of your siblings since they were kids. You made sure they haven’t wanted for anything. That they’re living good, full lives people could only dream of. Do you do all that because you’re likeable and reliable and that’s all you are?”

He leans into my hand, exhaling slowly as I keep tracing patterns across his skin. His fist stills against his thigh, the lines around his eyes draw tight before he opens them and gives me a resigned sideways glance. “It’s what anyone would do.”

“No, Beckett.” I shake my head and lean forward, grabbing his hand in mine and pressing it to my chest. Right above my heart. I need him to hear this—to understand that he was already a real, beautiful, special person. “They wouldn’t. And they don’t. Reliable and likeable people show up when they’re needed. They drive their family members to appointments, and they pick them up at the bus stop. They don’t give and give and give when they’ve already had so much taken from them.”

Beckett swallows, eyes flicking down to his hand resting against my skin.

“I want you but I can’t fucking have you so I thought if—” He cuts himself off, wincing when he exhales. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Say it.”

He looks up at me, fingers twitching against my chest, his palm splayed out right above my heart. “I thought, hey, if I can’t have her, I might as well just resort back to the one thing I can do properly. But I couldn’t even do that, and I can’t have you because you’ve got these rules and these boundaries, and I’m trying my hardest to respect them, but as far as I’m concerned, the only purpose they’re serving now is keeping you from opening yourself up for something that could be really, really fucking good.”

“We’re not talking about me.” I shake my head ever so slightly again.

His lips tug to the side in a rueful smile, and his palm presses against my chest—firmer, like he needs me to feel him, or maybe he needs to feel me. “But we are. Because I don’t think there’s anything about me that isn’t about you anymore. You made me real.”

I press my eyes shut. My brain screams at me, and my heart feels infinitely heavy in my chest. “I can’t make you real.”

His fingers flex against my skin and then they’re gone. I blink, and he has both his hands on his thighs again.

Beckett smiles at me, but it’s endlessly sad, and he shrugs one shoulder. It barely moves, stuck under all that weight. “Funny thing, that. I know what you’re about to say—that I was always real and the only person who I need to be enough for is me. But I like being enough for you, and I wish that enough looked like something else.”

“I can’t—” I start, and my voice wavers because my brain and my heart are playing this internal game of tug-of-war I don’t think I’m going to survive.

“Why?” One shoulder jerks upwards, the lines of his jaw turn harsh, and he shakes his head. “We’re not friends, Greer.”

“Yes, we are,” I whisper, and I wonder if he can even hear it over the sounds of that rope inside me pulling tighter. All I can really hear is the sound of snapping as it frays.

“What kind of friends have you had if you think this is normal?” He raises his hand before gesturing between us, beautiful eyes sharper than usual and narrowed in on me.

I start to shake my head. “There’s some irony here, Beckett. You say I see through you, and I know you, and I made you real, but you’re ignoring what’s real about me.” I push a finger to my chest, right above my heart. It presses against my rib cage, and I think the beats say something else now.

Give me to him.

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