Page 10 of Poetry By Dead Men
Seeing him tonight just might be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Listen, I—” he starts, but Harrison’s at my side in an instant, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and tugging me to him so quickly, I stumble. Bobby reaches out a hand as if to steady me, but stops himself.
I barely notice as a vise of panic wraps around my lungs.
I meet Bobby’s eyes, shaking my head almost imperceptibly, desperately hoping he’ll understand what I’m trying to say.Harrison doesn’t know about you, and I don’t want him to.
A mask falls across Bobby’s face as he nods, and in the blink of an eye, he becomes Robert Beckett. Not someone celebrating a friend's engagement. Not the boy I used to love, but a superstar who thrives on performing on stages for thousands of screaming, adoring fans decked out in t-shirts with his face and posters that say, "I'd make a great groupie."
"I see you've met my bride. Beautiful, isn't she?" Harrison asks, kissing me on the cheek.
“Stunning.” Bobby’s eyes dance across my face, bringing blood to the surface and making me blush like I’m eighteen again. “You’re a lucky man,” he continues, shaking Harrison's hand in greeting, then looking to mine.
He knows my hands well, and I bet that even after all these years, he could sketch out the lines across my palm and the small scar on my right pinky in perfect detail. Just as I could map out every callus and mark on his, but I don't want to test that theory.
Miraculously, Harrison saves me, and I feel a rush of gratitude for his old-boy mannerisms. "Thank you so much for offering to perform tonight, man." Harrison turns on the charm, slinging an arm around Bobby’s shoulders. "Let's get you a drink, and then I'd like to introduce you to my father, Senator Rouchester."
Thank God for small mercies.
Harrison scans the crowd for his father, and I’m thankful I purposely chose a weekend for our party that my own parents were on the campaign trail, not wanting my mother’s scrutiny on Molly’s decor or my attire. Or even worse, tonight’s entertainment.
Bobby gives me a tense smile before nodding to Harrison and walking with him to the bar, and I wonder if he'll opt for a beer over the hundred-dollar bottles of liquor. He never was much of a drinker, and he was certainly never pretentious about it. Then again, maybe I don't know him so well anymore.
They disappear into the throng, and I dash to the bathroom, needing a splash of cool water and a few minutes to gather my thoughts. I close the door firmly behind me, my perfectly practiced smile dropping thesecond I hear theclickof the lock. It's a single stall, thank goodness, and I stand in front of the mirror, taking in my flushed face.
I'm not exactly sure why, but I expected myself to look different. I was sure experiencing such an earth-shattering moment would have left some sort of physical mark on my body—changed me in some visible way. But my hair is still red, my skin still smooth and pale, and my eyes still a vibrant green, despite the tears gathering there.
I'd thought I’d feel anger if I ever saw Bobby again, or maybe discomfort. I expected to want to slap him, or maybe to feel nothing at all. What I didn't expect was the raw, gaping wound in my heart that has apparently never closed. It was as if the sight of him caused the stitches holding it together to rip in half, turning the scarred muscle into a bloody mess, pumping that familiar pain throughout my entire body until it permeated the deepest marrow of my bones.
He's grown impossibly more handsome with age, his hair shorter than before, still slightly wavy but no longer shaggy around his ears, and his jaw is now thicker and shadowed in stubble, making him look impossibly masculine. Even more noticeable is that his muscles are… well… muscular. He'd been thinner before, not scrawny, but nowhere near as sculpted and powerful. But it’s not even his handsome face or broad shoulders and defined arms causing my lungs to feel like they’re breathing around shards of glass.
It’s his eyes.
Blue. Tender. Familiar.
Regretful.
I splash cold water on my neck, then dab my face with a wet paper towel, careful not to smear my makeup as I try to replace my pain with anger. It's a more productive emotion, and it allows me to keep a healthier distance from the past and my memories. Plus, Ideservethat anger.
He had no right to come here. No right to make me wonder what’s causing that regret in his eyes.
I take several deep, steadying breaths, then pull the stray piece of hair from behind my ear and put it back into place.I can do this. For myselfand any semblance of dignity that Bobby didn’t take from me, Ihaveto do this.
My fingers itch to find a pen and paper and purge my emotions onto a blank slate. It's a feeling I haven't experienced in a long time, and it makes my skin itch knowinghe'sthe one who brought that urge back up inside me.
Minutes pass as I try to calm myself down. Too many of them. So with a final deep breath, I push my shoulders back and swing the door open, crashing directly into a broad, muscular chest.
"Shit, Beth. I'm sorry." Bobby catches me before I can fall, and his fingers on my skin feel like hot coals.
I stumble back as if he burned me. "What are you doing here, Robert?"
Hurt flashes in his eyes at the use of his full name, but he lets go, taking a tentative step back. "Look, I should have found a way to contact you before showing up here tonight. But I was in Harrison's office and there you were in that picture. And God, Beth. It was like I'd been stabbed in the chest. I just—" He rubs the back of his neck, shifting from foot to foot. “I needed to see you. See you happy, like you are in that picture.”
"See mehappy?" I must be in shock. Dreaming, because there is no way this man cares about my happiness. His words only stoke the anger burning in my blood. "Do you honestly feel like you have any right to know anything about my life anymore?"
He winces. "I know. I know what I did to you—tous—and I'm sorry. It wasn’t—" Bobby runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "I'll leave. Right now, if that's what you want."
"You can't." I rub between my eyebrows, trying to get rid of the headache forming there. "Harrison already told everyone you're performing. If you leave…" I clear my throat, trying to ignore the sudden unwanted dread swirling in my stomach—the one begging me to not let him leave again. It must be ingrained within my muscle fibers, because as much as I want to put an ocean of distance between us, the thought of him walking away again is physically painful.
