Page 5 of Poetry By Dead Men
“You won’t believe me,” he teases, and my patience strains.
Harrison holds up his hands. “Okay, okay. Ready?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “It’s Robert Beckett.”
I stiffen as the air is sucked from my lungs, the name clanging around like shrapnel in my skull.
Robert.
Beckett.
My vision freckles with small black spots, and my mouth goes dry.
He’s wrong. He has to be.Because I most definitely donotlove Robert Beckett.
Not anymore.
Pride fills Harrison’s brown eyes as he takes in my outright shock. My lungs struggle to expand, but the buzz of Harrison’s phone pulls his attention away before he realizes that it’s not excitement I’m feeling, but absolute dread.
“Isn’t it great?” he continues, opening his email.
“Robert Beckettis playing at our party tonight?” I ask, like somehow the answer might change if I phrase the question a different way. It’s hard to say his name out loud, and my voice sounds strained, even to my own ears.
“You’re welcome,” Harrison says with a grin.
“I don’t understand. How did this happen?” I wipe my suddenly sweaty palms on the leather seats. All these years I’ve avoided him. Thoroughly and effectively. I blocked him on every social media platform possible. I listen to Spotify rather than the radio so I can make my own playlists, refuse to watch award shows, and I skip right past any news stories with his name in it.
Harrison looks at his phone again. “My big meeting was with him. He picked up the picture on my desk—the one from the night I proposed. He asked about you, and when I told him about the party tonight, the guy justofferedto perform.”
My mouth goes dry. So dry, I wouldn’t be able to respond even if I could muddle through the chaos of my thoughts.
Harrison continues talking, completely unaware of the utter panic surging through my blood. “Really. I think I have this contract in the bag. Partner, here we come.” He grabs my hand, squeezing, but his phone rings again, and he pulls away. “Harrison Rouchester,” he answers. We’re nearing the venue, but Harrison waves his hand in the air, indicating he’d like our driver to take a lap around the block. And thank God, because I need a minute.
My fingers itch to rub my bracelet. Not the one Harrison gave me moments before we left, but the one Bobby clasped around my wristseven years ago when he promised me forever. The one in my clutch that now feels like a ticking bomb, somehow fragile and dangerous at the same time.
“Elizabeth?” Harrison’s voice breaks through my haze of panic. The car has stopped moving, and I wonder how long we've been sitting here. I look up as Harrison shuffles through the open door, holding out his hand for me to join him. My stomach rolls, and for a moment, I think I’m going to be sick.
I fight through the nausea, keeping my face as neutral as possible, but my breaths are rapid and there’s a fog clouding my brain that makes it hard to focus.
Swallowing it all down, I take Harrison’s hand and follow him onto the sidewalk. Even after years of practice, it takes all my effort to school my features into a mask of calm. The debutante turned journalist turned devoted fiancée I’m expected to be.
But as we walk hand in hand toward the shiny doors of Nebula, I can’t help but wonder if it’s poor etiquette to call in sick to your own engagement party.
THEN
September 2016
A moment in time
Changing the fabric of who I am
A coffee cup
The smell of lavender, and suddenly, I understand
—An excerpt from "Almost There," written and performed by Robert Beckett
Taking the SATs is never enjoyable, but something aboutretaking them on a Saturday morning on the first bright, crisp day of fall is utterly suffocating. Even worse is knowing your mother is waiting to hear if you tested well enough to get into the school ofherdreams.
I sigh, forcing myself to read the last question as the sun moves from behind a tree branch outside, taunting me as dappled light washes over my desk and test booklet.
