Page 210 of Wild Like Us
“Thanks, Kits.”
* * *
Beckett’s bedroomin his New York apartment is a mixture of deep blues and gold tones. He’s a minimalist through and through, but his style still shines bright in the abstract gold etchings framed perfectly on his wall. I get lost in them for a second.
He returns with a couple cans of Fizz Life. When he notices me observing the etchings, he stares longer at them, then goes to the wall. He adjusts the frame by a hair.
I don’t mention that the frame was perfectly aligned before. Or else he might spend the next five minutes readjusting.
Beckett comes over to me, soda still in hand.
Seeing him in the flesh is so different than our phone calls over the past weeks. We didn’t even FaceTime. Just heard each other’s voices.
He’s all lean muscle, and a shadow of stubble lines his jawline like he hasn’t shaved yet this morning. Most girls swoon over his floral tattoos inked down his arm, his dark-brown hair with a good amount of wave, and his unique yellow-green eyes.
His jeans are ripped today at the knees, and I recognize the Carraways band T-shirt as one of their first merch designs.
He’s twenty-two.
My best friend.
Formerbest friend.
He hands me the can of soda. “Charlie really didn’t put you up to this visit?”
I pop the tab and hear the familiar fizzy sound. “He really didn’t,” I say. “I’m here of my own free will. I have something to tell you.”
I want his friendship back—and I figure, if I want it to be what it was, then I need to confide in him like I used to. And I want that.God,I fucking want that.
His brows rise. “Before you start, I have something to tell you too.” He motions to his bed. “Take a seat.”
“This is a sitting kind of conversation?” I plop on his mattress, crossing my legs. Being in his room feels more comfortable than I thought it would, but his declaration seizes my pulse. Deadens it for a second.Is he going to tell me he doesn’t want to be friends?Maybe something happened to him.
Something I missed again.
“It’s an overdue kind of conversation,” he says. “I just didn’t want to have it until I saw you again.” He winces. “And I probably should’ve been the one to come to you, but ballet and…” He stares down at the can of soda in his hand. “That’s a shit excuse. It’s all pretty shit, really.” His eyes flit to mine. “When I started using cocaine before shows, I always thought about you.”
My mouth falls open for a second.He’s talking about cocaine.My hand is cold from the condensation of the can.
He continues, “I kept imagining what you’d do. Not what you’d say to me, if you knew about it. But if you had a drug that wouldn’t disqualify you from competition, and it’d take away all your pain, make you a better swimmer—I wondered what you’d do.”
“It’d be an easy out,” I say. “I wouldn’t have done it. We always said we wouldn’t.”
“Not even if you didn’t retire?” he asks me, brows knitted. “Imagine you’re still competing for the next ten years, Sul. Imagine you didn’t medal. Imagine you’re still fighting for that dream at thirty, and your body isn’t the same as it was. What then?”
I’d take it.
For gold, I would take anything.
“You’re notthirty, Beckett.”
“I’ve been dancing since I was four, Sul. My body is fucked.”
Tears pool in my eyes. “You’re at the top of your career. You already have gold.”
He takes a small sip of his drink and swallows hard. “I guess that’s the difference between you and me. You can get a medal and call it a day.” He shakes his head. “I can’t live without ballet.”
Ballet for him isn’t just dancing. It’s the art. The whole performance. The craft. The audience. The passion. The soul. I don’t try to convince him that he can live without it. But there’s an expiration date—and I don’t want the day he ends ballet to be the end of him, too.
