Page 36 of Beckett
“Beckett, I’m fine.”
“Eat.” One word, flat and final.
I peeled off my work gloves and picked up an orange slice. The sweetness flooded my mouth, and I had to close my eyes against the sensation. When had fruit started tasting like luxury?
He didn’t move until I’d eaten half the plate. This pattern—the silent feeding—felt like penance. His or mine, I wasn’t sure.
“If you keep this up, I’ll get fat,” I said, trying for lightness.
He was already turning away but paused at my words. “Would love to see you with a lot more meat on your bones.” The admission came out rough, like it had escaped without permission. Then he stalked back to the barn before I could respond.
I sat there on an overturned bucket, the last orange slice halfway to my mouth, trying to process what had just happened. For so long, survival had been a solo mission. Having someone monitor my food intake, care whether I was warm enough, worry about my weight—it felt foreign and overwhelming and wonderful all at once.
But then he disappeared again, and I didn’t see him for the rest of the morning.
Then he vanished into the main barn, and I didn’t see him for hours.
By afternoon, I took a break, leaning against one of the horse stalls. Maybe it was all the food my body wasn’t used to, but I was tired. Jet padded over and settled against my leg, his solid warmth grounding me.
“I sleptin an actual bed last night,” I told him, working my fingers through his fur. “Clean sheets that smelled like fabric softener instead of mildew. A real pillow instead of a shirt rolled up. I’d forgotten what that felt like.”
His tail swept across the hardwood.
“And after Beckett woke me from that nightmare in the shed, I actually slept the rest of the night. No more bad dreams once I got to Lark’s bed.” I scratched behind his ears the way he liked. “Probably because I finally felt safe. How messed up is that? Takes someone literally breaking down a door and carrying me to safety for me to actually rest.”
The irony sat bitter on my tongue. All those months of running, checking over my shoulder, jumping at shadows, and the first real rest came after my worst fear—being discovered.
“But Lark comes back next week.” The words felt heavy in my mouth. “I can’t live in her house. I can’t just squat in her bedroom like some kind of parasite.”
Part of me actually wanted the shed back. Miserable as it was—and God, it had been miserable, the cold, the cement floor—at least it had been mine. My choice. My secret. I could leave if I needed without a word.
“Maybe it’s the food in my system, but I feel like I could have lasted longer out in the shed.” Even as I said it, I knew I was lying to myself. “A few more weeks, maybe. Until the real winter hit. Or until…”
Footsteps approaching made Jet’s ears perk. Beckett filled the doorway, work gloves hanging from his back pocket, a streak of dirt across his jaw.
“We’re done for today. Going to town.”
I blinked up at him from the floor. “We are?”
“Yes, we’re going grocery shopping.” He said it matter-of-factly, like this was routine. Like we were normal people with normal lives. “Can’t have you living on peanut butter.”
Shame heated my cheeks as I remembered him finding that nearly empty jar. “Other than the money you gave me, Lark hasn’t paid me yet. I don’t have much money for?—”
“I’ll cover it.” His jaw tightened when I opened my mouth to protest. “Call it an advance if that makes it easier to swallow. But you’re getting real food.”
Pride and practicality went to war in my chest. What was I going to do? Pride left me twenty pounds underweight and sleeping in a shed in the middle of Montana.
“I’m keeping track of every penny.”
“Fine.” He was already moving toward his truck. “Get your jacket.”
The drive into town passed in comfortable silence. I hadn’t even made it into Garnet Bend yet; I’d just been so focused on survival. I could see the appeal of the small town.
Garnet Bend’s main street dozed in the Tuesday afternoon quiet. An elderly couple walked a pair of beagles. Someone was stringing lights on the coffee shop—early for Christmas, or maybe they never took them down. The hardware store’s owner swept his front stoop. Small-town rhythms that felt like they belonged in another universe from the one I’d been living in.
The grocery store sprawled bigger than I’d expected, trying to be everything to everybody in a town too small for specialty shops. Beckett grabbed a cart and headed straight for produce like a man on a mission.
“Basics are fine,” I said as vegetables started piling up. Carrots, broccoli, peppers in red and yellow and green. My mouth watered. I used to cook with fresh ingredients like this allthe time; I could think of half a dozen recipes off the top of my head that I would love to make.
