Page 37 of Beckett
“You need real food.” He tested the ripeness of avocados with surprising expertise. “Not just whatever’s cheapest. Besides this morning, when was the last time you had something that wasn’t a sandwich?”
I shrugged one shoulder, not answering.
I watched him shop with the same focused intensity he brought to everything. Checking expiration dates, comparing prices, but always choosing quality. When I reached for the small milk container, he replaced it with a half gallon. When I picked white bread, he added whole grain. Every bargain choice got upgraded.
“Beckett, I can’t afford this,” I protested as chicken, ground beef, and pork chops joined the growing mountain.
He stopped, hands gripping the cart handle, and really looked at me. “Then I’ll pay for half, and maybe we can have some meals together.”
I stopped for a second. Cooking for two was almost easier than cooking for one. It made sense. But it also meant spending more time with him. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
“Plus, I can’t stay in Lark’s house indefinitely. If I move in to a hotel”—which I wouldn’t because I couldn’t afford itandthey checked IDs—“it won’t have a big fridge or a stove.”
He stopped. “I have a plan. I know trust doesn’t come easy to you, but for right now, I’m asking you to go with me on this, okay? Trust me because I’d like to do something for a friend’s sister in the same way I believe he would’ve helped mine.”
“Do you have a sister?”
“Two, actually. One older, one younger.”
I nodded. “Okay, if you have a plan, I’ll trust you.” And hope I didn’t regret it.
At the cereal aisle, he turned to me. “What kind do you like?”
“I don’t need?—”
“What kind, Audra?”
Something in his voice, gentle under the gruffness, made my throat tight. “Honey Nut Cheerios.”
He grabbed a box, then added granola. “For yogurt,” he explained, like this was normal, like broken women living on borrowed time deserved yogurt with granola.
By checkout, the cart held more food than I’d bought in the last year combined. Real food. Fresh food. The kind I used to buy when life was normal, when my biggest worry was using lettuce before it went bad.
“Thank you,” I managed as he loaded bags into the truck.
He just nodded, but I caught him adding something to the last bag—a small bouquet of wildflowers that made my eyes burn.
The drive back, he took a different route. Instead of heading to Lark’s, Beckett turned down a dirt road that curved around the far side of the property. I’d never been back here, had assumed it was just unused land.
“Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer, just kept driving until a small cabin appeared among the pines. Tiny, maybe four hundred square feet, with a covered porch and windows reflecting afternoon sun.
“What is this?”
Beckett parked and got out without answering. I followed, confused, as he grabbed grocery bags and headed for the front door. That was when I noticed my backpack on the porch.
“Beckett…”
“It’s not much,” he said, unlocking the door. “Hasn’t been used in a while. It needs cleaning, but I checked it out earlier, so no critters. It’s got heat, electricity, running water. Real bed.”
I stepped inside, and my knees nearly buckled. A studio space with an actual bed in the corner—not a cot or asleeping bag but a real bed with a headboard and everything. A kitchenette with a stove and a refrigerator that hummed with electricity. A table with two chairs. A door that led to what had to be a bathroom—a private bathroom with a door that closed.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s yours.” He set grocery bags on the counter, looking everywhere but at me. “While you’re working here. Lark mentioned it ages ago, this old rental cabin she never uses.”
Four walls. A roof that wouldn’t leak. A door that locked. Heat that didn’t require risking my life to reach my car in the middle of the night. I pressed my hand against the wall to keep from falling.
