Page 49 of Beckett
“No, I just—” He paused, choosing words carefully. “You’ve been surviving on a pretty significant budget. Didn’t expect gourmet.”
“You learn to make magic with dollar store ingredients and hot plates.” The confession slipped out before I could stop it. “Motel cooking becomes an art form when it’s that or starve.”
His fork stilled. “How long have you been running?”
The question landed between us like a grenade, pin already pulled. He knew. Of course he knew. I could deflect, maintain the fiction that I was just down on my luck. But he’d shown me his demons yesterday—involuntary, maybe, but still raw and real.
“Ten months.” My voice came out steady despite the tremor in my hands. “Started a few months after Todd died.”
“Why?”
Such a simple question. Such an impossible answer. I took a long pull of beer, buying time while my mind sorted through half-truths and careful omissions.
“Life got complicated.” Each word was chosen for its vagueness. “The kind of complicated that makes disappearing the safest option.”
“Someone hurt you.” Not a question. His knuckles had gone white around his fork. “The bruises I gave you yesterday weren’t the first time.”
Self-disgust colored every bit of his tone.
My hand moved unconsciously to my arm, where his fingers had gripped during his episode. The purple bruises hurt, but knowing he hadn’t meant the pain on purpose somehow made a difference. “Did you see them?”
I realized too late I’d confirmed his suspicions. “I didn’t have to.”
“How did you know about them?”
He shook his head. “I know what I can be like during my episodes. Hell, Coop has taken a fist to the jaw more than once.”
“Well, you didn’t hit me, and my arm will be fine.”
“But they weren’t your first bruises.”
“No,” I admitted. “They weren’t the first.”
The temperature in the room plummeted. When I looked up, his expression had gone lethal—not the hot anger of impulse but the cold fury of someone who knew exactly how much damage he could inflict.
“Who?”
“It’s complicated.” I took a long pull of beer, avoiding his eyes. “More complicated than I can explain.”
“Complicated how?”
“Just…complicated.” The words came out small, insufficient. But it was all I could give him without opening doors I needed to keep locked. I was thankful when he let it go.
We ate in silence while the weight of unspoken truths pressed down. But it wasn’t uncomfortable—more like we were both adjusting to this new gravity between us.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “About yesterday. I haven’t had an episode that bad in months. Usually, there’s a trigger—a sound, smell, memory. But yesterday, it sort of came out of nowhere.”
“Todd had them too.” I offered the words like breadcrumbs, leading us away from dangerous territory. “Not as severe, but there were nights when I was visiting he’d wake up sweating and yelling. Times he’d disappear into himself completely.”
“How did you help?”
“I didn’t. I just…existed in the same space. Made sure he knew where he was when he came back.” My throat tightened. “My presence was all I had to offer. It never felt like enough.”
“No, that was exactly enough. Just being there. Not trying to fix. Just accepting him for who he was.”
I hoped so. I’d always thought Todd and I would have years to talk about what he went through. We hadn’t.
“Todd would have added hot sauce to this.” I forced lightness into my voice. “Man had no respect for carefully balanced flavors.”
