Page 110 of Perfect Composition
It might be the only real thing I’ve got left since I gave up everything else in my life to wait for a fairy tale that just isn’t meant to come true.
CHAPTER FORTY
PAIGE
Conversation starter: If you could fly away for a weekend to do anything with a celeb, what would it be and who? Keep it clean please! I reserve the right to remove any and all comments.
— Viego Martinez, Celebrity Blogger
My phone buzzes for the umpteenth time since the photo of Beckett and Erzulie hit the world’s most prominent social media sites. My only saving grace is I’ve had the excuse of being able to push everyone off by letting them know I’ve been busy at the hospital, which for the last week has been the God’s honest truth. Between the two-day mandatory orientation, being integrated with my new staff, filling out mountains of paperwork to satisfy my credential transfer, and staying late to take every mandatory training course slated for me for the foreseeable future, I’ve managed to successfully dodge my incoming calls.
Until now.
I’m clutching my phone in my hand as if it’s about to bite me. Given the choice between tackling a Western diamondback rattler or answering this call, I question which I would rather face. I press the button to answer. “Hello, Austyn.”
“What the ever-loving hell is wrong with you, Mama?” are the first words I hear from my child in a week.
Well, I guess she’s as much Beckett’s now as she is mine. Still, as much as she may try to justify what happened in Los Angeles to me, I’m still her mother. So, it’s no surprise my voice comes out as cold as ice when I reply. “What a lovely greeting.”
“If Uncle E hadn’t tracked your phone, I’d have thought you were dead! This isn’t who we are.”
“What isn’t who we are, Austyn?” Forget work; I’m not going to get another thing done. I start shutting programs down as quickly as the computer will allow. I don’t even care if I lose my place in the training I was in the middle of being subjected to on sexual harassment. So, I have to take it again. So what? What else do I have to do to fill my nights?
Certainly not spend time with one of the two people I moved to this part of the country to be with.
Tears prick my eyes as I listen to my daughter rant about how irresponsible it was for me not to return her calls until finally I break in with, “Austyn Melissa Kensington, did you leave me an actual voice message to indicate there was an emergency?” Not that I’ve listened to any of the ones Beckett has left for me after the first—hearing his voice would have killed me. But Jesse left a frantic message urging me to return his call. Due to my father’s ongoing medical condition, I briefly managed to connect with him. Once I found out all was well down in Texas, that he was merely doing his big-brother duties checking in on me, I stumbled out an explanation that I just couldn’t talk about it yet.
Being the solitary man he is, he respected that.
But daily voicemails and texts for a conversation from Beckett have swamped my phone, even as pings of random love emojis from Austyn have decorated my screen.
I’m not ready to discuss my pain; will I ever be?
The air crackles between us before she replies sullenly, “No, ma’am.”
“Then you might excuse me for not responding when I’m, oh, I don’t know, settling in at a new job.” It’s a cop-out, and I know it.
So does she based on the fact she immediately declares, “That’s not the reason you didn’t contact me back. You just didn’t want me to lecture you about possibly making the worst mistake of your life. You need to talk to Dad, Mama. Please, if only for me. Just talk to him.”
I don’t know how long I stand there holding the phone to my ear, wounds shredding me apart. I recall the words Beckett told me about how Carys went to war for him when the news was worth fighting over. And this wasn’t. All this was worth was a voice message of “It’s not what it appears, baby. Call me and we’ll talk about it.” Supposedly, neither was him leaving me behind twenty years ago.
Or at least that’s what he convinced me.
I wrap my arm around my waist to hold in the scream that wants to erupt from the depths of the belly that carried his child. The same child that’s now chastising me for not giving him a chance. “It’s every mother’s hope their child never lives through the same pain they experience.”
“Mama…”
“Hush.” My voice is a trembling whip.
And for once, Austyn does just that.
“Feeling like this isn’t a choice; it’s a sentence. I just want to know what I did so wrong in this life to deserve this. I alternate between moving around in a void and so much pain, I want to vomit. Again. This feeling is a wound that’s not closing. There’s no pretending it’s tolerable. I have no defense against this because I didn’t the first time it happened either. But back then, I had you nurturing my heart. And this time I don’t.” My voice cracks. “Because here you are pleadinghiscase and refusing to let me be.”
Her sharply indrawn breath is the only sign she’s even listening. I whisper, “Not even on my worst enemy would I wish this pain. I’d have rather never found your father again to have lived through this.”
With that, I pull the phone away from my ear. I can hear my daughter squawking. I know I’ve said far too much that will for certain get back to Beckett, no doubt redoubling his effort to reach me. But right now, I can’t care. I just need to escape for a few hours where I can lock out anyone who knows about the connection between me and Beckett Miller. Even if that escape is in my own mind.
Grabbing my briefcase, I throw the strap over my shoulder. I flick off the lights and make my way to the elevator. Punching the button with all my might, I do it again and again, the small but annoying task a singular vent for my frustration.
