Page 15 of Salvaged Heart
He seemed to stew on that for a moment before sighing and setting it aside. “Laurel’s got to head back to Knoxville in the morning.”
“Why’s she bailing?”Andwhydoes it sound like you’re not going with her?
“The vet clinic called.”
“I didn’t know she had a pet.”
“What? No, it’s the place she wanted to intern this summer. She got waitlisted, but I guess a last-minute opening popped up.” When I continued to gawk at him, no idea what he was talking about, he added, “That’s what she is going to school for…to be a vet.”
Shit, a good brother would have known that. It was lucky I never claimed to be a good brother.
“Ah, yes. Of course.” I pulled myself up into a sitting position and scrambled around for the pack of cigarettes I knew couldn’t be far. Beckham found it first. For a heart-stopping moment, I thought he might chuck it in the lake, but instead, he flipped the top open, pulled one out with his long fingers, and leaned forward to place it in my mouth.
“You should quit these.” He added before lifting my Zippo and lighting the end. I took a long drag, not breaking eye contact with him. Those damn eyes would be the death of me if I wasn’t careful. I bet he and my sister did a lot of intense eye contact fucking, how could they not.
Lucky bitch.
“There are worse things I could do.” The drugs currently raging through my system, for example.
Beckham shot me a look that said he saw right through me. “You think you can stand a whole summer just you, me, and the ghosts of Mitchell’s past?”
Way worse things plagued me than whatever haunted this old house, but I kept that to myself. “I don’t know. Laurel’s warmth towards me made this whole experience tolerable, after all.” I scoffed as he stood and wandered back in the direction of the house.
The following morning,I found myself sitting on the top step of the front porch, sipping coffee so strong it could have powered a nuclear reactor. I watched Laurel and Beckham say goodbye to one another for the tenth time in so many minutes. The hot liquid was almost as bitter as the looks Laurel kept shooting my way as they whispered back and forth quietly enough that I could tell I was the topic of conversation.
“You don’t need to worry, Laurel. Your watchdog won’t neglect his duties while you’re gone.” I interrupted, raising my hand in mock surrender when she threw me another fiery look. “I’ll behave.”
“That wasn’t what we were discussing.” She hissed.
“No, I’m sure it wasn’t.” I rolled my eyes and left them to finish wishing each other goodbye for the eleventh and twelfth times.
Back inside, I tried to busy myself while waiting for Beckham’s return. The truth was that Laurel being removed from the equation was precisely what I needed. Her constant hawk eyes on me made my entire purpose for being here harder to accomplish. I had thought spending more time around the two of them, feigning normalcy, feigning sobriety, would have caused her to back off my case a little, but no such luck. She was mistrustful as ever.
Rightfully so, but still.
Less than ten minutes later, Beckham finally came back inside. “She make it off okay?” I asked, not out of politeness but needing confirmation she was finally out of my hair.
“Just you and me now.” Something low in my gut liked the sound of that very much. “So the living room needs one last coat of paint, and we need to start dismantling the furniture in the primary bedroom. Want to flip a coin for who gets what?”
“How about we tag team both?” The words escaped before I could catch them. What in the world was I thinking? This was the opportunity I had been waiting for to be alone, and I’d just glued us together for the rest of the day. I continued anyway, “We could start here while the light’s still good and then move upstairs?”
He flashed me that gorgeous smile of his. When Beckham smiled, his entire face lit up with joy. The normally chiseled planes of his face grew soft, and his eyes sparkled with mirth. And when he smiled at you, when you were the sole focus of that delight—God, it was breathtaking.
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Let’s do it.”
We quietly worked together, gathering supplies, checking the drop clothes were still snuggly in place, and pouring paint before rock-paper-scissoring for who would get the torture of cutting in and who got the easy way out with the roller. He won, so I dragged a ladder into the corner of the room and clambered up it to begin. Beckham connected his phone to the speaker, turning on a country album, much to my disdain, but I had to admit it wasn’t half bad.
“So,” Beckham started.
He didn’t need to say the following words for me to know where this was heading.
“You want to talk about it?”
I should have known his avoidance of the topic over the last week was too good to be true. Faking ignorance was the best option, not that he would buy it.
“Talk about what?”
