Page 108 of A Not So Merry Rescue
willa
Gettingover a broken heart is for the birds.
By the end of January, I’ve written over fifty thousand words, enough for one book and some of the next. The words bleed out of me. Some days, I fell into old habits, forgetting to eat and drink, never mind showering. A few nights, I was up until after three, not wanting to stop in fear I’d hit writer’s block again.
And throughout it all, visions of Beckett loomed in the forefront.
When my eyes opened, I’d think of waking up in his arms.
When I poured coffee, I’d remember the taste of the cups he brewed.
When I laid down to sleep, it was his face behind my closed lids.
He’s everywhere. He wasn’t even in my space, yet I can’t eradicate him. It’s a problem.
I had hoped he’d be in touch, but other than his reply to my “I’m home” text message, he’s been radio silent. Which was stupid since we both knew our relationship wasn’t there. He and I are over. It’d be best to remember that.
Shania called when the package was delivered, her enthusiasm both a balm to my soul and a reminder of what I was missing.She didn’t mention Beckett, but his spirit somehow joined our conversation.
I set a tentative deadline with my editor, and even though the first draft is finished, I’m not sure the final copy will be done in time. That’s the self-doubt talking, the “it’s going to flop because it’s been so long since I released a book and no one wants to hear from me.” It’s utter crap because my social media following continues to grow, thanks mostly to my PA who continues to post engaging content. Occasionally, I’ll pop on and interact. Shania tagged me in a post after the new year, but she didn’t share our picture and her location is private, so it’s not like people can figure out where I was.
Alanna, the bookstore owner, emailed me, thanking me profusely for the donations and swag. She ended with, “If you ever find yourself back in Winterberry, please, please, please stop in.” I ignored that part of her email in my response.
I won’t be back in Winterberry.
I stalked Beckett online, typing his name into Google to see what came up. I hit the mother lode because the guy’s name is mentioned like every month on one Winterberry site or another. I smiled and cried my way through the articles, staring at his face from decades past and then the most recent one announcing him as the winner of the Main Street Lights Spectacular. I didn’t know it had an official name. There were pictures of every year since the competition began, and I’m probably biased, but Beckett’s was by far superior.
It sucks how much I miss him.
I wouldn’t have thought this much misery was possible, to miss someone I knew for a week. It’s absurd the amount of agony I feel. Even my therapist agrees. She did credit Beckett with giving me the closure I needed. For that alone, I’ll be eternally grateful for the man.
Clem convinced me it was time to set up a dating profile and “get back on the horse.” I let her do it all, including talking to one guy and setting up the date. Unfortunately, since we aren’tidentical—and she’s married and lives hundreds of miles away—I couldn’t send her on the date. He was a nice guy, but there was no spark. Even if Beckett hadn’t been on my mind, I didn’t see a future with this guy. Even as friends.
I’ve since logged out of the app and have no plans to try again.
I’ll get there someday. I don’t want to be alone forever, but someday isn’t here yet.
I booked a week-long vacation to North Carolina to visit my family. We celebrated a late Christmas and New Year’s, and Clem and I spent the rest of the week working out, drinking coffee, and discussing my week with Beckett. She convinced me his “fabrication” about my car not being able to be fixed was romantic and showed how much he cared for me. I can’t say she was wrong.
I even spent time at my parents’ house for dinner twice. It was tolerable, but only because it’s annoying enough to help get my mind off Beckett. Of course, as soon as I left, he was front and center again.
Clem’s ringtone pulls me out of my head.
“Hello?”
“You home?”
“It’s eight at night. Where else would I be?”
“You dressed?”
“Does a baggy sweatshirt and flannel PJ pants count as being dressed?”
“Are you wearing a bra?”
I’ve been a little lax about wearing one lately. Mostly because every time I go to put one on, even if he hasn’t seen it, Beckett comes to mind. Mainly, what he’d say if he saw it. How much he would worship my breasts. To combat this, I stopped wearing fancy ones and only wear a sports bra to leave the house.
I peek inside my shirt. “It’s old, but it’s there. Why the sudden fascination with my undergarments?”
