the pages of a worn paperback. Printed pages are stacked high; others are taped to the wall and scattered on the floor. Beckett lives in a dictionary.
He picks up a big backpack from the corner, the kind you see college kids hauling across Europe when they’re finding themselves. He tosses out more books with dog-eared pages and stuffs a red pen in his mouth as he throws collared shirts over his shoulder and fishes to the bottom.
“I remembered I have this.” Beckett holds a small bag up in the air. “It’s a first aid kit.”
I back up a step and shake my head, the panic pooling in the pit of my stomach. I can deal with my own mess. I don’t need him. I only want to say goodbye.
“I’m fine.”
“Whatever you say, Everly.” Beckett doesn’t let me retreat. He steers me into the bathroom. My protest dies away when his hands grip my waist, warm and steady. He hauls me up onto the bathroom sink, never stepping away. “I’m not asking you to marry me, so keep your wig on.”
I can’t help it then. I smile.
Beckett
Everly likes the word just .
It’s just a scratch, just a split head. I’m sure she thinks she’s just a girl who just lives, and it pisses me off. In writing, that word is filler, something you search for and destroy when revising. It’s unnecessary and clogs up pacing. I think that’s the only reason I don’t listen. I know she doesn’t mean it.
I drag her into the bathroom instead. If she can come crashing into my life, then I can make sure she doesn’t leave with a cracked skull. Seems like a fair trade.
She’s smiling back at me, even with a bruise as purple as a fucking grape across the left side of her face. It’s yellow toward the edges, and there’s a bloody gash above her temple a few inches long.
I hate that she brushes it off like it’s not a problem—and she doesn’t want to be one, either. I mean, it’s not her fault I don’t want to get involved with anyone. It’s not her fault I feel this strange connection to her whenever we’re in the same room. Hell, I was fucking dreaming about her when she knocked on my door like the world was ending. It’s not her fault. It’s mine.
I smile back, then look down at the kit in my hands to avoid her eyes. She’s so quiet, so watchful. There’s no hiding with her. It makes me uncomfortable. I clear my throat and unzip the bag, shuffling through until I locate the alcohol wipes and liquid stitches.
“Are you a doctor or something?” Her breath is hot my neck. I back up a step, not sure how I ended up so close.
Even bruised, she has the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. I fight back the urge to run my fingers over her skin, to wipe away the pain. “Want me to be?”
“Smooth.” Everly laughs, and I’m back standing between her legs, as if she has an invisible tether around my waist, always drawing me back in.
I think about telling her the truth, but keep quiet and rip open the alcohol packet instead. Its assaulting smell mixes with the bleach I used earlier to clean the bathroom. It feels and smells sterile in here, as empty as the smile she’s fighting to keep on her face for me.
“This might hurt.”
She nods, her hands wrapping tight around my middle. The quilt slips down onto the sink counter, pooling around her waist. She’s sitting in front of me in that shirt, revealing her hot pink bra, the plane of her flat stomach. Her legs brush against my jeans, and I have to make myself think of something ugly or cold—anything to focus me. She’s wrapping herself around me, half-naked, gazing up at me as if we’re strangers who’ve known each other forever.
I feel it, too. I know her without knowing anything about her at all.
I swallow and dab the alcohol wipe over her skin, cradling her head in my hand. She leans into my palm because she’s set on fucking undoing me. She doesn’t even know she’s doing it, but bit by slow bit, I’m unraveling before her. I don’t want her to be like this. I
He picks up a big backpack from the corner, the kind you see college kids hauling across Europe when they’re finding themselves. He tosses out more books with dog-eared pages and stuffs a red pen in his mouth as he throws collared shirts over his shoulder and fishes to the bottom.
“I remembered I have this.” Beckett holds a small bag up in the air. “It’s a first aid kit.”
I back up a step and shake my head, the panic pooling in the pit of my stomach. I can deal with my own mess. I don’t need him. I only want to say goodbye.
“I’m fine.”
“Whatever you say, Everly.” Beckett doesn’t let me retreat. He steers me into the bathroom. My protest dies away when his hands grip my waist, warm and steady. He hauls me up onto the bathroom sink, never stepping away. “I’m not asking you to marry me, so keep your wig on.”
I can’t help it then. I smile.
Beckett
Everly likes the word just .
It’s just a scratch, just a split head. I’m sure she thinks she’s just a girl who just lives, and it pisses me off. In writing, that word is filler, something you search for and destroy when revising. It’s unnecessary and clogs up pacing. I think that’s the only reason I don’t listen. I know she doesn’t mean it.
I drag her into the bathroom instead. If she can come crashing into my life, then I can make sure she doesn’t leave with a cracked skull. Seems like a fair trade.
She’s smiling back at me, even with a bruise as purple as a fucking grape across the left side of her face. It’s yellow toward the edges, and there’s a bloody gash above her temple a few inches long.
I hate that she brushes it off like it’s not a problem—and she doesn’t want to be one, either. I mean, it’s not her fault I don’t want to get involved with anyone. It’s not her fault I feel this strange connection to her whenever we’re in the same room. Hell, I was fucking dreaming about her when she knocked on my door like the world was ending. It’s not her fault. It’s mine.
I smile back, then look down at the kit in my hands to avoid her eyes. She’s so quiet, so watchful. There’s no hiding with her. It makes me uncomfortable. I clear my throat and unzip the bag, shuffling through until I locate the alcohol wipes and liquid stitches.
“Are you a doctor or something?” Her breath is hot my neck. I back up a step, not sure how I ended up so close.
Even bruised, she has the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. I fight back the urge to run my fingers over her skin, to wipe away the pain. “Want me to be?”
“Smooth.” Everly laughs, and I’m back standing between her legs, as if she has an invisible tether around my waist, always drawing me back in.
I think about telling her the truth, but keep quiet and rip open the alcohol packet instead. Its assaulting smell mixes with the bleach I used earlier to clean the bathroom. It feels and smells sterile in here, as empty as the smile she’s fighting to keep on her face for me.
“This might hurt.”
She nods, her hands wrapping tight around my middle. The quilt slips down onto the sink counter, pooling around her waist. She’s sitting in front of me in that shirt, revealing her hot pink bra, the plane of her flat stomach. Her legs brush against my jeans, and I have to make myself think of something ugly or cold—anything to focus me. She’s wrapping herself around me, half-naked, gazing up at me as if we’re strangers who’ve known each other forever.
I feel it, too. I know her without knowing anything about her at all.
I swallow and dab the alcohol wipe over her skin, cradling her head in my hand. She leans into my palm because she’s set on fucking undoing me. She doesn’t even know she’s doing it, but bit by slow bit, I’m unraveling before her. I don’t want her to be like this. I
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