Chapter 10
It’s amazing how much I’ve changed now that she’s gone.
I used to see the potential in people. In Aruba with Beckett, I thought I could see a future for us. It wasn’t a clear picture, exactly. I couldn’t tell you the details, but the cloudy image was shrouded in hope. Now, when I meet someone new and I feel myself gravitate toward them, my mind asks a question that would never have dawned on the old me:I wonder how this will end.It’s so pessimistic. So unlike the girl I once was. Aruba was only two and a half years ago. It may as well have been in another life, given how different I’ve become.
I consider this as I sip my vodka seltzer at the kitchen table. I’m staring at the phone sitting before me, trying to ingest as much liquid courage as possible before dialing the number I’ve now saved to my contacts.
Beckett Nash, the king of gaslighting, the guy who told me he thought he was falling in love with me and who then proceeded to disappear for long enough to ensure that I would never trust a word he said after that—he probably won’t pick up a call from a number he doesn’t recognize, I tell myself.So, basically, all I need to do is be ready to leave a voicemail message.
I’m tempted to write myself a script. That seems silly, though. Beckett must be prepared for this; he’s agreed to the interview. He knows he’s going to have to talk to me at some point. He obviously hasn’t forgotten me, giventhe fact that he wrote a whole book about our week together. I haven’t finished reading it, but I am undoubtedly the female lead, especially given Evan’s intel regarding the sex scenes and his thinly-veiled use of the nameHarmony. It’s obvious I was nothing more than fodder for a love story, material for him to use, toss aside, and monetize. I’m not a hypocrite; I realize that I also wrote abouthim, but it’s different becauseI’mnot the one who ghosted him after our week together. Also, everything we didmeantsomething to me, so my writing was as much therapy and catharsis as it was storytelling.
Who are we kidding?I sigh.
I had a deadline, and I was afraid of getting dropped by my publisher. I’mnota six-figure author, unlike some of us. No, some of us need to make hard decisions sometimes and just tell whatever story is accessible, keep our heads down, say a prayer, and hope sales are decent.
So, I drank a little more than I’d like to admit in order to get in the zone, and I let the words escape my heart and flood the page. I hoped that by expunging them from my body, I might find some peace. It didn’t work, though.
I just felt lonely.
When I was penning some of those scenes, I wondered if Beckett would ever read them and, if so, I puzzled over how the story might make him feel. I told myself not to care—that I didn’t deserve happiness anyway and that if he’d wanted to make sure I was okay, he would have treated me like more than just some cheap vacation fling. That was the part that hurt the most—the fact that I sacrificed everything, only to find out that I meant nothing to him. Still, I was a total idiot when I was writing those scenes. Some part of my subconscious thought that he might regret his choices in hindsight, that maybe he’d even go so far as to try to come find me. Seek me out and try again, like in every romance movie ever. Even though I had become this hardened version of myself, therewas still that tiny little piece of me that wanted us to somehow find our happily-ever-after.
I feel like my mom would have wanted that.
But seeing as how Beckett was able to just move on (a fact that was evidenced both by his silence following our trip and by the multi-carat diamond on Analise’s left hand), it was pretty easy to speculate that writing our story did not have the same effect on him.
I’d love to know if he told her about me.
My guess is no.
I draw in a breath, taking a decent-sized swig of the vodka seltzer. I swish it around my mouth mindlessly and swallow.
I ponder whether I can continue to read Beckett’s book now that my imminent future involves seeing him again in real life. I’m nervous about his fiction and my truth colliding—or worse, the power of story potentiallyrewritinga week that played out in my mind differently than it did in his novel. I relived so much of that time in my own writing, having to see it all through Beckett’s eyes might be enough to push me over the edge.
Still, he must be expecting to speak to me at some point, whether by phone or in the actual interview. So, I’m sure the idea of me calling him isn’t too much of a stretch.
I finally inhale and hold the air in my lungs while I tap the green button next to his name. Pressing the phone to my ear, I listen to it ring. Once. Twice. I brace myself for the voicemail message, rehearsing the lines in my head. Then—
“Hello?” a voice says. It’s unmistakably him.
Just one word—two syllables—and I am unglued.
I clear my throat, because I find that it has suddenly closed up and gone dry. “Um, hi,” I say. “Beckett?” My mental script has vanished and taken with it my ability to form a cohesive opening sentence, evidently.
“Yes?” he replies. His voice is tentative, as if maybe he’s expecting me to be a telemarketer or a doctor’s office or something.
I suck down some of the vodka soda, take a cleansing breath and try again. “It’s, um. It’s Melody,” I muster. Then, just in case he’s forgotten, I add, “Adams.”
The line is silent.
“Hello?” I ask again after what feels like the right amount of time to wonder if we’ve been disconnected.
His response is small and whispered. “Melody?” he asks.
My heart thumps so heavy in my chest that I’m unable to register any of this. Adrenaline takes over. “Yeah. Hey,” I say.
“Hang on a sec, okay?”
“Sure.” There’s a rustle on his end of the line, coupled with my pulse pounding like the bass line at a nightclub, and I am at a crossroads. I could hang up the phone and throw it out the window of my fifth-floor apartment, with any luck smashing it on the pavement below, or I could sit here and try not to hyperventilate while I await his return.
