I need to call Evan and tell him I made a mistake, just to forget what I said before and cancel the interview. I’ll apologize to him profusely and understand if it destroys our friendship. He’ll eventually drop me as a client, which will be fine because I won’t want to write anymore anyway. Thankfully, my writing income isn’t what I use to pay the bills; it’s just extra money that I’ve been saving for a rainy day. I’ve got my job. I’ve got my apartment.
Maybe I’ll get a cat.
It’s 8:00 p.m., so it’s late but not likeoh my God how could you call me at this ungodly hourlate. Plus, Evan’s my friend. Knowing me as he does, I’d be willing to bet that a part of him is even expecting this.
I don’t want to turn my phone back on, though. What if Beckett called back? What if he left a message? What if hedidn’t? What if my deepest suspicions are confirmed: that I’m just some secret he wants to hide away in the nether regions of his mind, pretend like it never happened, especially now that he’s a real author in an entirely different social class and tax bracket from me?
Something tells me Beckett Nash no longer lives in a basement apartment in Oceanside.
Just throw in the towel,I decide.Call off the interview, tell Evan you love him and that you’re sorry. Tap out and be done.
I wrap up in a bathrobe, sweep my hair up into a towel, and grab the phone from my nightstand, where it’s been charging. Turning it on, it begins to buzz, indicating a slew of e-mail notifications and one, two, no,threemissed calls.
I check the screen.
Beckett called at 5:53 p.m. That was just after I hung up on him.
He called again at 5:55 p.m.
And once more a little later, at 7:15.
There are voice mails, the phone tells me. I dial into my voice mail system to retrieve them, holding my breath.You can do hard things,I tell myself, and I believe it. I have suffered through way worse than listening to Beckett’s recorded voice on my phone.
The first message plays: “Melody? I think I just lost you. Maybe your phone got disconnected? It’s Beckett, by the way.”
Right on its heels, without giving me any time to process the ironic implications of the sentenceI think I just lost you, the next message plays: “Figured I’d try back again. Maybe your phone died. I’ll give it a little while, and hopefully you’ll get this. Give me a call when you do. Okay.”Click.
The third message begins with a long pause. “Hey.” This time, his voice is softer. “Now I’m thinking maybe you don’t want to talk to me. Although,I got an e-mail from my agent saying we were set for the interview withPeoplemagazine. So I’m not sure why you’re not picking up.” He sighs. “I’d really like to talk to you. Can you please call me back? It doesn’t matter what time. I just… Well, I just think we should talk. Discuss things, I guess? I don’t know. I’m rambling. I’m sorry. Just call me, okay? Please? Okay. Thanks.” Another lengthy few seconds of quiet. “Bye.”
Fuck,I think, ending the call.Everyone’s confirmed the interview. It’s going to be a lot harder to pull back on it now.
I stare at my phone screen, unsure of whether I should call Beckett back or just call Evan as planned.I think I just lost you.The words ring over and over in my head as I sigh deeply.
Suddenly, the phone comes alive, lighting up and vibrating so hard in my palm that I almost drop it.Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.
It’shim.
I don’t give myself time to think. I swipe at the screen. “Hello?” I say, trying to sound the opposite of the about-to-vomit way I actually feel.
“Melody,” he whispers. He says it again, louder. “Melody, hi. It’s me. Beckett.”
“Hey,” I say. I’m everything, all at once. I’m furious, hurt, cautious, overwhelmed by missing him, hating myself for hanging on every breath of sound he makes.
“You called me,” he points out.
“I did,” I say.
Neither one of us can find the next words, apparently, so we just stay like that for a beat. Silence, thick and muddy, hangs in the air between us.
“I, um,” he mumbles. “I don’t really know what to say.”
I wait to hear more, but he falls back into stillness. “Same,” I agree.
“I’m glad you called,” he says.
“You’re engaged,” I reply. Not the most graceful response, but those are the facts that spill out of my mouth.
“I am,” he says.
