ChapterForty-Two
Beck
“Ihave something to show you,” I tell Stevie one night in early April. We’re sitting on our bench, drinking coffee she bought. Stevie insists we take turns paying for drinks, so we alternate nights.
Since that first night, we’ve settled into a regular routine, meeting here every night before we make our respective hospital visits.
Neither of us ever commented on it or made any commitment.
We just continue to show up here, night after night, and it’s an unspoken agreement.
I like talking with Stevie, and I’m opening up to her in a way I rarely do with others. I think I’m that person for her too. I get the sense before the accident Stevie was quite an open book.
She’s now one of my closest friends. My best confidant. Someone who makes it easier to face each day. Even if she still doesn’t know my most closely guarded secrets. I value her friendship too much to risk losing it if I shared my truths. However, there is one truth I’m dying to share with her. I’d rather show Stevie, and I’m trying to pluck up the courage to ask her to my place.
We don’t talk about Brielle or Garrick much anymore. Our friendship is an escape from reality. Yet we are here for one another, understanding our situations better than anyone else can, and when we need to discuss reality, we do.
It’s how I know she’s nervous tonight and why.
And how she understands my frustration when we part ways in the hallway in the hospital every night.
Mostly, we talk about our dreams and ambitions, music, movies, books, and a little about work and our families. We exchange stories of our past, places we’ve been to, places we’d like to go to. Discuss our favorite foods. She tries to convince me to go to yoga, and I attempt to coax her into altitude training.
These conversations have become the highlight of my day and something I look forward to from the moment I wake. It’s everything I need to forget the drudgery and pain of my day-to-day life, and I think it’s the same for Stevie too.
“Okay, what is it?” she asks, yanking me out of my head. Stevie fidgets with the skirt of her dress, looking anxious and distracted.
“I was hoping we could grab something to eat after our visits tonight, and I can show you some research I found. It’s not something I want to discuss out here.”
It’s brighter now in the evenings, and it doesn’t usually get dark until after seven. But that’s not the reason. I unearthed a ton of research, and I don’t want the pages blowing away. I also don’t want to discuss the topic here. Mostly, it’s because I think she’ll need a distraction after tonight. And maybe, if we start meeting away from this bench, I can broach the subject of cooking something for her at home so I can show her the secret hiding behind the walls of my home office. I think she’ll get a thrill out of seeing it, and it’s why I haven’t said anything to her yet even though I’ve been tempted when the subject comes up in conversation.
My eyes linger on the wrapped package propped against the side of the bench, and I wonder what gift she bought him.
“I don’t think so, Beck.” She chews on the corner of her lip. “I won’t be the best company later.”
“That’s why I thought you might need a distraction.”
“I’ll probably just cry and embarrass you in public. Or not,” she mutters, pulling her legs up to her chest. “I still haven’t cried. Not since those first few days in the hospital. What does that say about me?”
“Not what you think it says. You’re a survivor, Stevie. You do what you must to survive, and no one should ever give you shit about how you do that.”
“How do you always know the right thing to say?”
“I do?” I arch a brow. I’m not normally good with the spoken word. Written words are more my thing.
“Yes, you do.” A cheeky grin materializes on her face, and I’m glad to see it. She’s been very depressed this week, in the run-up to Garrick’s twenty-second birthday. Even organizing tonight’s birthday party for him hasn’t lifted her spirits. “Must be because you’re ancient,” she quips, and I nudge her playfully in her side.
Her eyes sparkle, and her face glows. I stare at her in a kind of daze for a few seconds. She’s wearing makeup tonight, and her hair is hanging in loose waves down her back. Stevie is a beautiful girl, but she’s absolutely breathtaking tonight.
“Twenty-seven is not ancient,” I say, snapping out of it.
“Almost twenty-eight,” she fires back, and I chuckle.
“Math clearly wasn’t your best subject at school,” I tease. “My birthday isn’t until October. Last I checked, six months is notalmostin any language.”
“You’re still practically geriatric compared to me.”
I roll my eyes. “Age is just a number.”
