“Out here,” he says from the balcony off his bedroom.
I walk out through the French doors and join him. It’s a glorious day, and the balcony is bathed in early-morning May sunshine. Beck has the table set with freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee, pastries, and croissants.
“This looks lovely, thanks,” I say as I slide onto the chair across from him.
“You’re welcome.” He hands me my coffee, and I smile as I detect the caramel scents.
“Figured you needed a sugar hit after a shitty night’s sleep.”
“I actually slept okay,” I admit. “At home, I regularly get nightmares, and it’s rare I get a full night’s sleep without medication.”
“I slept good too, which is unusual for me as well.”
We dive into our breakfast, not speaking much, but it’s not awkward. Amicable silences are part and parcel of our friendship, and I never feel the urge to fill the gaps in our conversation.
“I need to tell you about Brielle,” he says when we have finished eating. “If you have time.”
“I have time. It’s a quicker walk to the hospital from here, and I don’t have to leave yet.”
His fingers drum on the table, and his jean-clad knee taps up and down.
I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. “Don’t be nervous.”
“I need you to know the truth. I need to tell someone because it’s killing me inside.” His voice cracks, and pain gleams in his eyes. “I could tell Tate or Law, but I don’t want to. I want to tell you even though I’m terrified you’ll want nothing more to do with me.”
I scoot my chair in closer. “I’m not going anywhere, Beck.” I cup his face, feeling the sincerity in my words despite my previous concern. “Unless you give me the coordinates to the dead bodies, and then I’m out of here.” I attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere, but it doesn’t raise a smile.
Beck links his fingers in mine, holding tightly on to my hand. “I broke it off with her,” he says, staring deep into my eyes. “Five days before she took her own life, I ended things with Brielle. She called me relentlessly in the days that followed, but I ignored her. I was going to check in on her, but then it was too late. She had killed herself, and it was entirely my fault.”
ChapterFifty-Three
Beck
“Tell me everything,” she says, squeezing my hand and maintaining eye contact. “I know there’s got to be more to it than that.”
“There isn’t. I’m a horrible person. The end.”
“You’re not. Tell me how you came to break it off with her. I thought you said you couldn’t because of your father’s blackmail?”
“I was miserable, Stevie,” I admit, keeping a firm hold of her hand as I stare out over the immaculate grounds of the rear gardens behind us. “I was depressed, and my writing wasn’t even helping. I was getting sucked into this dark hole, and I was desperate. It was the day before I was due to go to London on a business trip. Dad stormed into my office with an engagement ring. He told me I was to propose when I returned from England, and I lost it. We had a very heated argument, and I was just done.”
Air whistles out of my mouth. She rubs soothing circles on the top of my hand with her thumb, helping to ground me. “I was all fired up, and I went straight to Brielle. I told her I couldn’t do it anymore. That it wasn’t fair for either of us and our fathers were assholes. She begged me not to do it. Said we could try to make it work. But I told her no.”
“I’m confused.” Lines appear on her smooth brow. “I thought she wasn’t into it either?”
“She wasn’t.”
“So why wouldn’t she just accept it? She was off the hook. You were the one making the decision, not her.”
My knee bounces when my foot taps the ground. “I don’t know why. I didn’t give her a chance to say much. I just told her I was making our breakup official when I returned from London and she was free of me then to properly live her life.”
“Do you think she harbored secret feelings for you? Is that why she reacted so strongly?”
I shrug. “I really don’t think so. Like I said, we tried at the start, but there was no spark at all. Sex was awkward, and it was clear we just weren’t into one another like that.”
“Maybe she changed her mind.”
“Maybe.” I lift our conjoined hands to my mouth and brush my lips across her knuckles. Stevie’s cheeks inflame, and I inwardly curse as confusion and panic races across her face. “Sorry.” I immediately let go of her hand. Heat creeps up my neck. “I’m not sure why I did that,” I lie.
