No, I am not perfect.
Yes, I still have a million insecurities, but Beckett is the reason that I am learning to be ok with them.
I don’t have any reason to go back to Georgia. Kaden is only a plane ride away. Mocha is here, and Beckett is here. I can do school anywhere in the world. Even if I wanted to attend in person, there are other colleges in the area that I could get into.
I’ve thought about this a lot over the last three weeks. I didn’t know what I wanted. But I knew that I needed to stay here.
I also know that I wouldn’t have been able to take Mocha with me and leave Beckett all alone. I didn’t want to leave Mocha and make him feel like I abandoned him.
I did my research, reached out to my school counselors, and talked to my landlord at Pine Lake. Everything worked out how it was supposed to in order for me to stay here.
Which means that I can continue my work with the shelters, and I can continue to make a difference in the lives of thousands of animals who are like Mocha.
I switched my major to Business & Marketing. Which I think will help me out in the long run if I want to keep doing social media. I didn’t really have a plan before. I was just taking classes to help me get a bachelor’s degree, which is a horrible plan.
I may not have itallfigured out, but at least I have a path now. A direction to follow, and one that feels right.
I feel like I’m starting to thrive in the environment that I have created here in his home.
I know that some days will still be hard. But I don’t have to face those days alone anymore. I have someone who will hold me when I cry, and help me pick up all my broken pieces when I’m ready to try again.
I didn’t really know what I wanted to get him for his birthday, until I was looking through a drawer of pictures in the hallway by Mason’s old room, in the desk against the wall.
I stumbled across the one that I handed him, and it triggered the memory of the comment Briar made when I was a kid. I knew that in my heart, that’s what I needed to do for him.
I did hours’ worth of research, shopped around, and probably half a dozen dealerships before I met Derek, the owner of the Indian Dealership in Denver.
He’s an old friend of Beckett’s and was willing to help me. He never once made me feel stupid for not knowing anything about what I was looking for.
The only thing I told him was that I wanted it to be all black and that I had no budget. I just wanted whatever he felt like was the perfect bike for Beckett.
Within a few days, he was able to have exactly what I was looking for in the shop.
Derek then helped me get some basic safety gear, and that was that. He held onto it at the dealership until yesterday, when I had him deliver it when Beck was at work.
It was literally the hardest secret I’ve ever had to keep. I have no idea how he didn’t try to get the information out of me.
I’m just glad he never asked any direct questions, or I would have never been able to lie to him.
I don’t know how long we drive for. We just drive until we get hungry. We pull into a little town a few hours north of Timberline. A cute little mountain village that has the best cafe/sandwich shop in all of Colorado, in my opinion.
“Hi, can I get your number seven, on flatbread, please, with no ham, extra turkey. And to drink, can I get a spiced chai latte, with oat milk, 16 oz, iced, one shot espresso.”
The lady taking my order nods, and with a smile, she writes down my order before looking over to Beckett.
“Can I just get the same thing?” he says, and I roll my eyes playfully. He always does that; he never chooses for himself.
He pays, and we go sit down in a booth at the back of the cafe. He sits across from me, and he looks good; the black leather jacket makes him all rugged and shit. He’s got a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his jaw that makes him look delectable.
“Do you think that they call themselves baristas or sandwich artists?” I ask, trying to distract myself from how attractive he is.
He thinks really hard about the question before saying, “I think that they would call themselves…Beanwhich Makers.”
As soon as the atrocious words leave his lips, I can’t stop myself from laughing. “That was awful,” I tease. He smiles at me and grabs my hands in his.
“It was pretty creative,” He says, trying to defend himself.
“Sure, I’ll give you that, it was pretty creative,” I say with a smile.
