“Whatever it is, just tell me,” he says gruffly.
I tilt my head, shocked. “What do you mean?”
He lifts his chin in my direction. “You do that when you’re trying to figure out how to break news to someone.”
“I do not,” I tell him, adamantly, then pause. Damn. “Okay, well this time, yeah, but-”
“Mhm,” he interrupts. “Told you. So what is it?”
I sigh and drop my head back. “I don’t have any clothes.” I can tell he’s waiting for me to say more, so I look back up at him.
“The pipe burst all over my clothes, my books, my photo albums,” I explain. Admitting the last part was a bit rough, and I can see his eyes soften as a tiny sob makes its way over the lump in my throat and into the world.
“Oh, Clover,” he says, coming over to sit next to me.
He wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me against him, and all of the stress, anxiety, fear, and sadness that I’ve bottled up come pouring out of me.
“They were Mom’s, and I don’t know if they’ll be okay. I laid them out of the way and flat, and put the only dry clothes I managed to scrounge up on top of them,” I babble, my emotional filter officially gone. “I moved back here because Brynn and your folks are the only family I have left. I have nowhere else to go; I’m scared, and now I’m soaking wet in your house after ruining your daughter’s bedtime because my new house is doing an amazing rendition of the fountains at the Bellagio.”
When I was a kid, Beckett would sometimes find me outside after my mom died. I didn’t— and still don’t— like to cry in front of people, but Beck was the only person I felt safe enough to do it around. As far as I know, he never told anyone, and neither did I. It was the only time he wasn’t my best friend’s annoying, know-it-all brother. It’s how it began. He understood. I didn’t have to be strong for him. When I would have panic attacks, he instinctively knew to squeeze me. I just needed to be squeezed; I required pressure.
When I moved away and no longer had Beck, I invested in a hefty weighted blanket. I thought it was doing the job, but now that I’m here with Beck’s arms around me, squeezing me again, I realize I was so, so wrong. Nothing does the job like this.
He keeps his arms around me until my breathing calms and I’m not shaking anymore. He always lets me pull away first. I wipe my eyes and laugh dryly.
“Sorry about that,” I whisper, face flushed from crying and embarrassment.
“Clover Jane, don’t you ever apologize for that,” he scolds me, and it makes me smile.
He stands and holds out his hand for me to take. I squint at him in mock suspicion, but really I’m studying him. How his face has filled out. How his short, dark curls now have grays peppered throughout them. How his facial hair would feel scraping along . . . what the fuck?
This is Beckett. I’m clearly in distress if I’m thinking about what he would feel like between my thighs. Good god, Clover.
“My arm is going to fall off,” he says.
“Oh no, how will you do all the ranch boy things without it?” I retort, putting my hand in his and letting him pull me up.
“Ranch boy?!” He asks, in mock offense. “It’s a cowboy, if anything.” He pretends to let me fall, and I squeal. I cover my mouth quickly, not wanting to wake Lennon up.
Beckett’s deep laugh fills the room and the hollow of my chest. “You’re good. She was tuckered out. Let’s get you a hot shower. I’ll get you some clothes and blankets.”
“Your house is really fucking nice, by the way,” I tell him as he leads me upstairs. He clears his throat. He’s always been weird about compliments.
“Thanks, but it was all Brynn. She gets on that pin thing and sees something, and instead of doing it at her own fuckin’ house, she comes here.”
It clicks now. She sent me the fairy-light porch pin months ago; that’s why it looked so familiar.
“Sounds about right,” I laugh.
This house is genuinely huge for just him and Lennon. I haven’t gotten to explore, but there are at least three bedrooms on this floor, and there’s a loft above this. I know Lennon’s room and bathroom are on this floor; that is where we were earlier, when I helped her get ready for bed. We go up the next flight of stairs.
The loft is . . . well, lofty. It overlooks the gorgeous, massive fireplace and open living room and kitchen. There are string lights wrapped around the banister up here. It looks like a theater room. A gigantic, overstuffed sectional sits before a full-wall projection screen. I immediately want to belly flop onto it, but I manage to keep calm. There’s a popcorn machine to the side, and a little bar.
“I love this,” I gasp, in awe.
Beck chuckles.
“I do too. C’mon. It’s late, and one of us has to wake up early to go take care of ranch boy stuff.”
