Just as I realize that, my bedroom door flies open and the man himself comes in. “Cam? Are you okay?” He comes over and drops down beside the bed, his eyes roaming up and down, as if looking for injury.
“I’m fine,” I rasp. “Just a bad dream.” My eyes fall closed for a second, as I will my body to calm down from the adrenaline rush. When they open again, he’s still there, crouched down beside me. His hair’s a mess, his glasses are on crooked, and he’s not wearing a shirt.
“Sorry I woke you up.”
Beckett exhales with a small chuckle. “It’s fine, Cam. Really. I slept on the plane, so I was just kind of lying there, anyway.”
He stands up, and my gaze happens to be right at the level of the boxers he apparently wore to bed. Looking away quickly, I straighten the sheets covering my legs, instead. “Right. Well, still. Sorry. I’m fine now.”
I chance a look up at Beckett, to see him adjusting his glasses. “Okay. I’ll see you in the morning, I guess.”
“Yup.”
He turns to leave, and I watch him pause at my door for a second before carrying on back to his room, I hope. God, that was embarrassing. And awkward. I’ve had the nightmares almost every night since Grandpa died. But this is the first time I’ve woken someone else up with them.
Lying back down, I turn on my side, staring at the dim light filtering in through the drapes over the window.
Morning can’t come soon enough.
When I get up several hours later, I head straight for the kitchen. I’ve never been to this house. Beckett bought it after my last trip out here to see him. But last night, despite our exhaustion from the day, he made sure to show me where the kitchen and most importantly, the coffee maker was located.
It doesn’t take long before I’ve got a mug cradled in my hands while the rest of the pot continues to brew. Blowing on the steam, I look around the small, yet perfectly organized, kitchen. The cabinets are a light sage green on the bottom and white on top, surprisingly stylish for a bachelor pad, but that’s Beck. He likes things to look put together.
I make my way out into the hall and come to a dead stop. I hadn’t noticed last night, but the wall is lined with framed photographs. There’s plenty with his family, a few of the local scenery, and to my utter surprise, several with me in them. It’s like a timeline of our friendship, from university all the way up to recent years, right here on the walls of his house for anyone and everyone to see.
There’s small black and white candid photos — one from early on, second or third year, if I remember correctly — when we went to a Valentine’s Day rom-com movie marathon at a local indie theater. Thinking back, that was the first time someone assumed we were together, as the guy running the photo booth tried valiantly to get us to kiss for the photo. Instead, we made ridiculous faces with some of the props they had. Skimming over the family photos, I come to a selfie of the two of us from when we did the Garibaldi Peaks hike years ago. Beck was so prepared, with a backpack full of supplies, whereas I showed up in converse shoes with nothing but a water bottle. I remember him looking at me, then shaking his head. But I made it to the top with just a couple of blisters — that I never admitted to him. Then there’s one from graduation, our arms around each other’s shoulders and giant grins of relief and elation on our faces. And finally, a large group photo with the two of us and all of his siblings at one of his brother Jude’s hockey games back when he played in the NHL.
“That’s the first game that Jude scored a hat trick.”
I jump at the sound of his voice coming from right behind me. He’s so close, I feel the warm air of his breath when he speaks and can smell the faint mint of his toothpaste. If I turn around, I know he’d be right there.
I don’t move a muscle. “I can’t believe you have all of these up on your wall.”
I feel him take a step back and judge it safe to turn around and face him. He’s holding his own mug of coffee, a lot creamier looking than my plain black brew. With a sigh of relief, I note he’s dressed and wearing more than just his underwear, like last night.
Why that causes me to feel relief is not something I want to explore right now.
“Our friendship is important to me.” His head nods toward the photo wall. “Those are some of my favourite memories.”
The silence that follows is laden with meaning I’m not yet ready to unpack. Taking a sip of my coffee, I do what I do best, and walk away from uncomfortable emotions. Heading into his living room, I pick a comfortable looking chair over by the window and sink down into it.
But there’s no escape when my eyes land on a large box sitting in the corner with some familiar things sticking out of it. Items I know Beck would have no use for.
“What’s that?” I ask cautiously. I swear, if he’s trying to overwhelm me, he’s succeeding. Only instead of pain and sadness, Beck is trying to overwhelm me with happiness. I’m equally unprepared for both.
He doesn’t miss a beat, setting down his coffee, walking over to the box, and lifting it in his arms. He puts it on the floor in front of me, then straightens and looks at me head-on. “Let me just say one thing first, Camilla Byrne. You’re not allowed to refuse this. Consider it makeup Christmas presents or birthday presents, I don’t give a fuck how you rationalize it in your head. You need art like you need air to breathe, and since we couldn’t pack your supplies with the little time we had yesterday, I wanted you to have some stuff here. It’s not much, but hopefully it’s enough for you to create something.”
I keep my snarky retort to myself at his attempt to lay down the law. I’ve never known Beckett to be controlling or demanding in any situation, but then again, people change.
Still, any pushback from me would only be in jest. Because all he’s done is show me that yet again, he knows me. He knows what I need, and he’s willing to do anything to get it for me.
Instead, I lift out the blank canvases, paint brushes, sketch book, and charcoals. At the bottom is a selection of acrylic paints and a palette. He’s thought of almost everything.
“Thank you,” I whisper, looking up at him with a smile. “This is amazing.” I put everything down and stand up, wrapping my arms around his waist and squeezing tightly. “You’re amazing, Beckett Donnelly. I don’t know what I did to deserve a friend like you.”
The pink colour that graces his cheeks is adorable. Beckett blushes? I had no idea. Add that to the column of new things about the man I’m discovering.
“I’m glad you like them. If there’s anything missing, we can drive to Westport later and get some more stuff.”
