Write chapters.
Email my editor.
Unpack.
Miss Beckett.
“No.” I shout the word in the empty bathroom, emphasizing it, erasing it from the list.
I try again.
Plan a book launch.
Meet with PA about new graphics and merch.
Research the workings of middle schools.
Miss Beckett.
“STOP IT WILLA! Get a grip.”
I drain the water but not ready to face reality, I stand under the showerhead, my tears mixing with the falling water. When the water runs cold, I shut it off, sheathing myself with Beckett’s fluffiest towel. It’s clean from the closet, but hell if it doesn’t smell like him.
I’m not helping the situation but perpetuating it.
Snapping out of it, I dry off, walking to his bedroom. There’s a text from him on my phone.
I’ll be back around twelve. Car will be ready. Have everything packed.
I read the words too many times, the finality in them settling like a rock.
I press on, getting dressed in the laundered lingerie he bought me because apparently, I’m a sadist now, set to torture myself at every turn. I’ll think of him every time I wear them, which defeats the purpose of letting him go. But it’s not like I’m good at letting things go . . .
Dressed and all packed, the clock shows I have fifteen minutes until noon. I sneak on social media but am too overwhelmed by the notifications of not checking it for a few days. Instead, I rummage through Beckett’s pantry, stealing a few snacks for my road trip, laughing at the package of hot cocoa Oreos still hiding. I’m half-tempted to move it, so he doesn’t get frustrated with me, but in the end, I leave it where it is. I’ll never know the repercussions of my actions. I don’t let the intensity of that filter in.
The back door opens as I’m sliding the snacks into my backpack.
“Willafred, your chariot awaits.”
Ugh. His use of my full name doesn’t help lessen any of the emotions swirling through me. He seems more upbeat now, less trodden like when he scurried away earlier.
“It’s all fixed?” The tiny bubble of hope forming that he wouldn’t be able to fix it bursts.
“The bumper is like brand-spanking new. My finest work, if I say so myself. And I picked out the perfect place for a farewell lunch. You’re going to love it.”
My heart skips because of his kindness, the glee lighting him up, but also because of the way he’s not bothered by me leaving. Like we didn’t just share the most intense week ever, as if I’m truly a stranger.
I turn away, not wanting him to see the threatening tears in my eyes. It’s stupid to be so emotional, so attached to him, so fearful of leaving, but still, a panic attack tries to claw into me.
Burly arms assail me from behind. Like a lifeline, I grasp on tightly.
“We weren’t supposed to meet. Revel in the time we got together, even if it was way too short. You’ve got stories to tell. I’ve got cars to fix. We’d be in each other’s way. It’s better like this.”
Though the evidence is in his saddened tone, the question begs to be asked. “Is it?”
“I’m telling myself it is. It has to be enough.”
“I get to say goodbye this time, but it’s hard. It’s difficult to form the words, to say what I need to before I get on the road back home. To tell you how appreciative I am for everything, Beckett. To express my gratitude for what you gave me back this week. I’m a writer, I should have the words, but I’m not sure the right words exist to convey what I feel in my heart, what I owe you.”
