He sighed dramatically, as if it was a tough ask. “Fine.”
“Maybe start by telling me why you thought punching Mathieu was a great PR move.”
“You insinuate I gave it any thought first.”
“Beck,” I admonished, vowing to take the fact that a part of me relished seeing Mathieu flattened to the grave. “He wasn’t worth it.”
In response, he closed his right fist, which looked slightly swollen and purple, and shrugged. “It’ll be fine. Felt worth it to me.”
I refused to smile, even if I wanted to. Encouraging Beck’s reckless behavior, even in defense of me, was never a good idea. This wasn’t my first rodeo in the “Beck defending my honor” department. I swore it was one of the reasons my dad liked him so much.
“Wait, you said ‘wasn’t.’”
“Yeah?”
“Not ‘isn’t.’”
I tried to follow. “Not seeing your point.”
“He wasn’t worth it. As in, past tense.”
“You’re kidding, right? Do you seriously think I’d take him back?”
“I don’t know. You called off yesterday. Figured it was because he was still in town.”
“He was,” I said. “Mathieu stayed at my house, begged me to talk. I thought about asking Pia if they had a room, but I honestly didn’t want to involve anyone else. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Sell that to someone else. Something’s wrong. What’s up?”
“Would you look at that? We’re at the printer’s already. Coming in?”
He was frustrating as hell. Thankfully, the signage looked great and was ready as promised. Beck, of course, used the opportunity to change the subject. Or tried to, at least. When he opened my door, I didn’t get in. Instead, I propped my foot up on the running board and crossed my arms.
“What?”
“You know what. Spill.”
We locked eyes, something shifting in the air between us. It crackled in a distinctively non-“friend” way. This time, I didn’t back down. Not that I wasn’t scared to explore it, but enough was enough. I was done waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect sign. Because sometimes, the right person was already standing in front of you. Close. Too close.
“I wanted to fucking kill him.” Beck’s voice was low, gravely. Not at all the lighthearted one I was used to from him. “It was a terrible PR move. Apologized and bought the whole damn bar a drink, on my dime. But I’d do it again, every time. He was an asshole to you, committed himself to building a life with you and reneged before it had even begun. I’m glad he got on a plane to come here, though. Tells me he realizes how badly he fucked up, and I take a perverse sort of pleasure knowing he realizes what he lost.”
With every word, my heart rate increased. I couldn’t dispute any of his words, and had felt much the same myself. But that Beck had too, on my behalf… I always knew he cared about me as a friend. But…
“Thank you.”
His eyes widened.
“You’re thanking me for making a spectacle of myself in your father’s bar?”
“I’m thanking you for caring enough to defend me. Besides, it won’t be my father’s bar for long. You’re good at so much more than tending bar, Beck. You would kill it as the owner. Why even hesitate?”
I’d managed to surprise him. Beck was never great at taking a compliment, unless it was something superficial, like his looks. But his integrity? Intelligence?
“I can tell you why,” I said, Beck not answering. “You care more about playing the irresponsible Casanova bartender than you do letting other people, including your parents, see the real you.”
I expected a quip. A joke. This wasn’t a revolutionary, life-altering theory I was tossing out, but one I’d offered many times, the new spin being O’Malley’s.
