Stella
He doesn’t hate you. He loves you!
You didn’t see him
You didn’t hear what he said to me
Stella
He just needs to remember that he loves you
You don’t just forget you love someone
Stella
I promise after you spend some time together he’s gonna remember
But what if he can’t forgive me?
Stella
He will
When Beck shows up at Dottie’s to pick Charlie and me up, he doesn’t speak to me, but he’s talkative to Charlie. That’s all that matters. But I won’t lie, my heart is bruised over the fact that he’s giving me the silent treatment. There was a time when we could talk for hours.
You’d hardly notice the unspoken silent treatment because Charlie is speaking a mile a minute from her booster in the back seat of Beck’s Chevrolet. She’s flying through questions for him. He entertains some and dodges the ones he doesn’t know how to answer. I suppose he could’ve looked to me for assistance while I sat staring out the windshield, but he didn’t bother. It should surprise me how easily they’re getting along, but it doesn’t. Because I knew they would hit it off.
Beck’s dressed in jeans today and a plain black fitted T-shirt. From the passenger seat, I only allow my eyes a few seconds to travel over his stature. The same defined biceps I couldn’t help but notice the night at the beach when he had his wetsuit bunched around his waist. The corded forearms that flex each time he grips the steering wheel tighter. It’s this simple detail that reminds me of his anxiety. This time caused by me and the impossibly difficult decisions I made years ago that have now brought us to this point.
Beck parks against the curb in front of a row of pastel painted buildings. I hop out and open the back door for Charlie while I peer up at the sign on the closest building, shielding my eyes from the morning sun.Seashell Bookshop. It’s new since I lived in Golden Harbor.
We enter the shop, me following on their heels because Beck is trying his damn hardest to make it clear I’m the third wheel today. His point is made clear when I nearly do a faceplant into the glass door because he doesn’t hold it for me. Guess I deserve that. And far worse.
Inside, there’s a coffee bar and a glass display case with baked goods on one side of the shop. It smells like freshly ground coffee beans mixed with cinnamon and a hint of maple. There are books on tables, on display in the windows, and on shelves throughout the entire space. I haven’t made much time for reading lately. The only books I’ve read are ones for children or non-fictions about endometriosis.
But I find myself drawn to the colorful spines and organized stacks of illustrated romance covers. Though me and romance? Pfft. I shake my head. “Not in this lifetime,” I mutter under my breath, and drag my palm across a cover regretfully.
“Charlie, want a treat?” Beck pipes up.
“Yes!” She jumps up and down.
“They’ve got the best sugar cookies.” He waves us toward the coffee bar and I follow behind. “Any food allergies I should know about?” he asks over his shoulder.
It’s the first words he’s spoken to me today, so I almost don’t realize he’s directing the question at me. “No…no food allergies.”
Charlie skips to the display case and peers at all the delicious baked goods. My mouth practically waters at the sight of the cinnamon roll. But at the same time, my brain recoils. As much as my taste buds would love it, my stomach would make me pay for it later if I indulged.
Beck crouches next to her and points out all his favorite treats. My heart can’t hardly take the image of the two of them interacting. It’s small and simple. But to them, and me, this is new. This is a first.
I try not to hover over Charlie and give them a little space. Even if it is hard. I know it’s important for them. I peruse the books stacked by the windows. I recognized several covers. Romance and thrillers that have been circulating on social media. I pick one up and skim the back cover.
“Did you want anything?” Beck calls from the register.
“Um, no, I’m good. Thanks,” I reply, taken aback. But as I observe how chummy he is with the woman behind the counter, I have to assume he’s putting on an act for her.
“Their cinnamon rolls are gluten free,” he finally adds.
“Really? Then yeah, I’d love one.” I shuffle over to join him at the register, unzipping my purse to retrieve my wallet.
