Evidence of Beck. Proof he was here.
Proof that I survived it.
I lean against the counter, trying to steady my breathing. I’m not sure what scares me more—that I let someone into my space again after swearing I never would, or that part of me wants to do it again.
That would be a terrible idea.
Wouldn’t it?
A new notification pings my phone, only this time it’s about the weather. There’s a snowstorm coming tonight.
Hell.
I open my bank account and check the balance again. It’s just south of fifteen thousand dollars. I need at least eighteen to put money down on a high-end used truck and also buy a plow for it. You can’t finance the plow, which sucks.
But with a plow, I can do the snow removal from the Sportsballs parking lot myself, then we can keep saving money we’d pay a plow guy, and use the savings to invest in shit we really want like the kitchen and screening room. And probably a new boiler.
Also, it’s almost Christmas, and I want to get Charlie a killer present.
This is what you need to be thinking about, I remind myself. Adulting. Not sex.
If Beck wants a rematch, I’m going to gently turn him down. He’s fun, sweet, and young. He deserves someone who’s free, who can give him undivided attention. I can’t be that guy right now.
Eleven
Bus to Hell
Beck
By midday, I’m at a hockey practice in Abbotsford, which is somewhere in Canada.
It wasn’t easy getting here. Hours ago, I’d jolted awake in Forest’s bed, my phone screaming at me. My game day alarm is labeled BUS TO HELL IS LEAVING DUMMY.
My heart nearly exploded when I saw the time: 5:17 a.m.
I’d done my best to get out of there quietly. Forest is a sound sleeper, though, because he didn’t move as I thumped around his room like a nervous elephant, grabbing my stuff before sneaking out.
In his kitchen, I’d made myself a sandwich and called my roommate.
It rang five times before a groggy voice answered. “Somebody better be dead.”
“Rigsy! Thank God. I need a massive favor.”
“It’s not even five thirty, Becks. What the actual?—“
“I’m not at home and I need to make the bus.” I’d shoved my feet into my shoes and let myself out of Forest’s house, sandwich in one hand, keys in the other. “Can you pack my travel bag? Just throw in whatever. Three days of clothes. My passport’s in the?—”
“Hold the fuck up. You’re not home? Where are you?”
I’d hesitated. “A friend’s place.”
“A friend.” I could practically hear him grinning through the phone. “Becks, did you finally get laid?”
“Just pack the bag, man.” The car had started with a growl, and I’d swerved onto the main road, pushing my poor Jeep as fast as it’ll go.
“Holy shit, you did! Who is she? Anyone I know?”
The “she” made my stomach clench. “No one you know. And I’m driving, so?—”
