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“Don’t worry, we don’t have to.” Beckham stood up, and what he did next was exactly what I needed without knowing it.
He reached out and put a hand on my elbow. Then, without even thinking, I moved forward and pressed my head onto his chest, feeling the soft hair against the side of my face. I could hear his heartbeat.
Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub.
His arms came around me, and Beckham, who I had just met hours before, held me against him in his living room until my pounding pulse slowed and my whirlwind of thoughts subsided.
And even when it all did calm down, I didn’t move.
I could have stayed in Beckham’s arms for the rest of my life and been perfectly fine.
Happy, even.
How batshit crazy was that?
5 Beckham Noble
My heart hurt for this guy. Seeing his pain and his fear did something to me. A protective flare shot up through my chest. I wanted to find whatever twatface had hurt him and then hurt them in return. That was impossible, so I settled for holding him in my arms, letting him know it would be okay, whatever the hell “it” was.
“I’m good, I’m okay.” He separated from me, wiped at his eyes. I hadn’t noticed him crying, but my chest did feel a little wet.
“Come, let’s go get some fresh air on the balcony.”
“Let’s.”
I led the way, heading toward the sliding glass door. I opened it and was greeted with the kiss of a fresh breeze. The balcony looked out to the River Thames, dark and dancing with the moonlight above it. There were a pair of midnight joggers running down the pavement.
“Want to talk about it?” I asked as we sat down. I learned through my years of investigating that normally, if someone wasn’t asked, then normally they’d stay quiet about whatever was bothering them. But if I was direct, then the chances were higher that I’d get them to open up.
“Not really.”
Well, there went that strategy.
“My name’s not Jamison,” he continued, stating the obvious.
“I know.”
“You do?”
I nodded. “Besides, you don’t look like a Jamison.”
“Oh? Who do I look like, then?”
“I dunno, mate. A Reginald? Maybe a Morgano?”
Not-Jamison laughed at that, his face cracking into a big smile. It was refreshing, and much more preferred than the look of fear he wore moments earlier.
“Are those even real names?” he asked.
“You tell me… Morgano.”
More laughing, more smiling. I leaned back in my chair, the red fabric scratching against my back. My legs stretched out in front of me, my bare feet feeling the night chill. Soon, though, the chill was replaced by more warmth when my feet were joined by another pair.
“My name’s Olly.”
“Olly. I like that. Suits you.”
“Thanks.” He let out a breath. “God, that feels good. I thought it’d be so fun and cute to be an entirely different person, but who would have guessed that even a different continent can’t fundamentally change who you are?”
“Never would have guessed,” I said, throwing him a smirk.
“Have you ever wanted to be someone else?”
The question caught me off guard. “I think everyone has. But, like you found out, it’s very difficult to run from who you are. And why should you? There’s only one of you.” I looked into Olly’s eyes, deep, through the brightness that shielded him and down into the tender soul underneath. “Only one. And I’m glad to have met the one and only Jamison-Olly, the exotic Bengal tiger vet who’s still a student and who has one of the biggest and warmest smiles I’ve ever seen.”
He flashed me that smile of his. It was like a superpower, burning away any lingering worries and anxiety in the air. His smile was an antidote to whatever complete bollocks was going on in my life. It was almost enough to get me to stand up, walk over to the table I’d left the letter on, tear it open, and release whatever can of worms was inside.
Almost.
“Thank you for tonight, Beckham. Seriously. I… I don’t know what happened…” He looked out to the river. “Well, I do know what happened. I just… Thank you.”
If only he knew I should be the one thanking him. He’d turned my night completely around.
“How much longer are you in London for?”
“I leave tomorrow.”
The words settled in my chest like radioactive dust from a nuclear fallout. I wanted him to say a couple more days, I wanted him to say he was leaving on the same day I was. Then I’d have someone here, someone to make this trip one to remember, not one to try and forget.
That was wishful thinking. Verged on crazy as well. I was beginning to feel like I was twenty-two again, falling hard for the first guy who paid me attention. And back then, there hadn’t been any apps to help forget about the one who got away. There had been some not-so-pleasant cruising spots, but it hadn’t been my scene. I would talk to someone who I had an idea was gay and then end up getting incredibly attached with no remedy when things went south.
