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“Stop,” I finally said, holding my hand up to him, palm out. “He’s gone back to Manhattan. He’s not my boyfriend, okay?”
Even saying it made me tear up. Steve held his hands up and backed away, shaking his head.
“Sorry. My bad. It’s just that he’s come in every night for a week when you worked. I wondered where he was, is all.”
I closed my eyes and exhaled, trying to get control over my emotions.
“I’m sorry,” I said and wiped my hands on my apron. “It’s just that Dan’s memorial is coming up and I’m a bit down, I guess.”
“Of course you are,” Steve said and moved closer, his hands on my shoulders. He bent down and looked in my eyes. “If you need a shoulder to cry on, feel free. I’m here for you, Mira. Anytime.”
I forced a smile I didn’t feel and nodded. “Thanks.” Then I pulled away, not wanting to feel his touch at that moment. I didn’t know what I wanted – hell, that was a lie. I wanted Beckett. I wanted to hit him and demand he tell me how he got my letters and why he didn’t say anything sooner. I wanted him to explain so we could still be together.
He was a good man. He was honorable. He’d risked his life in Iraq and Afghanistan. He was funny and sexy and so easy to be with. He seemed to be unable to resist me.
Was it all just for an easy fuck?
My mind screamed no – that what we had was more than just hot sex. What we had felt like more than just physical attraction, but my gut felt sick about it. If it had been more than just sex, why did he leave without talking to me, telling me how he got my letters?
I sat in my bedroom after my shift, and sorted through my letters, reading each one over, touching the blood stains on the paper. These were the letters I wrote to Dan after we were married and he was deployed with his Special Operations Forces team in Afghanistan. I had poured out my heart in these, wanting to keep our connection alive, even if he couldn’t always write back. He never knew where he’d be sent or what temporary base he’d be billeted in. It depended on what mission his team was working on.
My Dearest Dan,
It’s been two months since you left and my arms ache to hold you. I can’t imagine going another month before I see you again. I can’t imagine another three years of this separation. I know this is what I signed up for, but it’s so hard! My only consolation is that you’re doing important work over there. We all have to make sacrifices. I guess missing you is mine.
I’m really enjoying the house in Topsail Beach and staying with your parents. Bartending at a beach joint, as your dad calls it, is much, much different from the bar gramps runs in Queens. Tourists are a different crowd than cops and firefighters. I miss my gramps, but he understands that your dad needed a bartender and I was there so… I’ve become fast friends with Leah, so that’s nice. She keeps me busy and laughing and we spend our off time cooking at her apartment and gossiping.
Enough small talk. ? Our three weeks together, before the wedding and on our honeymoon was so good. My brain was on pleasure overload after being separated from you for six months. Now I’m going cold turkey! No Dan inside me every day twice a day is not a good feeling. I feel empty without you in me and in my bed and in my house. Staying with your parents makes it somewhat more tolerable, because I get to sleep in your old bedroom (love the Star Wars sheets, BTW…I made your mom keep them on your bed LOL She wanted to put something frilly she bought, but I said, no. I was as big a SW freak as you! My only complaint is that I prefer Chewy over 3PO) but when I go back to Manhattan for classes in September, I don’t know how I’ll cope. Maybe I’ll have to steal your old Star Wars sheets. Seeing you in August will be some consolation.
Stay safe. I love you more than anything.
Love, me.
I sorted through the rest but they were all the same. Beckett read all these letters. He read the intimate details of my mind. He knew my husband had died in Afghanistan the day he walked into the bar.
How could he do that to me?
Beckett Tate McNeil.
I wanted to hit him, I wanted to yell at him. Most of all, I wanted him to tell me why? Why did he do it?
I googled his name, and came up with a confusing array of hits but no single Beckett Tate McNeil. Not even a Beckett McNeil. Only Beckett Tate, CEO of Brimstone Solutions, Inc.
There were many McNeils in Hell’s Kitchen and a few news articles about Donny McNeil, who ran a company manufacturing that supplied the high tech industry. Colm McNeil, who had several restaurants in Hell’s Kitchen. I wondered if they were relatives that Beckett said he didn’t want to talk about. Whatever the case, there was absolutely nothing about any Beckett McNeil.
I’d seen his DEA ID. It looked legitimate, but I began to wonder if his DEA badge was fake. Maybe his whole story as well. If so, Brandon had to be in on it because even he let slip that Beckett’s last name was really McNeil.
There was a website, a pretty fancy one, for Brimstone Solutions, Inc. It was very military-themed, with images of soldiers on a battlefield, with planes in the sky, drones, and heavy artillery. They provided security and threat assessment services, security training, and of all things, guided tours of ‘conflict zones’ for the more adventurous traveler. At least I knew that his story about Brimstone was the truth, for there were testimonials on one of the pages promoting the security training. There was also a monthly newslette
r about the security situation around the world, of interest to investors. On the About Us page were images of Beckett and two other men – one was a Graham McKenny, Operations. There was an obituary for McKenny, who had been killed during a mission in East Asia, the text read. The other picture was identified as Brandon Kent, CFO, who Leah spent a few nights with while he was in Topsail Beach.
They were real.
Beckett Tate did exist. His image was at the top of the page, his handsome face making my heart squeeze in regret, his blue eyes so intelligent, neatly trimmed dark blond beard, slightly longish hair, square, square jaw. His eyes appeared kind. He had a pleasant smile on his face. He looked like the type of man you could trust.
I couldn’t accept that I’d been so wrong.
I fell asleep with my letters surrounding me on the bed, an old photo of Dan in my hand.
