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“How do you feel about me?” His voice was quiet but steady.
Miles wanted to run away, but his body had frozen, his feet stuck in the sand. Fear shot through his veins. He felt like he was being interrogated for a crime he had definitely committed, and he couldn’t let himself be caught.
“I love you. As a best friend.” Thankfully, his voice didn’t shake—in fact, he sounded indifferent.
It was the truth. Miles told himself it was the truth.
Beckett’s eyes dimmed, when just minutes ago they’d been shining. His shoulders slumped and his mouth flattened into a grim line. The sight wrenched Miles’s heart.
Miles opened his mouth to say something, though he wasn’t sure what. All he knew was that he’d hurt Beckett, worse than he’d ever hurt him before. Before he could say anything, though, Beckett turned away and began walking back to the shore.
Miles watched helplessly. He stared at Beckett’s sun-tanned back, the very same back he’d been resting against not five minutes earlier. He didn’t chase after Beckett. When Beckett was upset, he liked to be alone until he was ready to talk. Besides, Miles wasn’t even what he wanted to say.
Five minutes later, after Beckett disappeared out of sight, Miles returned to the beach. Sand clung to his feet. He picked up his towel and wrapped it around himself, then sat down, looking out at the waves. Wind chilled the water on his skin, and when he grew cold, he pulled on Beckett’s hoodie.
It still smelled like him. A mix of the washing powder and fabric softener he used, milk and honey soap, deodorant…
Miles sighed and rubbed his eyes. What was he doing? Why was he sitting here, cold, alone, and feeling miserable? How did all of this happen?
It started with him forgetting his sleeping bag. Then he lied about it, which was stupid for a number of reasons. If he asked Beckett to share a sleeping bag from the start, he would have saved them unnecessary drama and miscommunication.
Then he’d lied again. I love you. As a best friend.
He’d long since decided that he didn’t want a relationship because it’d be a distraction and would mean less time to spend with his friends, with Beckett. And he’d long since believed Beckett was his best friend, and nothing more. But they’d spent the past few days together, just the two of them. They’d talked and walked beside each other in silence; they’d cooked and washed dishes together; they’d held hands and slept together and kissed in the morning. It was like Miles had a glimpse, a free trial, of what it’d be like if Beckett was his boyfriend. The thought of that disappearing, or worse, being given to someone else, terrified Miles.
It was so obvious. Maybe it’d been obvious for a while, but Miles knew he could be blind.
He had to tell Beckett the truth. Before it was too late.
7
MILES DIDN’T RUN into Beckett in the bathrooms. As he showered, he looked down at his body, at all the places Beckett had caressed.
When he returned to the campsite, Beckett, already showered, sat under the gazebo cooking soup. He’d bought ingredients for sweet corn chicken soup, which was Miles’s favorite, even though Beckett preferred pumpkin.
After Miles dumped his stuff in his tent, he took a seat beside Beckett and buttered half of loaf of sliced bread. They didn’t speak. The set of Beckett’s shoulders suggested he was tense, but he also kept his eyes down, as if he was embarrassed, which made Miles feel worse.
They ate. Afterwards, Beckett stayed in his chair and read his copy of Misery, so Miles read his book too, the one he brought about the history of surgery. As he flipped the pages, he caught himself glancing at Beckett every now and then.
An hour into reading, Miles pulled out some leftover chocolate from their hike. He broke off a few squares for himself, then extended the chocolate bar to Beckett, who took some while keeping his eyes on the page.
When the world turned a hazy purple, they washed up at the bathroom. Miles trailed after Beckett as they walked back. Would Beckett still be okay sharing a tent? Maybe Miles should preemptively decide he’d sleep in his own tent, and that way he’d avoid having Beckett reject him.
But when Beckett entered his tent, he held the door open.
“Thanks,” Miles said as he slipped inside too.
“That’s okay.” It was their first exchange of words since Beckett had left Miles in the ocean.
Beckett turned on his phone torch, and they lay down under the sleeping bag.
“I’m sorry,” Miles said.
Beckett turned his head to face him. He wasn’t frowning anymore, but that wasn’t reassuring. He looked…resigned. “You did nothing wrong.”
“I did. I upset you and I said the wrong thing. I lied.”
Beckett’s eyes flickered.
