I make my way through the raucous crowd, a group of people dressed as birds having a heated argument with ladies in long, pastel dresses and sun hats. Layla wasn’t joking when she said trivia night is serious business in Inglewild. Both Caleb and Dane are in attendance, sitting at the far end of the bar with a basket of jalapeño poppers between them. Dane has a long suffering look on his serious face. Caleb looks like he’s holding himself back from participating.
I get sidetracked by Jeremy and his friends as I travel through the tables, their heads bent over their cellphones and a pitcher of soda in the middle of the table. They ask for selfies and tips on lighting and then I’m shown 17 video drafts that they’re thinking about posting. It’s like a social media version of American Idol, and I slip away with promises of more tomorrow, if they come by the bakery in the morning.
Gus and Monty corner me next, proudly showing me the numbers on their dance video. When I ask them how they plan to follow up such a stunning debut, Gus gets a twinkle in his eye and stands from his stool, scooping me in his big arms and spinning me around the small square of floor space. I laugh loudly and hold myself steady on his shoulders, my heart so light it feels like I could float away.
This is what I was missing. Foundation. Belonging. People and stories and my name tossed out in greeting over half-eaten baskets of greasy french fries. All of my trips—I haven’t stayed in a place long enough for anyone to know me. I haven’t had Caleb waving at me from across the bar with a jalapeño popper held between thumb and forefinger. Ms. Beatrice screaming in someone’s face about the official name of New York’s Sixth Avenue while wearing a sun hat and holding a croquet mallet, a wink tossed over her shoulder. A chorus of whistles when I wave to the ladies from the salon.
Stella’s words drift back to me. People change. Maybe this is what I need now.
I’m still smiling, breathless, when I finally make it to the bathroom. I stop and stare at myself in the mirror—my flushed cheeks and a grin that makes my face almost unrecognizable. It’s been so long since I’ve felt like this. I touch my fingers to my cheeks and try to memorize it.
“You’re doing okay,” I tell myself quietly. My smile softens into something lasting and I let myself feel good about everything that’s brought me to exactly this moment. No guilt. No hesitation. Just a bubbling warmth right in the center of me. “You’re doing the best you can.”
That’s enough.
I wash my hands in the sink and edge my way out of the door, a wall of sound slamming into me. Music has somehow joined the mix, shrieks and laughter and someone yelling overtop of it all about a quesadilla. It’s chaotic, but lovely. A soundtrack of community and love.
I barely manage two steps down the dark hallway before I see him. His big body tipped up against the wall, one shoulder and his head pressed to it. His arms are crossed and his face is shadowed, but I’d recognize the angles of his body anywhere—in the dark, especially.
“Beckett?”
He looks like he’s in pain. Shoulders hunched. A deep frown on his handsome face as I get closer. I reach out to him and my hand hovers over the slope of his shoulder, not sure if he wants to be touched right now or not.
He makes the decision for me, lifting his head and blinking at me blearily. He curls his hand around my wrist and tugs, a quiet oof slipping from my lips as I stumble into him.
His usual smell is tucked under layers of alcohol and fried food, but his skin is warm where my nose finds his neck. He wraps his arms around my back and holds on tight, clinging to me in the narrow hallway at the back of the bar. My hands slip over his shoulders and I hold on just as tight, confused and concerned.
“You okay?”
I feel a shudder work its way up his spine, a thin tremor in his hands. He rocks his forehead against my shoulder and grunts, mumbling something under his breath. He sways slightly and I tighten my grip.
“S’loud,” he finally mumbles, low and rough in my ear. “Needed a break.”
I drag my hands up and down his back in a soothing rhythm. He makes a grateful sigh against me.
“That’s alright. What can I do?”
“This is good,” he says with another squeeze. “Just wanna listen to you breathe for a second.”
I make sure to take a noisy, obnoxious breath on my next inhale and he softens further, the grip of his arms relaxing slightly but his body becoming heavier against mine. I shuffle back until I’m leaning against the wall, Beckett pressed right up against me.
It is loud in here. I hear Gus clamber back on the bar top with his megaphone, a short siren wail that has Beckett flinching against me. I smooth my fingers through his hair and he lets out a deep, rattling breath. Gus announces last call and last round, and the crowd gives a belligerent groan in response.
“Why did you come?” I ask him quietly, nails scratching lightly. He leans harder against me. “You could have said no.”
“Nova asked,” Beckett supplies quietly. “Didn’t want to disappoint anyone.”
I asked, too. I wonder how much pressure Beckett puts on himself to be what everyone needs, all of the time.
“Not right back,” Beckett grumbles into my shirt.
“What?”
“You said you’d be right back,” he accuses, leaning back until I can see the lines of his face in the light from the bar. He frowns down at me. “You didn’t come right back.”
“I got caught up. Everyone wanted—“
“You were laughing,” he cuts off abruptly. “Dancing.” He swallows hard. “You aren’t like that with me.”
His hands flex at my hips and he takes a step back, leaving me propped up against the wall. I feel the two inches of space between us like a shove to the chest.
“I smile,” I start to say. “Beckett, I laugh with you all the time—“
He shakes his head. “It’s not the same. Not like when we were in Maine.”
He must have had more to drink than I thought. I glance out at the crowded bar and can barely make out the table we were sitting at—a wide collection of glasses haphazardly stacked next to empty food baskets.
“Sorry,” he snips, not sounding sorry in the slightest. His voice is grit and gravel and shades of possession, eyes heated to match. He takes a step forward and props his hand by my side. I am flat against the wall again, Beckett everywhere around me. “I forgot we don’t talk about it. I forgot I’m supposed to pretend like I don’t know exactly what you taste like.”
The image that blinks to life is immediate. Beckett on his knees at the edge of the bed, hand splayed low against my belly to hold me still. His nose at my hip and my thighs pressing at his ears, my foot drumming between his shoulder blades.
My entire body shivers, a forceful pulse pounding once right at the base of my throat.
“Beckett,” I say, a little bit dazed. His name lingers in the space between us. We don’t talk about it, he’s right, but I thought that was what he wanted. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Not enough,” he says, his eyes intent on my face. “Cause I still think about kissing you all the damn time.”
I let that confession press against me, the words ringing in my ears despite the loud noise of the bar. I hold his gaze and blink as he stares right back. He pushes off the wall with a sigh, his hand through his hair.