Page 24

Endearment

Fifteen Years Old, Virginia

Beckett Byrne was, as far as I was concerned, a god among teenage boys: capable and strong; smart and outgoing; kind and funny. He earned varsity letters and had college track and field scouts vying for him. His smile was knee buckling. His loyalty was unwavering. He was cocksure on his mildest days, but he possessed an indefinable charisma that made people—made me —revere him.

By the midpoint of my sophomore year, the crush I’d harbored had morphed into full-blown infatuation.

When Beck would come over with his family, he was adorable with his sisters, sweet to his mom and dad, and respectfully chummy with my parents. Together, we baked cookies for the twins, burned through movies, and metro-ed into DC to take superlong walks. We had a route from the Capitol Building to the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial to the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial to the Jefferson Memorial, where we’d land on a bench and talk, looking out over the Tidal Basin.

After formal, my birthday, and our dance, I’d catch myself staring at him, daydreaming, pining. But I held back from acting on my feelings, too afraid of rocking our rickety boat. Sometimes, though, I’d catch him looking at me. He’d grin and give my ponytail a tug, or stick out his tongue, or wink, and I’d inwardly swoon. He’d resumed his grizzly bear hugs. He drove me to and from school. He showed no interest in other girls. But, despite our foretold destiny, we were still just friends.

I was frustrated. I wanted to set up house on his planet, not orbit it.

The first day of winter break, he was scheduled to have his wisdom teeth removed. He was pissed at Bernie for making the appointment at the beginning of what was meant to be a vacation, but Bernie didn’t want her eldest to miss class. That morning, on their way to the oral surgeon’s office, Beck texted me from his mom’s Subaru.

I’m bored. And then: If I die today, go into my closet and find my nudie magazines. Box on the top shelf, under GI Joes. Trash them before my mom sees them.

I shuddered. Boys could be so gross.

You disgust me , I replied.

He returned: You delight me.

I smiled and asked: Why do you have nudie magazines during this, the Age of the Internet?

An ellipsis appeared as he worked on an answer. Same reason you like books more than movie adaptations. Our imaginations are superior.

I snorted out a laugh.

If I survive , he texted, let’s never speak of my nudie magazines again.

I typed: You’ll survive, and I’ll tease you about them forever.

The conversation went quiet. I resumed The Vampire Diaries , the show Bernie and I had recently started watching, assuming she and Beck had reached their destination. I didn’t envy him. The thought of having teeth with massive roots pried out of my head made my stomach roil.

My phone vibrated. Come over later? Promise I won’t bleed on you.

My heart, the silly thing, gave a flutter of excitement.

I typed back: Can’t wait to see your chipmunk cheeks.

***

Late that afternoon, Mom drove me to the Byrnes’. Bernie ushered me inside. Norah and Mae were camped out on the couch, engrossed in Encanto and a shared bowl of Cheez-Its. I kissed their rose-gold curls before turning back to their mom.

“He’s in his room,” she told me, rolling her eyes. “He’s a wimp, Lia. A big ol’ wimp. Here—take these down, would you?”

She handed me a pair of gel ice packs, then waved me off.

I skipped downstairs to the basement, where Beck’s bedroom was, along with a family room that served as the twins’ play space. I knocked on the door, wary after that morning’s talk of nudie magazines. Voice gruff, he called for me to come in.

The shades were drawn and the lights were off, save the small nightstand lamp. Beck reclined on his bed in sweats and an RHS T-shirt. He looked up from his laptop, positioned on a stack of pillows next to him. His expression was so pitiful, I couldn’t help but laugh.

He wasn’t noticeably swollen yet, but he looked feeble and pale, more exhausted than after a morning at the gym. Swatting indiscriminately at his computer’s keyboard, he paused the movie, Elf , a mutual Christmastime favorite, then patted the spot beside him. I sat, biting my lip to keep my amusement from further announcing itself.

“You survived,” I teased.

His answer was a mumbled, “Barely. They tortured me.”

“You had a dental procedure, you baby. How are you feeling?”

“Terrible. Fucking terrible .”

“Baby,” I said again. This time, though, my voice lacked bite. My face warmed as I rewound and replayed those two syllables: baby. The word sounded tender, like an endearment. Hoping he was too hopped up on painkillers to evaluate my tone, my blush, or their combined implications, I offered him the gel packs.

He folded his arms over the barrel of his chest and tipped his head back. “Will you?”

I sighed like I was put out but really, I was glad to scoot closer. He smelled of the same deodorant he’d used since he was ten, the Dove shampoo he’d been lathering all his life, and the Tide detergent Bernie favored. I placed the gel packs against his freckled cheeks, careful about how much pressure I applied.

He sighed.

He closed his eyes.

He brought his hands up to cover mine.

That was new.

“Amelia,” he whispered.

My given name—also new.

“Better?” I asked.

“So much better.” He turned his head, opening his eyes to look at me, trapping one of the gel packs between his cheek and the pillow beneath. I slipped my hand free, but he caught it.

“Lay with me?”

My head was spinning like a top. Beck trusted me to see him through his recovery, to dote on him, and to comfort him. But there was more to it: a mutual sense of awareness, a feeling of shared acceptance. We were stepping toward something new.

It felt right .

I curled up beside him.

Because everything that’d happened since I sat down on his bed was undeniably surreal, I asked, “How high are you?”

He laughed, warm and sleepy sounding. “I’ve taken eight hundred milligrams of Ibuprofen.”

The Army’s cure for whatever ailed—like a Band-Aid to a bullet hole.

“No wonder you’re hurting. They didn’t give you anything stronger?”

“They did, but I wanted to be awake while you’re here.”

He circled his arm around me. With one hand, I held a gel pack in place. With the other, I reached up to massage his calloused palm, the pads of his fingers, the velvety skin of his wrist.

He exhaled. “That feels so good. I’d kiss you if my face didn’t hurt so bad.”

My breath caught.

He noticed.

He gave my fingers a gentle squeeze. “Soon?”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Soon.” I paused, smiling into his chest. “And when you’re ready for solid foods, I’ll make you pancakes with Nutella.”

Slurred but sure, he said, “You really do delight me, Amelia Graham.”

He fell asleep a few minutes later.

I stayed by his side, finishing the movie he’d started, settling into my new reality.

In the space of an afternoon, I’d become the girl Beck wanted, the girl Beck needed, the girl I was always meant to be.

I Miss…

absolute trust

the combined scent of Degree, Dove, and Tide

grizzly bear hugs

the deepest, most self-assured laugh

The Mall

big hands, calloused and gentle

trust in the future

army-green eyes

quick wit

his shamelessness

his reflexive blush

his freckles

pancakes with Nutella

being part of a whole