Page 14 of Salvaged Heart

14

ANDERS

“ L et’s get out of here tonight.” Beckham’s voice startled me.

I was zoned out, watching the early morning sun bouncing off the soft ripples in the lake, sending glittering prisms as far as I could see, and hadn’t heard him approach. My sketch pad sat on my knee, pencil floating just above its surface, but the page lay empty. A thousand images were bouncing around my head, but each time I pressed the graphite tip to the page, they slipped away just beyond my reach. I had thought coming out here might help unlock something, or at the very least, I could draw the landscape, but no such luck.

“You’ll get it back.”

I hoped more than anything he was right. Usually, my art was easier to grasp the closer to sober I was, but in recent weeks, that part of myself had been completely inaccessible.

It was maddening.

“What did you have in mind?”

As reluctant as I was to venture back into the real world, maybe getting away from the manor would help. It definitely couldn’t make things worse. We hadn’t left once except for our daily treks to AA meetings. Beckham had started getting groceries delivered just so he had an excuse not to leave me even for an hour. I couldn’t tell if he was afraid I might use or afraid I might hurt myself, and to his defense, it could go either way at any given moment. I was starting to feel like a caged animal, pacing back and forth day after day, but this cage was of my own making.

“It’s a surprise. You feel good enough to ride?”

My pulse jumped just at the thought. It had been two weeks since I last felt the road beneath my bike. I’d been too sick after that first AA meeting Beck had dragged me to against my will. We’d had to Uber to meetings since then, which surely cost Beck a small fortune, but he hadn’t complained once.

“Heck yeah.”

He grinned down at me. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

We fell into a comfortable silence. With anyone else, the need to fill these sorts of moments with noise or movement would have been suffocating, but something about Beck’s presence calmed my soul. I didn’t need to speak for him to hear me. With him, I could simply exist.

We sat watching the lake wake up around us. Boats began to float out from the nearby docks, and people set up for the day on the beach at Ramsey Creek Park. Even the wildlife seemed to be coming to life around us. Beckham held out his hand for me to grab, pulling me up, and we ambled into the house together.

Things were starting to come along with the renovation. Several rooms were already completed, including the living room, dining room, and third-floor study. The upstairs bedrooms had fresh coats of paint and were waiting for the floors to be refinished. Next week, the cabinets for the kitchen were due to be delivered, and our focus would turn to completing that room before moving on to the most daunting project of all, renovating the bathrooms.

Beckham had been an incredible asset in getting the project completed. It would have cost us tens of thousands to pay a contractor to do all the work he was teaching me to do for free. I was even enjoying it. I’d never pegged myself as the type to enjoy manual labor, but it was calming, therapeutic even, and to my shock, I found I was good at it. I still enjoyed the design side over the doing side, but spending my days focused on completing a project had done wonders for my mental health.

I still thought about using every day. I still missed the high I got from a fix like one might miss oxygen, but the need felt manageable now. If I could stay in this controlled environment that Beckham had created for me, I would be strong enough to beat this thing once and for all. I wasn’t ignorant enough to think it would be enough. Getting clean might have been a mammoth effort, but it was nothing in comparison to the arduous task that staying sober would be.

The outside world was a terrifying place where I was sure to face temptation at every turn, and I couldn’t stay here forever. But life on Arbor Ct. was a means to an end. We would finish the house, Beckham would help me pay for rehab using the jewelry we had squirreled away, and then we would part ways. Him, back to his perfect little life with Laurel in Tennessee and me, off to begin my new one–first rehab, then six months minimum in a sober living community, as well as intense therapy. In a year, when I had fulfilled my condition of the will, I would pay Laurel and Margery back for the items they hadn’t known I’d stolen, and I would be free. Well, free of guilt, at least. This illness would haunt me the rest of my days, but for the first time in a long time, I found I actually wanted to live, not just exist.

The only part that left a choking feeling in my throat was that while the end of the summer marked the start of my long-awaited journey to permanent sobriety, it also marked the end of my journey with Beckham. I didn’t know when he had grown on me, when he had crossed over that line between annoying and friend. But the fact he had wormed his way into a heart that had barely been beating since Jonah’s death—the fact I thought of him as a friend at all—well, that meant the world to me.

“You’re quiet this morning.” I was quiet every morning, but each day, he acted like this was something new. “Did you want to go to a meeting now or this afternoon?”

We never missed a meeting, and while I had yet to talk at one, I found them helpful. Hearing other people’s stories of how they fought their way up from rock bottom and were thriving was the fuel I needed to keep going. The raw honesty of those who slipped up and the support they received from the group regardless reassured me that my misses would be okay as well, if and when they came. I finally felt part of a community, even if I remained a silent member, much to Beckham’s contempt.

“I feel good now, but I will let you know if it changes. Let’s get to work.” He gave me the same long assessing look he always did before relenting and hustling me upstairs to the library to begin the grueling task of removing all the books from the shelves so we could start cleaning and re-staining them.

“Beck, I am really not sure about this.” In fact, I was sure Beckham had lost his damn mind.

We were parked, still straddling the bike, out front of a live music venue well-known in this area for hosting some of the best cover bands from the surrounding states.

It was also a bar.

The last place my ass should be.

So why he’d now brought me directly into temptation’s clutches was beyond me. I pushed my visor back over my face, ready and willing to escape while I still had the willpower to do so, but Beckham leaped off the bike.

“Beck,” I whined.

“Easy. I wouldn’t bring you to a bar, Anders. I’m not cruel.”

“Sure looks like a bar to me. The big neon sign right there even says it.”

“And the smaller sign almost directly below that says what?” I hadn’t noticed it, but I squinted, reading the smaller print. Sober night, the third Wednesday of every month.

Well, I had to admit that was cool, but… “I still don’t know, Beck. What’s the point?” I couldn't imagine standing around in a half-empty bar that didn’t serve alcohol with a bunch of strangers would be entertaining. Honestly, it sounded pretty terrible.

“Will you just trust me, please?” He drew the last word out in a child-like whine, fluttering his eyelashes dramatically. “We haven’t even gotten to the surprise portion of the night yet.”

“Fine, but I’m serious, Beck. If this is lame, you owe me ice cream or something to make it up to me. More than one scoop, too. The fancy stuff.” I wasn’t driving a hard bargain here. Beckham couldn’t say no to ice cream, that much I knew.

“Give me one hour, and if you still want to leave, I’ll have you at Handel’s before you can say ‘extra sprinkles.’ Deal?”

“Fine, deal. One hour.”

We hung our helmets off the bike and made our way to the front doors. Beckham paid our cover, and the girl working the door fastened green bands around our wrists. She seemed to take twice as long as was necessary to fit Beck’s, and she looked him up and down like she was picturing him naked before throwing him a doe-eyed smile. “Enjoy, guys.” Her sickly tone made me queasy, and if I was being honest, maybe a little bit jealous.

Beckham was gorgeous. It was obvious to everyone who saw him, but something about how she could openly appreciate him made my stomach grind. Multiple times a day, I would have to pull my attention from him when I caught myself staring a little too long. The very last thing I wanted to do was freak him out. He seemed unfazed by me being into guys, but how long would that last once he realized I was kind of into him, too? Sure, I could tell myself that being pent up in a house without that specific kind of company all summer made me feel things that weren’t really there. But it was more than his good looks that was drawing me in.

I needed to squash all these thoughts before I did something I would regret and end up hurt. Focus on my sobriety instead of heading down a path that would lead me right back to all the things I had been working so hard to recover from.

We grabbed a couple of sodas and bottles of water from one of the bars and headed out back. Large picnic tables were set up, along with a dance floor and a stage that looked like it was being actively set up for the night.

“Wait, is there a band playing tonight?” I asked, looking around for clues. As if on cue, two of the guys on the stage dropped a large banner behind the drum set with the words ‘Y’all out boy’ written in bold. “No…”

“Surprise.” He shot me a giddy grin before plopping down at one of the smaller tables closer to the stage. “You said you were a closet emo, right?”

I threw him a flirty wink, “Nothing closeted about me, babe.” Yeah, way to make it a whole five seconds, Anders.

The heavy drums and electric guitar flowed through me, filling every empty, cold space in my soul with a thrumming energy. Music had always had this effect on me: the ability to cleanse and reset even when things felt impossibly heavy. This band was freaking amazing too. The lead singer’s vocal range was out of this world, especially considering he was only fronting a cover band.

The place had filled up in the few minutes Beckham and I chatted while watching the band set up the last of their equipment, and now bodies swayed together, packed on the small dance floor space in front of the main stage. I’d never been part of a crowd like this before. I’d been to plenty of concerts, but there was something about being surrounded by sober people having the time of their lives that was healing. Each and every person in this space had either walked the line I currently was or loved someone through their journey. Sure, not everyone who came to sober nights like this one had chosen sobriety due to addiction, but so many had.

I watched Beckham strike up conversations with multiple groups of people, asking them about their journeys and having casual conversations while I stood quietly rocking to the music by his side. They shared their struggles and histories so freely. He had this incredible ability to connect with anyone he spoke to, whether they shared a common thread of life or not.

I could see what he was doing, but I wasn’t upset. He was showing me what the other side could look like. All these people who had been through what I was currently struggling with and come out the other end. All the life that still lay ahead of me, if I could just push, just hold on another day.

During one of our many heart-to-hearts over the last few weeks, I shared with him that I had no idea who I was without the substances that kept me going. I worried that sober Anders was a dull and unlikable person. That my whole personality had revolved around my addiction for so long that I didn’t know how to move forward without it.

Every acquaintance I currently had back in Atlanta I’d met either because of, or while on, drugs. How would I meet people now I was determined to avoid those vices forever? How would I avoid falling back in with people who only wanted to bring me harm and erase all the progress I’d made? I knew I couldn’t go back. I didn’t have a home or anything tying me there, but where did that leave me? If not Atlanta, what direction did I head after this summer ended?

But what Beckham was showing me now was an entire community ready to take me into their embrace—prepared to support me, even knowing nothing about me as a person. When our time together ended, there were a million other people out there I could run to and fall back on. People who could help lift me up and keep me on the straight and narrow. People who would continue to support me and root for me as I battled on. All I had to do was give them a chance. Open my heart up just a little bit, trust in them like I had allowed myself to trust in Beckham. Honestly, the gift he was giving me by showing me this was the greatest gift he had given me so far.

I found my hand reaching out to take his as we danced with a few of our newfound friends. He didn’t pull away. He never did when I reached for him. I wasn’t an affectionate person, especially in the years since Jonah died. So many people who I'd let touch me had only done so to bring me pain, that I found the idea of casual intimacy triggering, but there was something about Beckham that eased my fight-or-flight response. His calm and warm demeanor made me gravitate towards him as if he were the sun.

He gave affection so freely for a hetero guy. If I needed a hug, he gave it without reservation, like he read my mind. I never had to ask. He would take my hands in his when they became restless, tapping an out-of-beat rhythm against my thigh. At some point, he had abandoned the leaking air mattress he’d slept on at the foot of my bed and curled up next to me as if we were two kids at a sleepover. Many mornings, I’d woken before him and had to peel myself off from where I had spider-monkeyed to him in the middle of the night. Yet he continued to stay. He continued to slip in beside me night after night, probably knowing full well that I would glue myself to him at some point.

I tried hard not to be confused by it. Beckham was just a sweet guy. He was determined to help me recover so I could stop hurting his girlfriend and her family with all my shit. So I wouldn’t steal more than I needed to get clean, and I wouldn’t use it for drugs instead. But no matter how often I told my head there was little behind his casual affection, my heart didn’t get the memo. Every brush of his hand over my thigh at meetings, every press of his palm on the small of my back as he moved past me, and every smile he flashed my way while we worked together left me breathless.

I had to push these feelings down. Constantly remind myself he was off limits, that he was straight. I didn’t have the right to feel all the emotions that bubbled up in my chest when his eyes met mine. When he said my name. The two syllables slipping from those perfect lips like a melody.

Like they were right now.

“You okay?”

I gave him a hurried and what was sure to be an unconvincing nod, snapping back into myself. “Just thirsty.”

“I have to take a leak. I can grab you something on the way back. Will you be alright here for a few minutes?”

“Yep.” I desperately needed to put some distance between the two of us. Watching him dance and chat had lit a fire inside me that was burning me whole. As he strolled away, I sent up a silent prayer that the line to the bathroom would be long enough that I could quiet the screaming inside me while he was gone. It was a frivolous hope at best.

I was well and truly fucked.

Beckham had only been gone a moment when the overwhelming sense of being watched came over me. I had felt someone’s gaze on me several times tonight but had been so swept up in all things Beckham that I hadn’t paid much mind to it. Now I snapped my head around to see what direction the attention was coming from, eyes meeting with a guy on the edge of the makeshift dance floor. His gaze roamed over me from head to toe, and I offered a shy smile in return. It had been a long time since someone had looked at me the way this man currently was, and he was handsome enough. Perhaps a brief flirtation with someone else would be exactly what I needed to get my starved body over my insatiable crush on Beckham, even if I had no intention of it leading anywhere.

Reading what he needed to in my expression, the guy stalked my way. He was a few inches shorter than me but had a more muscular build, tattooed arms on full display thanks to the tank that had been fashioned from an old band t-shirt. Brutish wasn’t usually my thing, but since meeting Beckham, my tastes in men had become exclusively limited to him.

“I have been trying to figure out all night if you both know you’re in love with each other.” His words were light and playful, but they activated something bitter in my chest.

“That’s a unique pickup line.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t make a difference to me. Want to dance?”

“Sure.” Even as the word fell from my mouth, regret and fear slammed into me, only to be cemented when he slid in behind me and wrapped his strong arms around my waist, pulling me back into him. My heart raced, and my breath became short and choppy. Panic brewed in my gut, and the sudden urge to run overcame every inch of my body.

Be cool, Anders.

There is no need to freak out.

As if sensing my sudden unease, he leaned in, pressing his lips against the skin below my ear. “It’s okay. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.” I relaxed slightly, laying my head back on his shoulder and closing my eyes as the song changed to a slower tempo. We rocked back and forth for a moment before he added softly, “I have a feeling we will be interrupted soon anyway.”