Page 5 of Salvaged Heart

5

ANDERS

I ’d felt Beckham’s eyes on me the second I stepped outside, but I didn’t expect them to linger quite as long as they did. He watched me cycle through a partial Sun Salutation into a right leg lunge, low lunge, lunge twist, and half split before I repeated it on my left side. I hadn’t taken him for a yogi, but I intended to give him a show nonetheless, so I added a few more complicated twists and stretches before taking a seat to end my workout with some deep breathing meditation. It wasn’t until soon after that I felt his gaze finally leave me, meaning either Laurel was awake and had stolen his attention, or I would be seeing him very soon.

After our run-in last night, it would probably be the latter. I got the vibe that Beckham was the kind of insufferable human who felt the need to talk about everything, even things he had no business in knowing and absolutely didn’t understand. I stood, shook out my relaxed muscles, rolled the mat back up, and made my way to the porch to sit in a creaky rocking chair awaiting his arrival. My head felt foggy, like I was still drunk from the night before. While my tolerance to alcohol was pretty high from years of abusing it, last night, I’d pushed even my limits.

And to think, I’d had every intention of staying in.

I had hit my mattress, expecting to knock right out after the absolute ringer of a workout Beckham had put me through in the kitchen. But by the time I finally made it horizontal, my mind, which had been blissfully zoned out for the majority of the day, had come back online, and with it, the intense craving for a strong enough substance to help me slip into oblivion. I’d fought the muscle cramps and restless agitation for hours before the siren’s call from the little orange bottle in my book bag almost won out. Determined to fight the urge, I grabbed my keys and went for what was supposed to be a long ride to clear my head. Instead, I ended up in a dive bar just outside of town, got hammered, and, if the painful bruise on my ribs was any indication, got in a fight. That, I had no memory of. What I did remember, however, was arriving back at the manor, being too fucked up to make it into my bed, and biting the head off the only person willing to help my sorry ass.

Man, I was an asshole.

As if summoned by my guilty conscience, Beckham appeared next to me ten minutes later. His dark hair was sleep-ruffled, but he had the expression of a man who’d hardly slept a wink.

He wasn’t the only one.

“Mornin’.” His voice came out all croaky, and I couldn’t help but think it was the sexiest sound I’d ever heard.

I gave a simple nod in response and continued staring out over the lake, bracing myself for the inevitable questions that were sure to follow. But, to my surprise, they didn’t come.

“I was thinking of heading into town to get breakfast for everyone. Laurel’s a bear when she wakes up hungry, and we are responsible for tearing out the ability to feed ourselves yesterday.” He paused, presumably awaiting acknowledgment that I’d heard him before barreling on. “Care to join?”

I should have said no. This would no doubt be another opportunity for him to gather information to feed back to Laurel. But as it was him down here with me and not my sister lecturing me about the night before, the evidence suggested Beckham had been speaking the truth when he’d said he wasn’t interested in getting involved in our drama. So, against my better judgment, I rose to my feet with the best old-man-knee-slap I could muster and indicated for him to lead the way. He accepted the success despite my silence and produced the keys to Laurel’s Mazda from the pocket of his sweatpants. I slid into the passenger seat as he folded his large frame into the tiny hatchback.

He looked ridiculous.

“How’s the sound system?” I asked, leaning forward to mess with the stereo.

“Great, if you like bumping Taylor Swift.” He threw back a throaty laugh at my noticeable wince of disapproval. “Not a Swifty, I take it?”

“More of a 2000’s emo guy, I‘m afraid.”

“I can dig it. Put something on.” He unlocked and passed his phone to me as he pulled out of the driveway onto Arbor Ct, indicating his left turn to an empty street. I settled in and picked something a little tamer than I would usually go for. Taking Back Sunday’s “MakeDamnSure” filling the cab and the irony that I’d also ‘spent the night with my most obvious weakness’ was not lost on me.

“I’ll admit that this was as far as I'd planned. I have no idea where I’m going. Any suggestions?”

“When we reach the end of the peninsula, swing a left. There’s a breakfast spot about three miles up the road.”

He gave me a half smile in thanks. “Did you spend a lot of time here, growing up? Laurel didn’t mention you in any of her family vacation tales about this place, and you didn’t come the few summers we were here together.”

This was the first I’d heard he had been to the manor before, but it didn’t surprise me. Despite the lingering hostility from the rest of my family, Aunt Millie’s continued warmth towards me said a lot about her welcoming character. She was a friend to everyone and had been one of the few people who saw my addiction for what it was.

A huge fucking problem.

What I regretted most was not taking her up on one of her many offers to come to stay with her permanently. “It would be good for you to escape the temptations at home, Anders. I could get you the proper help you need.” The issue was that by the time I caught on to the fact I had a problem, Aunt Millie was six feet under, and I was in too deep.

A wave of guilt hit me in the chest. She had always joked my substance issues would be the death of her long before they would become the death of me. I knew deep down the cancer that finally took her had nothing to do with my inability to get control of my life, but still, the news of her passing struck entirely too close to home.

“I preferred to come here alone.” That wasn’t the truth. “Well, my family preferred I come here without them.” I amended.

“Were you and Aunt Millie close?”

“At one time.” I tried to swallow around the lump gathered in my throat and turned away, hoping he wouldn't see the lingering pain in my eyes. “I wish I’d known she didn’t have long left. I would've spent more time with her.” Debating how much honesty I wanted to divulge today, I powered on. “I’ve spent most of the last few years being everywhere except where people needed me. I’m trying to change that.” I hadn’t said it to earn his pity, but I saw it in his baby blues anyway.

Beckham nodded thoughtfully, his eyes flicking briefly to mine before focusing back on the road. “I think the hardest part is recognizing that. After that, making a change is easier.”

He was wrong, but I didn’t feel like unpacking it further. “Enough about me. What’s your story?”

“Not sure, I have one.” He grunted, taking the left I advised him of earlier. He steered the wheel with the palm of his right hand, his left arm resting on the open window, eyes reflecting the light bouncing off the already hot tarmac. The way the tendons in his arm flexed as he made the turn sent something stirring low in my gut. I’d always been a sucker for vein porn, and he was giving me a front-row seat to some of the very best.

“That’s not what I heard. College ball star.”

He choked out, “Hardly,” and blushed an impressive shade of crimson. “More of a has-been. I was good for about half a season in my junior year but fizzled out fast after that. No MLB scouts were knocking on my door.”

I’d heard differently, but now didn’t seem like the time to bring up that I’d looked into him when I found out we’d be spending the summer together. So, instead, I pointed out the cafe I’d mentioned and remained silent as he hunted for a parking spot. It took a couple of loops around the block before we snagged a space from a blue Bronco struggling to reverse out into the steady flow of traffic.

Sunrise Bistro was busier than expected, and it took several minutes before the flustered hostess could spare a moment to help us. Beckham ordered, rattling off a list of food that would feed a small army, before finishing with a, “That all sound good to you?” It was exactly what I would have ordered, except in a much smaller quantity. He shooed away my offer to pay, which was good considering my card would have been declined.

“It’s probably going to take thirty minutes or so, boys. There’s some open seating out back where you can wait, or you could always sit at the…” The next word had been bar, but it got stuck in her throat as her eyes widened with recognition. “Oh, my mistake - bar’s full.”

It wasn’t.

She hurried away, whispering to a server as she went. Both threw long, judgmental looks my way as they hustled into the kitchen. I would have bet my life savings–all three dollars and fifty cents of it–that she was placing our order as a rush.

“That was odd,” Beckham whispered, moving past me to head outside to the patio. His palm grazed the small of my back, sending electricity straight up my spine.

“Not really.” I shrugged. “Unfortunately, you’re rolling with someone who made quite the reputation for themselves back in the day. They are probably locking up the liquor cabinet as we speak.” I tried to sound unaffected, but I was kidding myself if I said it hadn’t hurt. I didn’t know her from Adam, but she had obviously heard all about me.

As predicted, thirty minutes was more like ten, and the hostess let us out the side gate to avoid parading me back through the busy entrance to the restaurant. Heaven forbid someone saw the town pariah exiting such a fine establishment. It would probably run them out of business. Too bad the street out front was just as busy, and I received several scoffs anyway.

Beckham shifted subtly, as if trying to position himself between me and their judgmental stares. “I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”

There was no point in getting into it, so I waved him off and went to clamber back into Laurel’s car. Beckham passed the giant bag of food to me, and I leaned down, settling it between my feet before placing a tray of coffee onto my lap.

He hadn’t reversed more than an inch when a palm slammed down on the car’s hood, causing us both to jump in our seats. Hot coffee sloshed down the side of the take-out cup and into my lap, burning through my thin athletic shorts.

“You got a lot of nerve showing your face after that shit you pulled last night, boy.” The burly, trucker-looking owner of the hand, still placed firmly on the car’s hood, said, like he was running lines in a cheesy western. He gripped the bonnet as if he could somehow prevent Beckham from backing out further and leaned in, practically spitting through the closed window an inch from my face. “I thought I made it clear what would happen if I saw you again.” He let go, and the car rose slightly from the absence of his weight. “Fucking fag.” He hissed finally, tossing his full cup of coffee at my side of the car and marching off.

I squeezed my eyes shut to avoid seeing the look of disgust that was sure to be all over Beckham’s face. I probably looked like a toddler having a meltdown to him, but the crushing feeling in my chest was making it hard to breathe, and there was a very good chance I would puke all over our breakfast if I so much as attempted to move. A moment later, his palm landed on my knee, its searing warmth more intense than the coffee currently running down the inside of my thigh. It was then I realized how violently I was shaking. My whole body quaked under his palm, and I shook my head, desperate to stave off the overwhelming surge of panic clawing at me.

“I’m okay, just give…give me a moment.” My eyes were still screwed shut, but I felt the weight of his gaze on the side of my face.

One more minute.

One more minute, and then I would have the courage to meet it.

“Anders.”

The sound of my name was little more than a breath.

“Anders, look at me.”

I shook my head again. “I’m fine. Just… can we please get out of here.”

He gently squeezed my knee before removing his hand and backing the rest of the way out of the space, leaving my skin feeling ice cold in its absence.