Page 6 of Salvaged Heart

6

ANDERS

T o give Beckham credit, he whipped the car out of there like we were fleeing a bank robbery gone wrong. The angled parking space forced us to proceed with the traffic flow going in the opposite direction of how we needed to be heading. After a few right turns, followed by two left turns, we were finally pointing back down the peninsula on our way to safety. While Beckham was busy putting distance between Sunrise Bistro and us, I managed to peel open my eyes. They burned with the effort of holding back tears, and all it took was for him to glance over once for one to escape. Of course, it had to be on the left side of my face. It slid down my cheek in a hot, salty blob.

“Fuck, Anders.”

He took an unexpected right onto a tree-lined empty street and skidded to a halt, throwing the car into park.

“I said I’d be okay in a minute. Please don’t make a big deal about this.”

I was a grown-ass, twenty-six-year-old man, for God’s sake. I had been called every name under the sun in my pathetic life. More often than not, by people who held a lot more stock in my life than some random hillbilly stranger and usually way more creative insults than fag. That particular barb had been thrown at me so often that it might as well have been my middle name.

That shit didn’t bother me.

It couldn’t bother me.

If I was going to beat my addiction, I needed to have a thicker skin than this. Otherwise, I might as well throw in the towel right now.

Fuck, I needed a smoke.

Completely forgetting I was in Laurel’s car–who’d never smoked a cigarette in her perfect life–I pulled open the glove compartment with shaking hands and began rifling through papers in a desperate search for nicotine. More coffee sloshed out of the cups still balanced precariously in my lap.

“Anders, watch it.”

His words barely registered.

“Hold up, hang on. I’ll take those.” Beckham lifted the now half-empty coffees off my lap, rolled down the window, and threw what was left of the containers into the bushes by the side of the road.

I blinked at him for one beat or two before diving back into my frantic search for anything to take the edge off. Next up was the center console, which was empty. The passenger side door, nothing. I swung around into the back seat, almost tipping myself upside down to dig through the seat back pockets, coming up yet again empty-handed.

I threw myself back in the seat, panting—no, not panting–I was full-blown hyperventilating. My breaths were short and shallow, my palms sweaty, coffee covered my lap, and every inch of my body shook violently.

Oxygen was not entering my lungs correctly.

I was certain I was about to die.

The passenger door flung open, and Beckham crouched down beside me. I hadn’t even noticed him get out of the car. His large hand slid between my back and the seat, pressing me forward slightly to allow him better access to trace the path up and down my spine.

“Shhhh…” he cooed like he was trying to soothe a startled animal. “Anders, I’m right here. You got to breathe with me, dude.” His other hand landed on mine, tracing idle circles on the skin between my thumb and pointer finger. “Focus on my voice. I will walk you through this, but you must stay with me. It’s going to be alright.”

“I…I…I…” The words caught every time I tried to get them out. I turned to him, trying to communicate that he should leave me be. I would be okay.

I just needed a goddamn minute.

But he shushed me again, continuing his slow drag up and down my back and the small, gentle circles on my hand.

“Okay, Anders, here we go. We are going to breathe in for four seconds, hold for seven, and exhale for eight. I’ll count you through it.”

I felt ridiculous. But after four rounds—or maybe forty—of following his instructions, my heart finally slowed to a normal pace, and my lungs were able to fully expand for the first time since we left the cafe. My head hung forward, curls flopping in front of my eyes, my cheeks wet with tears. Beckham’s rough finger came up and brushed them away.

We stayed there for who knows how long. Me, bent forward, leaning on my knees. Beckham crouched outside the passenger door, rubbing my back. My body tensed, waiting for the moment he would ask what on earth all that had been about. But to my shock, it didn’t come. Finally, he gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder before standing, closing my door gently, and slipping into the driver’s seat. The engine started with a click, and he pulled away from the curb in a sweeping U-turn, driving the rest of the way back to the manor in complete silence.

I was still frozen when we parked in the driveway two minutes later, not daring to move out of fear it would remind him of what a basket case he had riding shotgun. Beckham slipped from the car and headed to my door, taking a slightly wide route to scoop something from the porch step on the way.

He pressed a packet of cigarettes into my palm. “Take as long as you need. Smoke one, heck, smoke twenty, see if I care. But when you’re ready, eat breakfast with us. If I hear the squeak of you heading upstairs, I’ll drag you back down them myself. You understand?”

I didn’t have the fight left in me to do anything other than nod.

“Good. The girls don’t need to know about this unless you want them to. But we will talk about what happened.” There was no question in his tone. He would ask me about it, and I would tell him.

Hell, I might even tell him everything .

Without further hesitation, Beckham scooped up the food bag and strode up the front porch, taking the steps two at a time.

By the time I summoned the courage to face the others, my lungs burned from the tobacco, and the sun was noticeably higher in the sky. I knew it wouldn’t be long before Beckham hunted me down, so I took a couple of grounding breaths and wandered inside. The grand staircase called my name, beckoning me up to the safety of my bedroom. I was pretty quiet underfoot and had snuck out of this house enough times over the years to learn all the squeaky spots on the way up. But, as I'd reminded myself outside a million times already, the whole purpose for coming here in the first place was to face some of my demons head-on and get the resources to battle those I wasn't strong enough to take on alone.

Step one had been making it here in the first place, which was no small feat. Part of the reason Aunt Millie wanted me to move in with her so badly was the lack of available enablers here compared to back home.

Home was more of a concept at this point. Most nights, I only had a roof over my head because I passed out on the couch of someone who barely counted as an acquaintance. On other nights, I stayed with some faceless hook-up I pulled off Grindr, or worse, picked up in some sleazy bar. Most mornings, it was a miracle I woke up at all, and not always because of the drugs raging through my system.

One night, I met a guy outside a Popeyes on the corner of Oak and Lee. He was quite a few years older than me but pleasant enough to look at and charming as sin. He had me pegged as easy prey from the moment he saw me. What started as casual flirting over a cigarette and stolen sips of vodka turned into “my place is a few blocks that way” then into “let me fuck you, I’ll pay.” Shit, I would have probably done it for free as it meant a warm place to lay my head for the night. But my bank account was flat, and the prospect of earning a little cash made the deal so much sweeter. It turned out he was a sadistic bastard who got off on picking strung-out addicts like me up off the street, beating them senseless and fucking them raw while they begged him to stop.

Four hours later, I had two cracked ribs, a black eye, and only a pathetic twenty-dollar bill to show for it. I hadn’t cried in more years than I was willing to admit, but that day I curled up in a ball on the street way more than 'a few blocks' from where I’d left my bike and fucking wept.

In the early morning hours, I’d promised myself that the experience would be the catalyst for getting my life back on track. Anytime I craved a fix or a drink, I’d remind myself of how he had violated me, how I’d been too intoxicated to stop it, and that would be enough to walk away. But no less than twelve hours later, faced with the decision of where to lay my head that night, I caved. I bought some synthetic crap from a dealer loitering outside an AA meeting and went home with a girl I met at a bar two blocks over. At least she had been soft and kind. But being with her, just like the few other times I had been with a woman, left me feeling wrong and dirty—like a complete and utter fraud.

Four weeks later, Aunt Millie had called for what, I didn’t know, would be the last time. She begged me over and over to let her help. But I was too damn stubborn. I hung up on her mid-sentence and threw my phone so hard the screen shattered. Another four weeks after that, she was dead.

Hushed whispers roused me out of my spiral into despair. They were coming from one door up, which housed what used to be a small music room when Aunt Millie was still alive. I’m unsure what compelled me to tread lightly, but I snuck along the rest of the corridor, pausing just to the left of the open door. If someone had been in the far corner of the room, they would have seen me approach, but Margery, Beckham, and Laurel were huddled at a small table directly behind the wall I was leaning against.

“…couldn’t believe it when I saw it,” Margery was saying. “We’d only gone in there to see what could be taken to goodwill.”

“You could open an entire jewelry store with what she has squirreled away. We will have to get it appraised. Maybe the antiques guy you found could help or at least put us in touch with the right person?” Laurel added.

“I’ll ask.” The last voice was Beckham’s, and my heart stuttered in its eagerness to be back close to him.

I stepped forward heavier than needed to alert them of my presence, and as I rounded the doorway into the room, Margery and Laurel shot away from each other like they were pre-teen lovers caught holding hands. Laurel sent Beckham a 'don’t you dare say a word' look before turning to me with a smile so sweet it gave me a toothache.

“Anders!” Her voice was like thick, sticky honey. “We left you some food.”

I gave her a half-smile before grabbing a plate to gather what was left. It turns out “some food” equated to two pieces of bacon, half a pancake, and approximately a teaspoon of scrambled eggs. I looked down at my scraps, wondering if I glared at them long enough, maybe the food would start to multiply.

“Here.” Another container appeared under my nose. “I kept this one to the side for you.”

I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t often someone thought of me enough to do something nice, so I settled for a long questioning look but quickly found myself trapped in his hypnotic stare. “Thanks.” This came out so quietly that I doubt Beckham heard it. He just scooped the plate off my lap, dropped the container in its place, and strolled away.