Page 7 of Salvaged Heart

7

BECKHAM

A s predicted, Anders didn’t stick around long after he finished eating. He hovered in the doorway for a moment with a sheepish expression as if awaiting my permission before finally turning on his heels and heading upstairs. Now wasn’t the right time to try to get answers out of him. He still looked wrung out from whatever happened at Sunrise Bistro, and I had a full day of errands with Laurel to look forward to.

Margery, Laurel, and I finalized our plans for the house’s renovation over breakfast. Anders sat quietly at the table with us, and although he was withdrawn, his eyes scanned over all the samples we laid out before us, taking in every word we said. Only once did he speak, and that was to give his opinion on the paint color for the primary bedroom.

“This one.” That was all he offered, pointing to a navy paint swatch in the middle of the table.

Margery hummed in agreement. “I think you’re right.” They nodded at each other once, and that was that.

The rest of the house would be done in a palate of light grey, cream, and soft yellow to avoid taking away from the natural beauty outside the giant windows. We made long lists of all the various supplies that would be needed. Margery quizzed me on how much paint should be purchased and then grimaced at my answer before transferring forty-thousand dollars to Laurel’s checking account like she was spotting her money for gas. Being from money herself, Laurel looked at her new account balance like it was chump change and told Margery she’d be back in touch when we needed more. A few minutes later, Margery left to catch her flight back to Colorado while Laurel and I headed off the peninsula in the direction of the hardware store.

We meandered around the aisles, filling cart after cart with paint brushes, tarps, rollers, grout, wood varnish, and cleaning supplies. I’d brought with me all the tools I inherited from my dad, but I found myself lusting over new sanders, drills, and tile cutters, which seemed to cause Laurel endless frustration.

“Beck, you already have all this stuff.” She sighed, pulling my attention away from the box I had been reading the back of.

“I know, I’m just looking.” I placed it back on the shelf. “But some of it could use an upgrade if…”

“If what?” She cut me off. “After the renovation on the manor is complete, it’s not like you would use any of this crap again.”

It was easier not to argue with her, so I said, “Yeah, you’re right,” and followed her into the next aisle.

The girls had placed orders for most of the bigger items on their expedition the previous day, including all the bathroom and kitchen fittings, but that left tile to be ordered and about twenty gallons of paint to be poured. The employee we roped in to assist in mixing all the paint looked like they would rather peel their fingernails off than help us, but eventually, we deemed we had everything needed. I wandered off when it came time to check out to avoid hearing the total and instead went to discuss a van rental to lug all this stuff back. When we were grabbing items off the shelves, neither of us had considered that it would take at least five trips in Laurel’s Mazda.

By the time we made it back to the manor and unloaded, I was utterly exhausted. I flopped down on the couch while Laurel made spaghetti on the hot plate she’d grabbed from Walmart on our way home, and inhaled it the moment it was ready. The combination of carbs and a long day of running around had left my eyelids heavy. If I sat there any longer, I’d fall asleep. Something my shoulder would not thank me for in the morning. Plus, I had someone I needed to check on before I could finally call it a night.

“I think I’ll turn in early.”

Laurel looked up from where she too was becoming one with the couch, feet tucked up underneath her, and a battered paperback resting on her knee. Some dollar-store romance, no doubt. I swear she was obsessed with those things. “Let me finish this chapter, and I’ll join you.”

“Honestly, I’ll be asleep before my head hits the pillow. Stay.” I stood slowly and entirely too stiffly for a twenty-three-year-old to scoop the last of the spaghetti into a chipped bowl. “I’m going to make sure Anders eats something, then it's lights out.”

Laurel scrunched up her nose in displeasure. “You know he can take care of himself, right?”

But I wasn’t sure that was quite the truth. After this morning, the need to set my eyes on him and ensure he was okay was too great. The look on his face as he’d crumbled into himself in the passenger seat of Laurel’s car had been on my mind all day. The broken sobs that had burst from his chest as he tried to get his breathing under control played on a loop.

“I’m just being friendly.” I hoped she didn’t hear any concern in my tone.

For a worrying minute I thought she might call me on my bullshit but she simply nodded and held out her hand to beckon me closer. I came willingly, bending to kiss her pretty lips. It was soft—lukewarm at best—but I didn’t have it in me tonight to take things further.

“Today was fun.” She whispered against my mouth. “We haven’t spent that much time together in a long time. It was nice.” Her left hand skated along my stomach under my shirt, a finger dipping playfully under the waistband of my sweats.

“If I’d known all it took was taking you to a hardware store to get you going, I would have done this a long time ago.” I pulled her hand from where it was venturing south and kissed her palm. “Rain check? Tomorrow?”

If she was disappointed, she didn’t let it show. She returned to her novel and whispered, “Goodnight, Beck.” I was already halfway out the door.

I stopped off at the second floor, pausing outside Anders’ bedroom, hand raised to knock, but was surprised to find the door cracked. Through it, I could see Anders lying face down in his bed, spread out like a starfish, the sound of his soft, slow breaths drifting over to me. Deciding it would be better not to wake him but still wanting to leave him dinner, I slowly pushed the door open without knocking and padded inside.

This bedroom was the only one, other than the primary, that had an actual bed in it. Upon arriving at the manor, I had been a little put out that Anders had claimed it. But looking around the room now, it was apparent this space had been his long before this summer.

Books lined the shelves, a mix of classics and contemporary romance, along with several framed photographs. What appeared to be a young Anders stood arm-looped around a man who, without question, was his father. Another showed him several years older, smiling longingly up at another boy of a similar age. His eyes twinkled, his hand reaching out towards the boys as if he intended to slip their fingers together.

Papers scattered his desk, but his clothes hung in the closet, shoes tucked neatly below them. I hadn’t seen Anders with any suitcases when we arrived, and now I thought about it, he wouldn’t have. He’d shown up on a rusted motorbike that was currently parked at the side of the house under the remnants of a carport added in the late eighties and destined to be soon dismantled by yours truly.

These things had a permanent home here.

Looking for a flat, empty surface to set the bowl down on, I moved to the side table closest to the door. Anders’ sketch pad sat face up, a new rendering showing on the top page. I scooped it up, replaced it with the spaghetti, and studied it. This drawing was of the bedroom we had been discussing that morning, again a wholly renovated version, showing all the changes Margery had listed. It was so life-like that I felt like I could jump inside it and curl up in the plush bed against all the throw pillows and blankets, soaking in the warmth from a fire glowing in the hearth.

Turning the next page, I found another, this time of the en suite bathroom complete with a brand new clawfoot tub, subway tile, and sparkling mini chandelier. The next page showed the outside of the property, new shutters, full luscious flower beds, and a tidied-up front porch with antique rocking chairs set about it.

I turned one more page, forgetting I was standing over his sleeping body in the semi-darkness, and almost dropped the book. On the page in front of me was another rendering, but instead of the interior of this house, my face looked back at me. I’d never seen myself captured like this, completely candid, head thrown back in a playful laugh. Youth and joy danced in my eyes, my hair messy, and dirt smudged across my cheek. An easy, carefree expression on my face—it was beautiful.

I looked beautiful.

The collar of my shirt told me this was from yesterday when we tore out the kitchen. The attention to detail was incredible. Every laugh line, every freckle, even the slight shadow of stubble that told me this particular moment was from the afternoon.

Had he captured all these tiny details in his head? I hadn’t seen him take a picture.

Suddenly, aware that I was standing in his room looking at something incredibly personal, I dropped the sketch pad back to the table, trying to reposition it in the exact place I’d found it.

My heart stopped.

In the time I had been flipping through the book, Anders had moved. He now lay on his back, the sheet dropped to his hip, revealing intricate tattoos snaking over his entire torso and across his left shoulder. His head lay on the arm propped behind it, face turned towards me, eyes luckily still closed.

I swallowed hard. My eyes tracked down his long torso, catching on a bruise running along his side to where it disappeared under the waistband of his gray sweats. I hadn’t noticed how skinny he was when he was fully clothed, but now, naked to the waist, I could see the outline of his ribs. He was only a few inches shorter than me, but I easily weighed forty to fifty pounds more than him.

Had I even seen him eat other than the few times I’d personally given him food? I made a mental note to ensure I fed him regularly and was taken aback by the sudden twinge of something I couldn’t quite place in my chest at the thought of taking care of him.

The sides of his head were cut in a close fade, leaving the top in a messy mop of brown, sun-kissed ringlets. As if moving on its own accord, my hand reached out to brush a stray curl from his forehead and tuck it out of the way. He looked so serene.

The corner of his lips kicked up in a smirk. “You going to tuck me in as well?” His eyes remained closed, but he had clearly woken up at some point while I fussed over him. My cheeks flushed, body feeling suddenly overheated, like I was standing too close to a flame.

“Sorry… I brought you food, and then…”

“You decided to watch me sleep, like Edward Cullen or some shit.”

Anders laughed low and throaty. Long fingers wrapped around mine where they still hovered over his cheek. He squeezed them lightly, eyes flashing open to meet my own. In the darkened room, they were almost black, two dark moons sucking me into their never-ending orbit. His face relaxed as he took me in.

My chest felt tight, breaths coming out quick and shallow. Something strange and foreign stirred in my gut. My mouth was so dry it felt like it was filled with sand.

Way too late, I snatched back my hand, dropping it to my side, fingers clenching and releasing next to my hip. I shook my head, trying to clear it, trying to reset, trying to backtrack on whatever the fuck was happening right now.

My lips opened and closed like a fish, desperately scrambling for words.

“Goodnight, Beckham.” His voice was barely a whisper, eyes still locked on me as I tried to regain some illusion of composure.

All I could manage in return was a “Night, Anders.” Before I turned and fled from his room, praying that the floor would open up and swallow me whole.