I’m a dead guy walking, right?” he scoffed, swiping the pile of sugar packets, knocking them over.
“Wow, I thought I had the market on pessimism. I should have known your Suzy Sunshine bit was total crap.”
Beckett blinked a couple of times, staring at me, and then he relaxed. His mouth curved upward and his eyes started sparkling again.
“You don’t have any sort of filter, do you?” he asked.
“Filter? What’s that?”
Then we were smiling at each other again. The anger and the tension were gone.
“It sucks though, doesn’t it?” he asked after a few minutes.
“What sucks?”
“The doctor’s appointments. The never-ending questions about how you’re feeling. The sympathetic looks when they find out what’s wrong with you. The whispers. The doubts that you’re really okay. It gets old. I try not to get down but being jabbed with needles and going through tests every few weeks is a buzz kill,” he said with a sigh.
“I hate going to the doctor. I hate the tests and the questions. I hate that my friends, my family, they all look at me like I’m going to fall apart at any minute. That when they look at me, they don’t see Beckett Kingsley, they see a body in a hospital bed with wires and tubes everywhere.” Beckett gritted his teeth together and I found that I couldn’t look away.
From his truth.
His honesty.
His everything.
But then his face smoothed out and he relaxed once again. He took a deep breath and lifted his hands into the air in mock defeat.
“But what can you do? Whine about it? Wallow in self-pity? That’s not how I roll. I can’t change what’s happened, only what I do from here on out. And one thing I won’t do is be miserable with the time I have left.”
He left me a little baffled. I didn’t understand how he could be so calm. So resolute.
“How can you be so damn optimistic? Why aren’t you more upset? Don’t you get angry? Or at least mildly pissed off? How in the hell can you sit there and talk about this stuff with a freaking smile on your face? Do they have you on antidepressants or something?” I scoffed.
Beckett gaped at me for a second and then slapped his hand on the table, startling me. Shit. I had overstepped again.
But he didn’t yell or become angry. He started laughing so hard that he was literally snorting through his nose.
“Are you okay?” I asked, getting concerned when he began to gasp a bit. He pressed his hand over his chest, fingers touching the bandage I could see peeping out from his collar.
“Seriously, Beckett, are you all right?” I asked. His face was red and he almost seemed to have trouble breathing. Was I going to have to call 911?
Beckett shook his head. “I’m fine,” he wheezed.
“What the hell was all that?” I demanded, irritated when he finally calmed down.
“In the last four months since my cardiac arrest, no one has ever asked me those kinds of questions.” I frowned, not understanding what he was saying. Beckett rubbed the back of his neck.
“Sure, my doctors ask how I’m feeling. If I’m short of breath or light-headed. They want to know about chest pains and dizziness. My parents coddle me and think I’m made of glass and my friends make a joke about it.” Beckett looked out the window, his blue eyes hooded, his brow furrowed. He wasn’t laughing anymore. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t jovial and optimistic.
“No one has ever asked me if I’m upset. If I’m angry.” He turned back to me, his eyes meeting mine, and I couldn’t look away.
“But you, a complete stranger, ask the things that no one else will. It’s nice.”
“It’s
nice
? So that’s a reason to have a damn fit and freak me the hell out?” I frowned.
“Don’t be so serious, Corin. Life’s too short. Trust me.” He reached across the table and took my hand in his. Fingers curling. Palms pressed. Touching. Holding.
Feverish and smoldering.
I pulled away and hid my tingling fingers in my lap beneath the
“Wow, I thought I had the market on pessimism. I should have known your Suzy Sunshine bit was total crap.”
Beckett blinked a couple of times, staring at me, and then he relaxed. His mouth curved upward and his eyes started sparkling again.
“You don’t have any sort of filter, do you?” he asked.
“Filter? What’s that?”
Then we were smiling at each other again. The anger and the tension were gone.
“It sucks though, doesn’t it?” he asked after a few minutes.
“What sucks?”
“The doctor’s appointments. The never-ending questions about how you’re feeling. The sympathetic looks when they find out what’s wrong with you. The whispers. The doubts that you’re really okay. It gets old. I try not to get down but being jabbed with needles and going through tests every few weeks is a buzz kill,” he said with a sigh.
“I hate going to the doctor. I hate the tests and the questions. I hate that my friends, my family, they all look at me like I’m going to fall apart at any minute. That when they look at me, they don’t see Beckett Kingsley, they see a body in a hospital bed with wires and tubes everywhere.” Beckett gritted his teeth together and I found that I couldn’t look away.
From his truth.
His honesty.
His everything.
But then his face smoothed out and he relaxed once again. He took a deep breath and lifted his hands into the air in mock defeat.
“But what can you do? Whine about it? Wallow in self-pity? That’s not how I roll. I can’t change what’s happened, only what I do from here on out. And one thing I won’t do is be miserable with the time I have left.”
He left me a little baffled. I didn’t understand how he could be so calm. So resolute.
“How can you be so damn optimistic? Why aren’t you more upset? Don’t you get angry? Or at least mildly pissed off? How in the hell can you sit there and talk about this stuff with a freaking smile on your face? Do they have you on antidepressants or something?” I scoffed.
Beckett gaped at me for a second and then slapped his hand on the table, startling me. Shit. I had overstepped again.
But he didn’t yell or become angry. He started laughing so hard that he was literally snorting through his nose.
“Are you okay?” I asked, getting concerned when he began to gasp a bit. He pressed his hand over his chest, fingers touching the bandage I could see peeping out from his collar.
“Seriously, Beckett, are you all right?” I asked. His face was red and he almost seemed to have trouble breathing. Was I going to have to call 911?
Beckett shook his head. “I’m fine,” he wheezed.
“What the hell was all that?” I demanded, irritated when he finally calmed down.
“In the last four months since my cardiac arrest, no one has ever asked me those kinds of questions.” I frowned, not understanding what he was saying. Beckett rubbed the back of his neck.
“Sure, my doctors ask how I’m feeling. If I’m short of breath or light-headed. They want to know about chest pains and dizziness. My parents coddle me and think I’m made of glass and my friends make a joke about it.” Beckett looked out the window, his blue eyes hooded, his brow furrowed. He wasn’t laughing anymore. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t jovial and optimistic.
“No one has ever asked me if I’m upset. If I’m angry.” He turned back to me, his eyes meeting mine, and I couldn’t look away.
“But you, a complete stranger, ask the things that no one else will. It’s nice.”
“It’s
nice
? So that’s a reason to have a damn fit and freak me the hell out?” I frowned.
“Don’t be so serious, Corin. Life’s too short. Trust me.” He reached across the table and took my hand in his. Fingers curling. Palms pressed. Touching. Holding.
Feverish and smoldering.
I pulled away and hid my tingling fingers in my lap beneath the
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