“We’re not bartering. You have no leverage in this transaction.” He takes a seat on an overturned canoe. “You now have five seconds.”
“Ugh,” I groan and pull out my cell phone. “If you weren’t family, my bodyguard would have you pinned on the ground right now.”
Charlie barely blinks. “The bodyguard who was too busy sucking your face to notice me? That one?”
Oh my fucking God!
I’ve lost the verbal tennis match that I didn’t even want to play.
Quickly, I squat to talk on my cell, but I also want to sink into the ground. Let me just become a puddle on this floor.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as my phone rings.
“Sulli?” Beckett sounds concerned. Because why else would I call after all this time? Maybe he thinks I’d only reach out if I were on my deathbed.
Then again, I didn’t even call to tell him about the cougar attack. The room is stifling all of a sudden. I feel like a jerk. It’s been too long, and I don’t know how to do this anymore. I’m the Friendship Assassin. Not the Friendship Necromancer. I don’t know how to bring a friendship back to life.
I want to hang up.
“Sulli?” Beckett asks again. “Are you okay?” On the background of the call, I hear classical music. Songs to Romeo & Juliet, the ballet he’s cast in. Unsure of his schedule, I can’t determine whether he’s at a rehearsal before the performance or whether he’s backstage during it, but I also can’t see him dipping out of an actual show just to talk to me.
Just like I wouldn’t dip out of a swim meet to talk to him. Our dedication has been a link that ties us, an understanding that no one else really gets. And it feels good to be understood so deeply by someone.
Charlie clears his throat. I glance over at the canoes, and he gestures at my phone to speak.
“Um…” I swallow hard. “Yeah, I’m alright. I fucking guess. Charlie just blackmailed me into calling you.” I don’t even know why I told him the truth. It’s just not natural to lie to Beckett.
He sighs heavily. “I apologize on Charlie’s behalf.” He must move somewhere quieter because the music falls more hushed. “Shit, I’m sorry,” Beckett says, “this isn’t how I wanted you to talk to me again.”
“Well, it’s fucking happening.” I stare at the dirty floor tiles.
“Is he watching?”
“Yep.”
Beckett laughs a little. “Then I’m sorry again. I’d tell you to hang up, but he probably won’t find this call sufficient enough. Do you want me to hang up? You can pretend to keep talking for a bit.”
Beckett is kind.
My dad used to always say that all the Cobalt boys are mischievous in some way. All but one.
Beckett.
Honest and kind. Though, he can be extremely blunt. I know that. And after he snuck around doing drugs, I’m not so sure my dad would say today what he used to say back then.
But right now, Beckett’s kindness rushes back into me, almost as a reminder of the Beckett I grew older with, my best friend.
“No, it’s okay,” I whisper. “We can talk for a second.”
My pulse ratchets up. On a steep incline.
The second you retire from swimming you’re all of a sudden drinking alcohol and passing out—at least I’m not pointlessly destroying my body.
I push that memory back to ask, “How’s ballet?” I want to ask whether he still “loathes” Leo Valavanis, his rival in the company, but those extra words lodge in my throat.
“It’s challenging lately, but I like that about this performance we’re on.” He pauses. “How’s swimming?”
“I’m climbing. Not swimming.”
“I know, but your first love is swimming. First loves just don’t go away.” He uses love in context of a thing, a sport, an ambition—not a person. Beckett doesn’t want to fall in love with anyone.
First loves.
The plural has me struggling not to picture both Akara and Banks. And I struggle even more not to share all that’s happened with Beckett.
He’s the one person I’d always confide in. Where everyone else has their number ones. Their friendship groups. Beckett is my person. And now he’s just…not.
I settle with, “You’re not going to ask what Charlie has on me?”
“I thought about it,” Beckett says, “but I don’t really deserve your secrets, and I think I need to earn this one.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose harder, emotion trying to swell up. “I’m so fucking bad at friendships,” I mutter to myself, but I