Page 78 of Heartsmashed
“Please. I’m more eighties power ballad than country.”
“I figured.” When I arched a brow, he added, “I saw the way you gave that Skid Row song all your energy at the nineties party.”
“Hey, it’s a great song.”
“If you say so.” He lifted his glass to his lips, and my attention dropped to his mouth, because apparently I was determined to make things difficult for myself.
The oversized sweatshirt should’ve helped my situation, but my brain was stuck on how good he looked in something soft and worn in, a glimpse of the man outside of this week’s circus.
I nodded toward his chest. “Columbia, huh? That your alma mater?”
“Yep. Grad school.”
“Ah. Of course it was.”
“What does that mean? Don’t tell me you went to Cornell.”
“No, it just means you have that Ivy League, disciplined, always-reads-the-instructions-before-assembling-furniture thing about you.”
He laughed. “Reading instructions is a flaw now?”
“No, it’s hot. Unfortunately.” I tucked the blanket tighter around my legs to keep me in my chair so I didn’t do anything unhinged, like crawl into his lap and ask if Columbia had taught him anything useful about restraint.Platonic, platonic.“Do you miss it?”
“School?”
“Yeah. Like the version of you who wore that sweater back then.”
“Hmm. Good question.” He swirled the wine gently in his glass, taking his time in answering. “Sometimes, maybe. Not the schedule, and definitely not the exams. But I liked knowing what I was working toward.”
“That sounds nice. Having a goal.”
“You don’t?”
“Oh. Well, technically, I guess. Just different. I went to college for broadcasting, but then I just fell into the radio thing and realized I didn’t actually need a degree, so I never finished. But it’s a weird job—like, how do you measure what you’re working toward? It’s just ratings, growing the audience. Keeping people listening.”
“That sounds difficult.”
“You’d be surprised how many people will tune in when your life falls apart.”
Beckett’s gaze met mine, and there it was, his full attention, which always made me feel like he was filing away everything I said. “I bet it’s because they likeyoumore than watching you be miserable.”
“Maybe. Pain is brandable, though.” I rolled the stem of my wine glass between my fingers. “I think…I’m tired of being the breakup guy. Bitter Sawyer taking calls, giving terrible advice, and spiraling to Adele. I just… It felt good to make the joke before anyone else could. Like if I was the one laughing, then maybe I wasn’t the guy who got dumped and cried about it on air, you know?”
“You were hurting. Trust me, it’s relatable to a lot of people.”
“Yeah, but…I don’t know that I am anymore.” I swallowed and added, “Hurting, I mean.”
A hint of a smile turned up his mouth, and he had to know.Hadto know he had something to do with it.
“What do you want instead?” That was such a Beckett question. Simple and direct, with no judgment.
I held up my almost-empty glass. “I don’t think there’s enough wine for a question that big.”
“Start small.”
“Okay. Maybe…less sad sack with a microphone.”
“Step one, then. Next?”
