Page 30 of Slow Burn (Driven 5)
The incoherent sound I make is all I can offer to thank him for not hanging up on me. For not giving up on me.
“Talk to me. What’s going on?” he asks gently as if he’s afraid if he pushes too hard I’ll run away and hide. Just like I want to. How he has me pegged so well, I don’t know.
“I’m sorry.” My words are barely audible. I don’t even recognize my own voice, can’t come to grips with how this man I don’t want to let in has gotten under my skin.
Losing Lexi was one thing I couldn’t stop, but losing myself is something I never expected. And there’s something about Becks—his easygoing nature, his personality, his kindness—that has me reaching over my iron walls and wanting to connect. Wanting to reach for that shadow of myself that is floating away just beyond my reach.
The balloon without a string at the top of your ceiling. There. Present. But never within reach.
Until it deflates. Falls lifeless.
“Don’t be sorry, Had. Never be sorry for needing me.”
I don’t need you. The words are almost off my tongue. But the gentleness in his tone causes the pain to burn brighter.
“You want to talk about it?”
You have no idea. I want to explain this all to you. How I want you, how I’m scared, how if I give you the whys, I know you’ll give me the get-over-it speech, and that’s the one thing I’m sick of hearing. The “Lex is dead, Haddie. She’d want you to keep living, keep dreaming, keep going. Live for her. Get over it.”
And I’m not sure what’s worse to me. Him telling me that and ruining this perfect image I’m holding close of him or letting him in, allowing whatever this is to run its course and then devastate him like Lex’s death did Danny.
I hear the jingle of a dog’s tags in the background, and for some reason, the sound makes me smile. So I seize on to the idea of Becks having a fur person to keep him company at night, my mind trying to distract me from the vulnerability that is seeping from my every fiber.
“No.” The word is a soft exhale on my lips.
“Are you okay? Do you need me to come over?”
Yes.
“No,” I lie, unable to take that next step in admitting how much I want that right now. Having Becks here would be like admitting there is a chink in my armored heart. And the only problem is that I’ve let him in—past the steel walls—but he can never know. If he knows, if he lets me into his heart, into his life, then I open him up to feeling how I feel.
“What do you need from me?”
And my heart squeezes at his words. Not what can I do for you but what do you need from me? Where is the arrogance when I need it? Can’t he be an asshole so that I can cling to that, grab onto that to help me push him farther away?
Protect him and isolate me?
“Nothing … I just …” I can’t finish my thoughts because I want to tell him everything I need from him. Why I want him but won’t let myself risk the chance of hurting him. At my own fear of taking a stupid blood test. So many things but all I can do is live day to day, moment to moment.
But isn’t that part of the problem? If I’m adhering to that theory, then I should be living it up. If tomorrow is unknown, I should be living with reckless abandon, throwing caution to the wind. Driving with the top down. But I’m not.
Because I’m scared.
I close my eyes as a silent tear slides down my cheek, and I try to shove my fear away, but I get a sense that I don’t even need to speak because Becks just knows.
“I’m here, okay?”
I nod my head as if he can see it and sit there for a few seconds before realizing it. “’Kay.”
“So, uh, we never finished the other day.”
I let the silence hang, unsure of what he’s talking about and at the same time wondering if I have enough in me to care and knowing damn well that I do.
“I was born in Texas. Moved at age six to the Santa Cruz area for who knows what reason. … Hmm. I feel lame doing this, but it’s only fair, right? Let’s see, it’s just my little brother, Walker, and me.”
I smile at the comment, love that he’s giving me his turn to tell his history. “Mm-hmm,” I murmur so that he knows I’m listening and encouraging him to talk more.
“When I was twelve, I think, my dad got transferred down to Santa Monica. … He was a big wig at the bank he worked at, and their corporate headquarters was down here, so we moved. I was so mad at him for making me leave my friends and my football team that I packed a bag and ran away.” He laughs at the memory, and the sound of it lifts the veil of grief some. “I made sure I had my Nintendo Gameboy and some snacks and sat on the green electric transformer box that was just out of view of our front door for a while, pondering where to go. And then of course, my mom knew my biggest weakness—chocolate chip cookies—so she baked some and called all the kids in the neighborhood to eat them on our front lawn. She made sure she yelled loud enough to every kid within earshot about them. … I couldn’t take it, so I came home after a whole hour and a half of running away.”
