The coffee was a peace offering. For whatever reason, I felt sorry for him, which in retrospect was a huge mistake.
When I return to my office, I check my phone for the millionth time. Jeremiah still hasn’t called me back. It’s not like him. Break or no break, he’s not the type to ever ignore someone.
Especially not me.
I fire off an email to Dane and Beckham with a link to the preliminary website and ask for feedback. After that, I return a call to the Charity Falls Register to confirm the interview date and time. Yanking out a fresh legal pad, I jot down some key statistics and points I want Beckham to hone in on during his interview.
An hour of immersing myself in work leads me right back to where I started: worrying about Jeremiah.
Dragging in a defeated breath, I check his blog. The interface hasn’t changed. We did a good enough job with it, that the show’s branding has been coordinated around it. I click on the latest blog post: a recipe for sweet potato pie tied in with some pie crust sponsorship. He didn’t write it. Those aren’t his words. Some intern must’ve put that together for him.
I’d be lying if I said picturing him swarmed with college interns and industry executives all day didn’t hollow out my heart.
Scrolling through pictures on my phone of better days, I stop when I get to the one of me sitting on his lap last Christmas at my parents’ house in Minneapolis. We wore matching cable knit sweaters and Jeremiah donned a Santa hat my nephew had given him the previous year.
The Jer and Sam in that picture are content. Carefree. Living for the moment. Excited for the future. Our relationship was easy and effortless. We used to be so happy.
“I’m heading out for a bit.”
Startled, I glance up and see Beckham in my doorway.
“Going to the hospital?” I ask.
“Absolutely not.” His face scrunches as if my question insults him.
Maybe it’s residual resentment still coursing my veins and mixing with the flood of nostalgia and insecurity, but I feel the words rising in my throat before I have a chance to stop them.
“That’s shitty, don’t you think?” I can’t believe I just said that. A fresh batch of sharp opinions form fresh in my mind, snapping to the surface before I have a chance to stop them. “Shouldn’t you be with your family right now?”
Beckham’s usually relaxed composure tightens, starting with his mouth and followed by his jaw, trailing down his shoulders until it gets to his clenched fists.
“Please tell me you’re going to man up and take responsibility,” I say. I regret the words the second they come out, but I’m powerless. All my fears, apprehensions, and anger swirl together and cloud my better judgment. “Maybe the universe is trying to tell you it’s time to stop screwing around and settle down. Have to grow up sooner or later.”
Beckham’s eyes darken. “You. Know. Nothing.”
Shit.
In an instant, he’s gone. And now I feel like the world’s biggest asshole. Running after him, I grab his arm by the time he’s halfway down the hall. He stops, jerking his elbow from my grasp, and turns to me.
“I’m sorry.” My palm covers my heart. “I mean it. I shouldn’t have said those things, Beckham. I…”
He studies my face, staring down his nose and breathing hard.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat again. My mother once told me tacking on a bunch of excuses to an apology does nothing but dilute it. “You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”
I feel the need to apologize twenty-five additional times, slathering him in apologies until he assures me it’s okay.
There’s no acceptance in his stern gaze, only a bitterness that chills me.
“I don’t know your situation,” I add. “I shouldn’t judge.”
“No, Odessa. You shouldn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I heard you the first three times.”
“If there’s anything you need…” I sound pathetic. I know that. He’s probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I’m starting to wonder the same.
“I need you to stop groveling,” he says. “I don’t like this version of you.”
Me neither.
He steps toward me, and I amble backwards until I hit a nearby wall. I shut my eyes, breathing in his clean scent. It transports me to that night when I was just a girl in a bar and he was just a guy with every promise of wicked intentions.
“Today, of all days…” Beckham leaves his thought unfinished, his face twisted.
“I know,” I say, my eyes protesting and apologizing all at once. “You’re going through some stuff. I’ll leave you alone.”