I’d show her how wrong I’d been, that if I could take it back, I would.
I’d show her that even though I’d fucked up, I could make things right.
I’d fall to my hands and knees and beg for forgiveness.
But the wound it caused her was no doubt deep, and whether she believed me or not was another story.
Chapter Three
Lenora
My heart was thundering as I knocked on the front door and then took a step back, as if that foot of space would have some kind of shield, be some kind of wall to protect me. For six months, I replayed Beckham’s words in my head over and over again, this broken record that dug into my heart. They not only hurt because I cared about him, because he’d been part of my family—my life—but also because of how I felt for him on a more romantic level.
Because I was in love with him.
To this day, I still remember the progression of my feelings for him, how at first I’d noticed how attractive he was, then got to know him and loved his personality. He put on a good show of acting like he had no worries or cares, almost this aloofness about him. He was charismatic, and although he’d been the new guy at school, everyone had flocked to him. He was important.
And he always put me first, always made me feel as if no one could touch me, that I was better than anything that was negative and thrown in my way.
And as the years passed and we grew from teenagers to young adults, I found myself falling for him—maybe an inappropriate reaction because of what we were to each other, but a reality nonetheless.
But his words and anger had touched me, broken me. They’d crumbled and ruined the love I hoped—imagined—having with him one day.
But here I was, destiny and circumstance throwing a wrench in the mix and threatening to open up the wound in my heart once more.
And when that front door opened, I felt like everything around me froze, time standing still. My heart was the only thing in motion, beating rapidly against my ribs, painful and loud. Would he be able to hear it? I felt beads of sweat along my temples and gripped my bag tighter. Inside were my basic necessities. Everything else I accumulated over the years was in the storage facility, one that had been prepaid. One that only had one more month left. After that, I’d lose everything.
But I hoped while staying with Beckham and saving up money that I’d been able to find another place. Then I’d be able to figure out what I was going to do with my life.
Until then, I’d stay out of his way, mind my business, and keep my head down.
He held the door open with one hand, his other one extended as he braced it on the door frame. He said nothing as he stared at me. And I couldn’t read his expression, because he was stoic, silent.
I tipped my head back slightly to look into his face. Beckham was a big guy, tall with a muscular build. But he wasn’t too bulky, not like a bodybuilder, but more powerful than a swimmer. And seeing him again after six months had me feeling like I’d fallen right back down that rabbit hole of emotions.
I’d pushed down how I felt for him from all the hurt and anger. It had been a survival tactic, I supposed. But now I felt it rising up violently to the surface. I swallowed it down, bit my tongue to stop from crying—that pain a wakeup call—and reminded myself why I was standing at his doorstep.
Because I was desperate.
I didn’t miss how he eyed me up and down, his gaze raking over my body and making me feel bare. I didn’t know what I expected, but the slow smile that crept across his face wasn’t one of them. I supposed I expected him to be cold and have nothing but an attitude. But he said nothing as he stepped aside and pushed the door open even more, allowing me to enter. Maybe he could see the desperation on my face, the complete hopelessness I felt. I’d hit rock-bottom, and how sad was my life, how lonely and pathetic was I that the one person who hated me the most was the only person I could turn to?
Once I was inside with my back to him, I heard the door shut. I didn’t even know if I could speak right now, but I did turn around, facing him. He wore a blank expression on his face, and I didn’t know why that made me as nervous as it did.
After we parted ways so horribly, and after the hurt had settled, I felt anger, wanting to curse him out, ask how he could treat me like shit after all those years, after how close we’d been... or how close I thought we’d been. But I’d taken the high road, kept my mouth shut, kept my distance, and just let that hurt and anger fester inside me. That’s all I could do.
“Thank you again for letting me stay here.” I cleared my throat, my voice low, scratchy. I swallowed roughly and just stared at him as he watched me. “Believe me,” I said when he had yet to respond. “I wouldn’t have called you if I wasn’t at absolute rock-bottom.” I was humiliated admitting that to him.
I ran my free hand down my jeans, willing it not to shake.
“You’re fine, Lenora. Everything will be fine.”
I cleared my throat. I wanted to believe him.
“How is your mom?” There was no accusation in his voice, just genuine curiosity. Or maybe he was just trying to start a conversation. Although that was the last thing I wanted to talk about, and I’m sure it was the same for him.
I scoffed before I could stop myself. “The same,” I said with disgust. “But I haven’t really spoken to her since that all....” I stopped myself and cleared my throat. Although my mom did reach out every now and then, she was far too consumed with her own life to care about much else other than herself, even if that something else was her only daughter.
And as Beckham stared at me, I knew I shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have even went on about it. There was this thickness hanging between us, this never-ending pressure. And as I stared into his amber-colored eyes, I found myself whispering, “You weren’t the only one she hurt, Beckham.”
After my mother’s infidelity had come to light, the fact that she had a lack of remorse, even her arrogance over it, had shifted everyone’s life for the worse. At least I felt this shift inside me for the worse where she was concerned. She’d never been a very present mother to begin with, throwing herself into work, away more time than she was present.
Hell, I hadn’t even been a planned pregnancy, but instead a wrench thrown in her young life after she’d had a short fling with a wealthy, much older man. And the latter had been the only piece of information she’d ever given me about who my father was.
Self-absorbed—my mother’s picture would be under the definition in the dictionary.
I suppose that’s why she found herself in the situation she was, in a torrid affair with one of her university students, who she was currently still seeing and living with in another state. Her affair had been quite public, very messy, yet she refused to apologize, to even acknowledge that she’d done anything wrong.
And her moving away hadn’t just been about her wanting to have this whirlwind romance with her new beau. It had been a scandal. She’d lost her position at the university, and she’d been humiliated.
She’d never admit it, but she’s the one who lost the most.
But the truth was—and it was depressing to admit this about my own mother—but her being gone was a blessing in disguise. It gave me freedom. It let me breathe for once in my life.