Heal the Heart

51.

"You've gotten old," I said as Beck bent down to pick up the pieces. I was trying to get a glass of water but knocked the glass with my splint in a hurry to get out of the kitchen when I heard Beck dashing down the stairs.

"We're the same age." Beck swept a particularly sharp shard with just his palm, and I was this close to yelling at him to get a fucking broom.

"Yeah, but my knees are not shot."

"My knees are not shot." He winced as he stood up from his crouch and limped lightly to the trashcan. "They're just a little creaky."

A little creaky my ass. "Side effects of dropping to your knees whenever you get the chance." I meant it as a joke, but as soon as it left me, bitterness displaced the humour. Even the thought of Beck with someone else made bile rise up my throat. But he didn't need to see that.

I almost rounded the island, but Beck's hand curled around my wrist. "Don't run away. Please. Talk to me."

"Let go." I tried yanking my hand away, which didn't work. Instead, he yanked it harder, forcing me closer.

"I don't know what I did wrong, Neil. We were okay a few days ago, and then suddenly you stopped talking to me. Was it something I said? I did? I won't know if you don't tell me, and I'm done making assumptions." He tugged again. We had gotten so close, I could count the freckles on his nose. "Just please, talk to me."

The fight in me deflated, and I sagged against the island. He had a point. Just four days back we were laughing together, rehashing memories from so long ago. I was surprised I could even remember them in such detail. When I was with him, I was fine, happy even. But when he helped me to my—his—room, and the lights went out, the anger set in.

He'd told so many stories, and the more I thought about them, the more the light, fluttery feeling in my chest dissipated. Each story brought forth a different kind of resentment. We could've been together for that time. I could've been a part of those stories he told. Every experience he had, a question of who shared them with him was at the tip of my tongue.

But I couldn't ask them. I couldn't. I had no right to be jealous when every single memory of us was tainted by the fact that he was always going to leave.

Seven long years. It changed a person. It changed me. Yet Beck somehow remained the same. As much as I had allowed the bad to shroud the good, it didn't change how my time with Beck was filled with happiness and love. It was the kindness in his eyes I had fallen for first. The same kindness I saw in them even now. He was able to retain all the best parts of him and could still let go of the ugly.

I couldn't say the same for myself.

"Let me in," he urged. "I know what triggered you, but I can't give you an answer when I don't know what the question is."

I pulled away from his imploring gaze. "There's nothing to ask."

He let go of my wrist, but his nearness was enough to root me in place. "Ask."'

"Were there others?" I scoffed before he could reply. "Of course, there were others. The very first night we met, you didn't hesitate to get down on your knees."

I was his first and it shouldn't matter as much because in the long run, such petty intricacies usually didn't. But it mattered to me, and it pierced me right in my soul to know others got to experience him in a way that was reserved only for me. I was his first, and for so long, I thought I would be his last. He left me because he couldn't let the world know the truth, and he didn't want to drag me into his own version of purgatory. If he went seeking others, then what was the point of leaving me? What was the point of all my pain?