CHAPTER TWENTY

COLTON

The Dive is busier than expected. There’s a bachelorette party going on, the bride herself about one drink away from getting her top off… or losing consciousness.

The bartender walks down to me. “Good thing she’s got all those friends with recording devices to savor these once-in-a-lifetime memories, huh?”

I tap the bar. “Another.”

She takes my tumbler and fills it, sliding it back. “Pretty boy like you could have his pick of those fine females.”

“Nothing ‘fine’ about them.” I don’t care about the girls or getting laid. I’m solely focused on Harper and the hole she’s opened up inside me—deep and black and infinite without her. It wasn’t fair to flip on her like that, pretend like she meant nothing. In hurt like hell betraying my feelings like that, a knife slowly twisted into my gut, but it had to be done. If we stay together it’s going to come apart and I simply can’t be responsible to destroying her life.

“Suit yourself,” laughs the bartender, walking off.

Maybe a quick pity fuck is what you need? Help you get over her?

I don’t know if it’s my head or this cheap whiskey talking, but I have enough sense to dismiss the idea.

I drink instead, drink and wonder what the hell’s going on with me I could be so cut over one girl, a relationship that by my own admission was doomed to fail from the start.

Did I want more? Maybe…

The longer it’s gone on, the more I’ve been stripped down, made weak. Becketts are many things, but vulnerable? Never.

I keep trying to justify it to myself.

That’s what she was doing to you. She was making you weak.

I finish the whiskey, placing the tumbler gently on the bar.

“You drinking for fun tonight, or to forget?”

I look sideways to a find a mousy blonde sitting next to me, her hair pulled over one shoulder, the bandeau tube dress she’s wearing cut down into her ample cleavage. She’s the kind of girl I’d hit on in a heartbeat, but I’m not in the mood.

“To forget,” I reply.

“Can I at least buy you a drink? We don’t get handsome strangers through here very often,” she smiles, taking the initiative. I should sign her up as my wingwoman.

I face her. “Look, you’re obviously attractive, smart… which is why you’d be better off staying the hell away from me.”

She remains unperturbed. “So you’re like, a challenge?”

I have to laugh at that. “Truer words were never spoken.”

“I love a challenge,” she says, ruby lips pressing together, her body language telling me it would take barely an ounce of my usual game to get her into bed.

The old Colton, the player, he wants this, this medicine, but I won’t allow it. I stand, placing cash down on the bar and sliding a note towards Goldilocks. “Tell you what. Have a drink for me… for my eternal fucking soul.”

“But—”

“You deserve better,” I tell her, strolling towards the front doors. I don’t have to turn back to know the look of disappointment she’ll be wearing. I’ve seen it a thousand times over.

I pull on my coat outside, a strong gust of wind blowing down the main street, the glow of the bar sign above turning the snow below me into fairy floss. I’m about to call an Uber when my cell rings.

I breathe out, hoping, not hoping it’s Harper, caught in the crazy crossfire of my emotions. I take it from my pocket and check the screen.

I answer. “Cayden?”

“Little bro,” comes my brother’s enthusiastic tone. “Cold enough for you up there in America 2.0?”

It’s good to hear his voice, the inherent happiness within it. And why wouldn’t he be happy? He’s got everything I don’t—a career, a family, security, significance… “‘2.0’ implies it’s an improvement,” I answer.

“Oh, stop with fucking pity party, will you? I heard about the team, at Branton.”

“What did you hear?” I ask, curious what information has filtered across the border.

“That you’re bringing a bit of that Beckett bite to ’em we all know and love.”

“It didn’t take much,” I confess. “They breed them soft up here.”

“And the females?”

I look back to the bar. “They dress like it’s the nineties, but I can’t complain.”

“So you’re getting some?”

Was getting some. “Enough,” I reply. “And you?”

“With a second kid on the way?” he laughs. “Let me tell you this, brother. Hormones, pregnancy… It drives them wild. I’m talkin’ Fifty Shades of freak.”

“That’s fucking disgusting, man.”

“What, thinking about your big brother railing his wife?”

“This from the guy who I stumbled in on fucking those cheerleader triplets. You had them stacked on top of each other like they were a pile of pancakes. That is an image I’ll never get out of my head.” Still, I’m smiling at the memory, of simpler times.

“To be fair, it was easier that way. Anyhow,” he continues, “I bear good news.”

“The Dodgers are into the finals?”

“Better. You’re back into the Ivy League fold, my friend.”

I’m rarely surprised, but this is unexpected. I lean against the nearest wall, my cell hot against the side of my face. “How?”

“Strings, brother, a lot of them, pulled and pumped and caressed, not only by me, but Mason too. Hell, I heard even Dad was pleading your case.”

“Can we not talk about Dad?”

“Fine, but you’re a lucky son of a bitch. Do you even know how much work this took?”

“I’m grateful, but I know there’s a catch.”

“This guy,” sniggers Cayden, “always with the ‘catches.’ You’re no longer banished. It’s as simple as that. Forget what it took to drum that up and get the fuck back here to live your life.”

It’s strange. The news comes with a mix of relief and regret in equal measure. I should be excited. I came here to Branton, killed it in the rink, slept with the hottest teacher on campus for crying out loud… I can go back to the States now, live the life I always wanted. It’ll probably be easier on Harper if I leave… right?

Funnily, the thought of objectifying Harper like that, making her nothing more than another notch on my belt, makes me physically sick.

Cayden picks up on the pause. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” I ask coyly.

“I mean, you should be ecstatic, not acting like I just told you your pet goldfish died.”

“Hey, leave Goldie out of this.”

“Spill it, Colt. What’s up?”

Curse my brother and his damn telepathic connection. “I’m stoked about the news, honestly.”

“But…?”

“But, I don’t know… It’s nothing.”

“It’s a girl, isn’t it? You’ve fallen for one those Canadian Ariel Rebel clones, haven’t you?

“She’s not a pornstar.”

“So there is someone. What happened? She get sick of your baby dick? Wants a real man?”

I’ll miss Harper, but I’ve got to let her go if she’s to have any chance of leading a normal life unblemished by the fuckery of my own.

I make up my mind. There’s nothing left for me here. “In any case, fuck her,” I tell Cayden. “I’m coming home.”