Zelda
January 22nd
I listened to Beckett get ready for work and leave. I hadn’t slept all night. I lay with my back to him, fighting the urge to roll over and hold him. Beg him to reconsider. But I couldn’t do it. Part of me wanted to force him into trying again somewhere else, but the look of humiliation on his face when Iris told him they wouldn’t hire a felon stabbed my heart. I felt trapped. I wanted nothing more than to see Mother, May I? published and shared with the world, but I didn’t want to do it without Beckett.
I got dressed and went to work at Annabelle’s, so upset and distracted, I brought the wrong orders to two tables and spilled orange juice all over another, forcing its occupants to sit elsewhere with a promise the restaurant would foot their dry cleaning bill.
Maxine sent me home early with a warning. Beckett was still at work, racing around Manhattan on his bike in terrible rain and cold. What BlackStar had offered might not be enough to let us quit our day jobs, but it might lead to him doing something else. It was a door opening, and I felt I was doing my best to keep it open while gale-force winds tried to slam it shut.
I needed to sort out my feelings because going over and over them in my mind just tangled them up tighter. Darlene was a sweet friend, but she was too close to Beckett. I needed someone neutral.
I picked up my phone and scrolled through the contacts until I came to one name, my friend in Vegas. A real friend. I hit ‘call.’
“Theo Fletcher.”
“Theo, it’s Zelda.”
His gruff voice brightened at once. “Hey, Z. Long time no hear. What’s up? How’s New York treating you?”
“It’s going great,” I said, suddenly feeling like an ass for calling up an old friend and just to immediately dump my problems in his lap. “Listen, I’m not going to keep you, but can I ask you a…business-related question?”
“Of course. Shoot.”
“When you bought your tattoo shop, how did you feel right before? I mean, were you scared shitless or were you sure it was the right thing to do, or what?”
He chuckled. “All of the above.”
“So what made you do it?” I asked.
“I wanted it bad enough,” he said. “But that’s the bitch about following a dream, I guess. You have to go for it despite the risk. The risk is what makes it rewarding in the end anyway.”
I nodded against the phone.
“Are you thinking about buying a business?”
“No, I have a big decision to make and I don’t know what’s right.”
“Shit, a client just came in. I’m really sorry, Z. I wish I could be more help but I’ve got to run.”
“Yeah, for sure.”
“Oh, but I can say one thing about big decisions that might help.”
“What’s that?”
God, anything please tell me anything…
“All the risk and reward is great but it doesn’t mean shit unless you feel in your heart you’re doing the right thing. So that would be my advice: go with your gut. How would you feel if you said no? How would you feel if you said yes?”
“Thanks T,” I said. “That helps a lot, actually.”
“Anytime. Call again soon so we can catch up.”
“I will.”
No sooner had I set the phone on the table when it vibrated again, with a New York number I didn’t recognize.
“Hello?”
“Zelda? It’s Wes.”
His voice was tense and my heart began to pound. “What is it?”
“I’m at our old hang-out, New York-Presbyterian Hospital, with Beckett. He’s fine, he’s okay—”
“The hospital?” My stomach dropped to my knees and I went cold all over. “What happened?”
“The story of our lives. Some asshole ran a red light.”
“Oh, my god, was he hit?”
“Yes and no,” Wes said. “Beckett saw the dude and hit the brakes. From what I heard, he hit the ground and his bike slid another three feet and took the worst of it. He won’t say much, but one witness said if Beckett had reacted one second slower, it would’ve been his legs under the car’s front tires, not the bike.”
A strangled sound escaped me. “Oh god…”
“Shit, sorry, Zel. I’m not trying to scare you. He’s okay. But can you come down here and see if you can’t get this knucklehead to stay overnight? They want to keep him here for observation.”
I was already heading for the door, fumbling for my jacket. “I’ll be right there.”
I ran in the general direction of the hospital until I flagged down a cab. Ten excruciating minutes later, I raced into the hospital. The reception desk directed me to the ER. Wes met me there and showed me to the curtained cubicle where Beckett was lying, his right leg elevated and his ankle wrapped. A scrape of dried blood marred his cheek and a nurse was tending to more abrasions on his elbows.
His face was stony until he saw me, then it grimaced and he looked away. I went to his side, arms crossed tight.
“Are you okay?” I asked my voice much more fluttery than I intended. “Tell me the truth.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Staying here is stupid and it’s costing me a fucking fortune.”
I stared. “You were hit by car.”
Beckett glared at Wes. “I wasn’t hit, it’s my fucking bike that’s trashed.”
“And your ankle?”
“Not broken,” he said. “Which I knew before they X-rayed but that didn’t stop them.”
“He has a second degree soft tissue sprain of the ATF ligament,” the nurse said.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means he tore some shit up in his foot,” Wes said.
“Partial tear and it doesn’t fucking matter anyway,” Beckett said.
The ER doc came around and said they’d prefer to keep Becket overnight for observation, but because his concussion tests were negative, they were reluctantly willing to release him.
They put his ankle in a boot and gave him a pair of crutches. Because he’d re-injured his right elbow, he couldn’t use them. Jaw clenched, he sat in a wheelchair and let himself be pushed to the front doors of the hospital where I’d called the cab. Wes, Beckett, I piled in the back and went back to our apartment.
“You take care, man,” Wes said.
Beckett gave no reply but lay in bed with his eyes closed.
Wes sighed. “He’s all yours. The doc told me he needs to keep ice on it for the next 48 hours and keep it elevated as much as possible. I got to get back to work.”
“Where’s his bike?” I asked at the door.
Wes shook his head. “Trashed. Repairing it would cost almost as much as getting a new one.
“How much is a new one?”
“For a decent one? Twelve hundred bucks, minimum.” He shook his head. “Yeah, I don’t know. But don’t get bogged down in that shit. He can’t ride anyway until the ankle heals up. Two weeks and not a minute sooner.” He kissed my cheek. “Call me if you need anything.”
Wes left. I put my back to the door and let out a shaky breath.
He’s okay. The bike is trashed, but he’s okay.
I went to the kitchen and made an ice pack out of a dishtowel and a bag of frozen peas. I sat on the edge of the bed and gently removed the boot. I laid the bag over Beckett’s wrapped ankle.
“Can you feel that?”
He shrugged. “It’s fine, thanks.”
“Do you need anything else?” I asked softly.
He opened his eyes slowly, as if they weighed a hundred pounds. “Yeah, Zel, I do. I need that $3000. For a new bike and to pay off that fucking ER visit. And you need to sign that contract.”
I sat for a minute, my anger bubbling up and then fading out. I was suddenly exhausted. I carefully climbed into bed with him, mindful of his elbow. He winced and then put his arm around me.
“I don’t want to do this without you,” I said. “There has to be another way. That’s our thing, right?
“Not this time, Zel,” Beckett said. “I need the money, it’s my decision.”
“What about doing this together? We can take it somewhere else, just like you said. Keep trying, again and again. We can work freelance. We can find someone who doesn’t give a shit about your background.”
“I have to work in the meanwhile, Zel. And I need a new bike for that.”
“I could work double shifts. I could get a second job, just until you’re better. We can save up.”
“I’m not letting you give up your dream,” he said slowly and deliberately. “It’s right there hanging in front of you, Zel. You have to take it. If you don’t…”
He shook his head, his expression stony, but Beckett’s eyes gave everything away. I knew what he was going to say. If I didn’t sign the contract, he would never forgive himself and it would eat away at him. Maybe eat away us.
I thought of Theo’s advice. To go with my gut, and my gut was telling me that despite all of Beckett’s arguments, despite my desire to see Mother, May I? in print for Rosemary, doing it without him wasn’t the way.
My phone rang. I climbed off the bed with an irritated sigh and grabbed it off the kitchen counter. “What fresh hell is this?” I muttered.
I glanced at the screen and my heart stopped and then started again, like a startled horse. Slowly, I hit the green answer button.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Hi, sweetheart,” she said, and I heard something like excitement and fear twining in her voice, making it vibrate across the line. “We got the call, honey. It’s happening. It’s finally happening. This Friday.”
“What is?”
“Gordon James is going to be put to death.”