Beat closed himself in the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the bathtub, phone already in hand. He tapped the network app and opened the split screen, laughing without humor over the surreal quality of watching himself in conversation with party guests on one side, while Melody rode in the back of a dark SUV on the other.
In seconds, his palms were clammy, his pulse struggling to remain even. His breathing became ragged at the sight of her. God almighty, she looked beautiful. No, she was beautiful. Her Melody-ness didn’t require any effort—she simply embodied it. Breathless vulnerability meets poise. Charm and bravery. Kindness with the right amount of skepticism. There was nobody like her in the entire world. And he wanted her sitting in his lap so he could tell her.
But he’d lost that privilege. She’d been clear.
Friends. They were going to be the best of friends.
If only his heart could get on board with that reality.
Beat watched Melody on the screen of his phone, watched her eyes widen in alarm as she turned the corner onto the block of her bocce bar venue. Red and blue lights reflected in the inside windows of the SUV and Mel shrunk down into the seat, the bodyguard sitting beside her shifting, preparing. Jesus, what was she walking into?
Whatever it was, he needed to be there.
Yeah, she’d asked for space. But she’d also called Beat her best friend. She wanted that, right? If he couldn’t be more to her than a friend, he would ignore the catastrophic yearning in his chest and he would be the best goddamn friend she could ask for.
Maybe . . . he’d even find the courage tonight to give Melody the remaining portions of his trust, which he’d been guarding so long he probably wouldn’t know where to begin.
She’ll help. She makes everything easier.
“I have to go,” Beat said to the empty bathroom. Then to the phone, “Mel, I’m coming.”
Beat lunged off the toilet and threw open the bathroom door, dodging the line of people waiting to use the toilet. Urgency throbbed in his temples. He really didn’t have time to stop and say goodbye, but after his earlier exchange with Vance, he owed it to his friend not to bail without a word.
It took Beat a moment to locate Vance and when he did, what he saw in the living room took a moment to register. Everyone at the party was gathered around a laptop watching Mel on one side of the screen, him on the other. They all turned slowly. Guiltily.
Vance winced. “Sorry, it’s just . . . the bocce match is starting.”
A young woman gestured to the laptop, champagne sloshing over the side of her flute. “It’s basically the World Cup final of reality shows. Or whatever this is.”
“You’re going, aren’t you?” Vance asked.
On the screen, Melody was helped from the vehicle by a security guard to the epic roar of a police-barricaded crowd and Beat’s legs turned to rubber. “If she’s there . . .” His exhale stung his lungs. “I should already be there, too.”
Someone on the fringe of the group burst into tears. “He loves her so much. Why can’t I have what they have?”
Sorry, mouthed Vance, before his expression turned thoughtful. Out loud he said, “You want us to come along as backup? We could make one hell of a cheering section.”
No.
That was his gut reaction. To go it alone. To keep his friends boxed off so they wouldn’t see the more authentic sides of him. But they’d been watching him in his rawest form on the live stream for days, hadn’t they? There was no use hiding now. And didn’t Melody deserve the biggest cheering section he could offer her?
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Come with me.”
A loud chorus of hoots and hollers went up, everyone rushing to collect their coats and down the remaining champagne in their glasses.
“Hey, Vance. You wouldn’t happen to have any pink paint lying around, would you?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Melody stood in a room full of people chanting her name.
Had it really only been a week since the last time she stood in this spot, preparing to take her turn on the bocce lane? Then, she’d been timid. Terrified of disappointing her coworkers and all the people watching.
Now?
Still terrified. Still timid.
But as she stood at the top of the lane, wooden bocce ball in hand, she knew she had the right to be standing there, taking up a little patch of space. To be on a team. Maybe imposter syndrome was a pitfall some people lived with their whole lives and maybe she would be no different, but breathing was easier now. Being there was easier.
She hadn’t transformed. But over the past week—with Beat, with Wreck the Halls, with an absurd number of people cheering her on—she’d climbed a rung on some invisible ladder toward self-acceptance. Years of therapy might have prepared her for climbing higher, but it couldn’t take that step for her. She’d had to do it herself.
Was this what a breakthrough felt like?
Maybe. Yes.
But in a room full of people shouting her name, she was lonely. What sense did that make? They called at her wherever she went. They asked, “Where is Beat?” They said things like, “You have the exact same chin as Keanu,” and “Beat is in love with you.” What was true and what was fabrication anymore? Were these things just being said to get a reaction?
Melody looked around at the oil painting of smiling faces, outlined in white Christmas lights that ran the gamut of the bar, not one of them giving her a sense of comfort or recognition. Not even Savelina or her coworkers who should have been familiar by now. Something—someone—was missing and there was no use pretending not to know who that someone was. Nearly two nights without him. She hadn’t even turned on the live stream, worried she’d do something impulsive, like take a train to Manhattan and show up at his door.
The cheers around Melody were beginning to die down, because she was taking so long to make her shot. Just throw it. Tension pinched the back of her neck. She shifted, looked down at her toes to make sure they weren’t creeping over the penalty line. Took a deep breath, closed her eyes. And Beat’s image danced its way onto the backs of her lids, blue eyes attentive, inquisitive, confident, stormy. A cooling balm spreading in the center of her chest just thinking about him, simultaneously making her heart race.
As requested, she’d gotten two days of distance and holy Hannah, she missed him. She’d been reunited with a missing rib, only to have it cut back out. Two days of solitude hadn’t changed her mind about being friends. If anything, the need to have Beat in her life in a close capacity had only cemented itself. Unfortunately, that mature decision, made in the name of self-preservation, didn’t save her from the pitiful ache inside her.
Maybe her feelings for Beat would always be there, like imposter syndrome, bouts of loneliness, and the fear of disappointing others, but if she’d learned anything in the short time she’d been filming Wreck the Halls, it was that . . . she was stronger than she’d given herself credit for. Strong enough to stand up to Trina, kick a Santa in the balls, execute a successful box jump, sing in front of a room full of people, dance in public, and deny an orgasm to one of People magazine’s sexiest men alive.
In other words, she could throw this mothereffing ball, right?
Just as Melody was preparing to take the shot, for better or worse, the cheering around her grew deafening. The ground shook. Fists bashed off the bar and Melody’s team jumped up from their stools, visibly excited. And somehow, without even turning around, she knew.