NINETEEN
If I can entertain a bunch of first graders for blocks of hours at a time without breaking a sweat, I should be able to do this, to talk with Beckett, to tell him how I feel.
I’ve also contemplated pressing the emergency stop button on the elevator at least three times, but I finally spill myself out onto his floor, heart beating hard enough for my ribs to ache and my breath to rattle in my throat.
I knock at his front door, knuckles feeling the fleeting pain two seconds too late, and then the door’s swinging open and Beckett’s there, he’s right there, and there’s nothing but a threshold separating us.
Shit.
“Hey,” he says, voice soft and steady, swinging the door open and stepping back into his place so I can stumble my way inside, limbs uncoordinated, brain a fuzzy mess.
I
