Page 47 of Breaking Bristol

Beck

“Beck?” I whispered. What the hell was that about?

I grabbed a donut and nibbled on it as I walked around his place, stopping at the window that faced the street. A bunch of families were already in the park adjacent to his building, and the stores and restaurants across the street were starting to get busy.

Just as I was about to go sit on the couch and wait for him, I saw his tall body moving fluidly as he ran. It reminded me of the first time I saw him, and even looking at him through the glass, it felt like butterflies tickled my skin as he got closer.

He slowed at the end of the block and walked slowly, his hands on the top of his head and his muscular chest rising and falling with his labored breaths. When he got to the entrance to the building, he held the door open. A woman brushed past him and smiled flirtatiously at him, but he barely spared her a glance as he made his way inside.

I didn’t worry about his faithfulness, but seeing that was still reassuring. Even last night, his attention was on me the entire evening, and I loved that it made me feel so special to him. I’d dated some good guys in the past, but I’d never been with one as devoted to me as Matthew.

He walked in when I was licking some sticky sugar from my thumb, “Hey,” I mumbled.

“Hi.” He whipped his head up and didn’t come closer, which was weird. When we were together, we held hands or snuggled, leaning into each other, so for him to see me first thing in the morning and not so much as touch me was strange. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yup. I’m gonna hop in the shower.”

Again. Weird.

I watched him disappear into his room, and a moment later, I heard the water turn on. It was tempting to join him, but something was clearly happening with him. Was he mad because I was so weird last night? Maybe he was just giving me the space I’d clearly asked for.

I got comfy on a stool at the kitchen island and flipped through a cookbook with a note from his mom inside. The pages were still pristine, so I guessed he never used it. I smiled at the thought; it seemed so on track with the Matthew I knew, especially because his aunt Heidi cooked for him.

He came out of his room dressed in a tight white T-shirt and a pair of navy-blue sweats. His feet were bare, his hair still damp, and I wanted to climb him, but he gave me no indication he was in the mood. He walked straight to the fridge and stuck his head in. “You hungry?”

“Uh, no. I had a donut.”

No reply. He went about making himself a smoothie. While it was blending, he cleaned up, and as soon as the motor stopped whirling, he pulled the cup out and chugged the green juice.

“Is everything okay?” I asked as he was closing the dishwasher.

“Yeah.” He turned and leaned on the countertop. “Are you planning on staying all day?”

Okay, wow. I swallowed hard, trying to tamp down my hurt feelings. “I mean, I was, but you clearly don’t want me to, so I’ll leave.”

“I didn’t say that. I just asked you a question.”

“You’re acting weird.” I waved a hand in his direction. “And you’re not very approachable right now.”

His jaw ticked, and he crossed his arms, his eyelids lowering and opening slowly. “You’re right. I’m sorry… it’s not you.”

“Okay, so what’s wrong, then?”

He sighed, like he was annoyed with me for even asking. “Last night was fucked up.”

“Yeah, it was. But—”

“I can’t even look at you right now,” he ground out. “It’s my—”

“Fine, then I’ll leave.” I slid off the stool and stomped to the door, where my purse was on the floor beside my shoes. Grabbing both, I yanked open the door and stormed out.

He didn’t follow.

And I didn’t blame him. I was being immature. Relationships were built on trust and communication, and I was acting like a brat.

It wasn’t an excuse, but I’d been acting that way because he was acting off. Was he mad at me for rushing up to bed last night because I needed a minute to myself after that scary scene at the bar? I couldn’t explain why I wanted a moment to myself, though, because he didn’t know more than the fact that someone hurt me in the past. It wasn’t the time to tell him that seeing Paris with a swollen and bruised cheek brought back painful, palpable memories.