by S. E. Lund
I buttoned my suit jacket and stepped down off the dais and crossed the dance floor to where she stood, her hands at her side, her brow furrowed.
“Hey, Beckett,” Leah said and wagged her eyebrows. “Look who I brought along…”
I nodded at Leah but my focus was completely on Miranda. “Miranda…” I said and stopped a foot away from her. “I…” I was at a total loss of what I could possibly say to her.
“Tell me,” she said, her voice low, and breaking with emotion. “Tell me the truth. All of it.”
I glanced around. I couldn’t do it there in the club. While it wasn’t yet busy, there was music playing and patrons sat at tables surrounding the dance floor. I took her hand and pulled her back to the kitchen, and down a long hall to my uncle’s office. Surprisingly, she let me hold her hand. I had imagined her pulling away, not wanting me to even touch her.
Maybe Casey was right. Maybe there was hope after all.
Beside the office was a staffroom with a sofa and coffee table, as well as a table where the staff sat and ate meals. Currently empty, it was secluded enough that we could talk in private.
I led her to the sofa and she sat on it, her hands folded in her lap. Her face was pale, her eyes wide. I realized it took a hell of a lot of guts to confront me. I respected that. I owed her an explanation for my behavior. I had to tell her the truth and bite the bullet, take my licks like a man.
I bent down on one knee and took her hands in mine, looking at them while I tried to figure out the best way to tell her the truth. She had nice hands, her fingers fine, her nails short and well groomed. There was a faint indention on the middle finger of her left hand, from the ring she wore – Dan’s ring. She’d recently taken it off and I realized she had finally stopped wearing it.
I glanced up in her eyes and despite the choke in my throat, I spoke. “I should have told you everything right away. I fell a little bit in love with you from reading your letters to Dan.” My throat was dry and I had to clear it before I could speak further. “When I met you, I fell even more. I wanted you for myself. I didn’t want you to know how I got the letters because then you’d hate me.”
Her face was unreadable. “Why would I hate you? You got them by accident, right?”
I shook my head, emotion welling up inside of me. I looked down, unable to meet her eyes. “I was there when Dan died.”
I felt her reaction rather than saw it, in how her hand squeezed into a fist.
“What?” she said, her voice a whisper.
I nodded, holding her fist in my hands, wishing I could make her pain go away. I decided to tell her the whole truth, even the parts I wasn’t supposed to tell.
“His team came to rescue us. I’m really not supposed to say anything about it because we were testing some classified technology for the CIA when our MRAP – our armored vehicle – struck an IED.”
“You were there,” she whispered, her voice totally emotionless.
“Yes.” I finally looked up and saw the shock written on her face, which was now flushed pink. “I got this,” I said and pointed to the scar on my neck, “when the IED exploded and sent a piece of shrapnel into my neck. We were on our way back to our Forward Operating Base so we could take transport back home. Our GPS failed. We went through what we thought was friendly territory, but it wasn’t. We accidentally crossed the border. That’s why none of the details were made public. We were behind enemy lines in Iran.”
“You were injured in an IED explosion.”
I nodded. “Dan was the medic who saved my life. I was loaded onto his chopper. It went down in the dust storm moments later. Somehow, I survived and was taken to a hospital for triage. I don’t have much memory of anything from a few days before to about a month after but he was killed in the crash. They tried to save him, but he was trapped. He must have brought your letters along with him and somehow they got mixed up with my things when they were able to medevac me out.”
She frowned. “Why you? Why did you get his things? The letters were addressed to Dan.”
I sighed. “My legal name is Daniel Beckett Tate-McNeil. In the aftermath of the crash, they must have thought the letters were mine. I only found them when I went through a box of my personal effects that had been sent back with me in July. They were in an old building I own. I went to check it out so I could sell it, because Graham died and I needed the money.”
She sat in silence and then bowed her head, shaking it slowly. She fought tears, biting her lip, her eyes were brimming.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, my own voice breaking. “I should have told you. I didn’t want you to hate me…”
Of course, it would hurt her to know the truth. What else could I expect? What kind of fool had I been, thinking I could tell her the truth and she’d still want me?
When she said nothing, I started to lose hope. Finally, she stood, her face red, her eyes teary.
“I’m sorry,” she said and shook her head, holding out her hands to stop me when I tried to embrace her. I managed to pull her into my arms before she stopped me, but her body was stiff.
“Miranda…”
“I can’t…”
She pulled away from me and as much as I hated it, I had to release her. When I did, she turned and left.
I wanted to follow her but I knew I couldn’t. I shouldn’t.
She knew the truth now. Her husband died because of me. She was a widow because of me. It wasn’t some routing training action. It was a rescue.
I hadn’t told her the truth from the moment I met her – I deceived her the entire time I was in Topsail Beach, about who I was and that I knew her.
I could have stopped her when she left the office, held her, kissed her, but I knew that what happened next had to be on her terms.
So I let her go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Miranda
I left the office and found my way back into the club, my mind spinning over what Beckett had just told me. I passed Leah and Brandon, who were still seated at a table.
Leah stood up and held out her hand. “What’s the matter?”
I shook my head, not wanting or able to explain. I just wanted to get out of that club as fast as possible before I burst out in tears.
“Miranda!” She followed me to the door. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
I stopped in the doorway and wiped my eyes.
“He was there,” I whispered, barely able to speak.
“Who was there? Where?”
“In Afghanistan. When Dan died.”
She followed me out onto the street where I stood and glanced around, searching for a roving taxi.
“He was there when Dan died?” she repeated, her brow furrowed.
I nodded and raised my arm to flag down a cab, despite being in tears.
“Why are you leaving?”
I turned to her, frowning, my nose running. I rubbed my eyes with the backs of my hands, not caring if my mascara smeared.
“I have to go.”
Finally, a cab stopped at the curb. I opened the door and sat in the back seat. Leah stood blank-faced, and stared at me.
“Do you want me to come?” she asked. “I have to get my bag if so…”
I shook my head and closed the door. I turned to the driver and gave him directions to take me to my dorm at The New Yorker.
I cried my eyes out on the trip there, but didn’t care. The poor driver probably didn’t know what to say, but I felt his eyes on me in the rear view mirror.
I didn’t know what to think. Beckett had been there? It was because of him that Dan died?
He got the letters because his first name was Daniel?
Not only did he deceive me about knowing who I was and all about Dan, he was the one Dan went to rescue…
I arrived back at my dorm and threw myself onto my bed, crying my eyes out until I finally fell asleep much, much later.
When I woke early the next morning after only a few hours of sleep, I had another cry when everything Beckett
told me came flooding back at once. I couldn’t really explain why I was crying. Dan had been dead for a year. I hadn’t cried for several months when I thought about him. Instead, I usually felt a kind of sadness in my chest, and a nostalgia for our relationship and all the things we would have done, had he still been alive.
When I was cried out, I checked my cell and saw that I had about twenty messages waiting. Most of them were from Leah, but several were from Beckett – or should I call him Daniel?
His story was so damn convoluted that I didn’t know what to believe.
I deleted all those messages unread and thumb typed a text to Leah, assuring her I was fine and that I’d spill all over coffee and bagels at our usual Sunday morning brunch spot. Then I had a shower and tried to wash the tears and shock out of me.
I pulled on my jeans and a t-shirt and grabbed my sunglasses. My eyes were still a bit red and my nose looked like Rudolph on a good day. I walked to the subway and took a train to Central Park West and the little deli where Leah and I used to go before Dan died.
“Hey, sweets,” she said when she saw me. She stood and gave me a hug. I sat down, my latte already waiting. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I said with a sardonic laugh. “Just what I needed to hear.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said and narrowed her eyes. “You’re going to forgive him, right?”
I frowned. “What?” I stirred my latte and tried to comprehend how Leah thought I should forgive Beckett. “Why should I forgive him? He lied to me, Leah.”
“Sure he did, but can you blame him? Look at it from his perspective.”
I shook my head, at a loss for words for a moment. Leah would forgive him?
“Why should I forgive him?” I asked, sitting back. “Tell me. I’m really curious what rationalization you have.”
“I think you’re being too hard on him,” she said. “I stayed behind last night and talked to him and Brandon. He was really, really upset, Mira. I mean, heartbroken.”
“Sure he was. His supply of free pussy was cut off,” I said sourly.
She made a face. “Come on,” she said, her voice dismissive. “He could have any woman he wanted. Not only is he a freakin’ Norse God, he’s rich as sin. And smart.”
“He lied, Leah. Some things are unforgivable.”
“You lie all the time. We all do. White lies meant to make things easier for us and everyone else. Your sister asks if the dress makes her ass look big? You don’t say yes. You say how great the color looks on her skin. The neighbor asks if you think his bug-ugly baby is cute? You nod and smile.”
I scoffed. “Lying about knowing me and about Dan is a bit different than a white lie about a dress.”
She shrugged. “Only in degree. Not kind. The intention was the same. Look,” she said and leaned forward. “He got your letters, and fell in love with you after reading them and seeing your pictures.”
“He has pictures of me?” I said, shocked, not letting the words fell in love with you hit my brain just yet.
She made a face and covered her mouth. “Oh, you didn’t know?” She shrank down in her chair. “There were a few pictures of you in with the letters. He kept those.” She smiled sheepishly.
I sighed heavily. “So the moment he walked into the bar that day, he knew exactly who I was. He knew Dan was my husband, and he knew I was a widow.”
She nodded. “He went to Oceanside to ask the manager for Scott and Jeanne’s address so he could go and shake their hand, thank them for Dan’s sacrifice, give them the letters but when he saw you, he was struck. He couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to get to know you. He said he went off the rails at that point.”
“He sure did,” I said, huffing. I remembered back to that night and how hot he was, and how fun he was. How sexy he was. How persistent he was.
How much I enjoyed him.
I enjoyed the fact that he was really trying hard to amuse me and get me to have a drink with him. There was no mistaking his interest and his attraction to me. After so long without much in the way of male attention – other than from men I had no interest in – it was a real ego boost. Plus, he was really, really sexy and good looking.
We did hit it off right away.
Was that because he already knew who I was? Or was it plain old sexual chemistry?
From the moment I met him until the day he left me with only a small note scribbled on his hotel notepad, everything was so easy. So good.
Not just good. Hot. When I was with Beckett, I was ecstatic. I laughed, I smiled, I had many, many great orgasms. With Beckett, I felt like someone who had been starved and was finally sitting down to eat a four course gourmet meal.
But he knew everything and pretended to know nothing.
“Give him a chance. He’s not a bad guy, Mira. Really. Brandon thinks the world of him.”
“Convince me why I should give him a second chance.”
She nodded, happy to do so. She held up her hand and ticked off each finger. “One, he was a Marine. Which means, like, he’s super strong, loyal, patriotic, dedicated and mentally tough. Two, his company makes high tech communications equipment to help soldiers on the battlefield and train them to use it. He could do anything else with his smarts, but he chooses to give back. Three, he’s really impressive, with a degree in symbolic systems or something from Stanford. That means lots of brains. Four, he’s heroic. He went to Afghanistan to test the technology which is intended to save lives and almost died. He almost died, Mira.”
“Dan did die.”
There. I said it. That was what I couldn’t get my mind around. “Beckett was there when Dan died,” I added, my voice catching. “He was the reason. Dan went in to save him.”
“They were both doing their jobs,” Leah said and folded her arms, staring at me. “That’s what Brandon said. He wasn’t supposed to tell me but they were doing classified stuff. That’s why Beckett couldn’t tell you the truth.”
“He could have told me,” I said, not willing to accept that. Not just yet.
“No,” she said, her voice insistent. “Technically, he’s not allowed to because he was with the CIA on some kind of clandestine operation. Who knows what kind of trouble he could get into if people knew he told Brandon? And if Brandon told me, and I told you?”
“He could have told me that he was there and that’s why he got my letters.”
“Look, Mira. There’s a reason the Navy didn’t tell you or Dan’s family what happened to Dan. They were in Iran,” she whispered and leaned forward. “I’m not much into politics, but seriously, Mira. That could cause an international incident.”
I shrugged, avoiding her eyes. “So what?” I said, doubtfully.
“According to the State Department, Iran is deemed a state sponsor of terrorism. The US has sanctions against Iran. I know because Brandon told me and I looked it up. Iran would be really pissed if they knew the US military was inside their country. I mean, they know the US already goes in and stuff. But they’re not supposed to. That’s what.”
She took my hand and squeezed. “Look. Beckett couldn’t tell you that he knew who you were because then you’d want to know how he knew who you were. You’d want to know details about Dan’s death. Am I right?” she said and peered into my eyes.
I said nothing and glanced away. Of course, she was right that if I knew who Beckett really was, I would have asked him about Dan. How he died. What happened – whether Dan suffered.
We ate our bagels in silence, but I felt Leah’s eyes on me. She was so willing to forgive Beckett for lying. I was usually a pretty lenient person but when it came to lying…
“I can’t stand lies.”
She shook her head adamantly. “He didn’t lie. He just didn’t tell you. A lie of omission rather than commission.”
“They’re supposed to be better somehow?”
She nodded. “Of course. He didn’t tell you a direct lie. He just never told you.”
When I didn’t r
eply, she put her cup down. “Look, Mira, you should be glad to have met him. He fell in love with you from a distance and then fell harder when he met you in person. From what I could tell, you fell pretty hard for him as well. What would you have thought about him if he flat out told you that Dan saved his life in the accident? That he wanted to thank you and Dan’s parents and that’s why he was there?”
I shrugged one shoulder. It would have been different. I still would have been attracted to him. In fact, I might have been more willing to stay and have a drink with him that first night so we could talk about the accident. Maybe everything would have come out the same.
“I don’t know…” I said softly. “How can I ever trust him again?”
“He told you the truth about everything else, right? Did he tell you about his reprobate Irish mafia family members?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“His father’s death and the fact his uncle took the business?”
“Yes.”
“He told you about his work and his education, his mother’s family…”
“Yes.”
“He told you everything except about the classified operation he was on with the CIA when the accident happened that he shouldn’t have told me and Brandon about and that I shouldn’t be talking about?”
I sighed, but said nothing.
“Am I right?” she said, leaning forward, her eyes expectant.
“You’re right.”
“Okay, then,” she said and sat up straighter, her chin tilted up as if she’d just won a point. “Give him a chance.”
I sat thinking about that night in Beckett’s hotel room when I first saw the horrible scar on his neck and freaked. How it brought back memories of learning that Dan died in a helicopter crash. How I had to leave because it was all still too raw.
How must Beckett have felt, knowing that his injury was what got my husband killed? For just a brief moment, I put myself in Beckett’s shoes.
A very brief moment.
He must have felt so … guilty.
“So I just text him and suggest we get together and talk?”
“Why not?” she said, as if it were so simple. “Were you happy when you were with him? Did he treat you well? Other than not telling you classified info that he wasn’t allowed to tell you anyway?”