Once in a Lifetime: (Becky) (Unnamed Duo Book 1)

by Luana Ferraz

  “So, Pete said he’s already in Manchester,” Jo says when I put the phone back into my pocket. “For the next concert.”

  “Yeah, it’s tomorrow night,” I answer, wondering how much Pete told her in that message.

  “What time are you planning to leave?” she asks casually. “Just so I know to bring enough for lunch tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean?” I frown.

  “Oh, I’m coming over tomorrow after Eileen is discharged. Didn’t we talk about this?” she asks, sipping her wine and failing to fool me.

  “No, we didn’t,” I say, sighing. Once again, damn you, Pete.

  “We must have chatted about it before you arrived, then,” she continues. “Eileen and I agreed that I’ll bring her lunch every day for a few days, until she feels she can handle it herself.”

  “What?” I gasp. Eileen agreed?

  “Yeah, and then Dan is going to repair a few things around the house, as well. You know, so we can keep an eye on her,” she winks.

  “Wait, Jo—”

  “I thought she would give me a harder time, to be honest. I had at least three speeches prepared to convince her, but she didn’t fight me back as much as I was expecting. I think this accident might have really scared her, poor thing.” She shakes her head, taking another sip of wine.

  “Was it… was it your idea, then?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “The lunch thing.”

  “Of course! Did you think I’d leave Eileen unsupervised after this?” she chuckles.

  You thought I would, I think. And it hurts. Especially because it’s not such an absurd assumption.

  “I was thinking about staying,” I say and she can barely hide her surprise.

  “Oh,” she nods slowly, putting her glass down. “That explains why Eileen didn’t resist.”

  “She must really not want me here,” I sigh, frustrated.

  “Oh, Rebecca!” she exclaims, scooting closer to me. “No, dearie, it’s not like that.”

  I don’t want to argue. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. But, of course, since I stop talking, Jo continues.

  “She just doesn’t want to be a burden, you know?” she says, pausing for a while, kind of unsure if she should be saying these things. “You know she blames herself. About… about your parents. You see, your mom wanted to leave Alnwick. But your dad didn’t want to leave Eileen alone. And Eileen would never leave Alnwick. And then… well… you know… I think she doesn’t want the same to happen with you.”

  “I would never…” I shake my head, feeling my eyes burning again.

  “I know, dearie, I know.” She pats my knee, caressing my face with her free hand. She’s so good at this mother thing. “It’s not that she doesn’t want you here, it’s that she wants you to live your life, you know? As I want Peter to live his. As painful as it is to have you both so far, it’s better than have you close and…”

  She trails off and I look away. I’m not sure I agree with her. I’m not sure staying away is better. I don’t think the place has anything to do with the weight I carry around. Because it’s not here, grounded in Alnwick or in my childhood home. It’s inside me.

  “You were meant for great things, sweetie, both of you,” she speaks again, resting her hand against my cheek. “I really believe that.”

  “Thanks, Jo. For… you know… for everything,” I stutter.

  “No need to thank me, hen. We’re family!”

  She pulls me for yet another hug. I let her. I missed this, too.

  A few minutes after that, Dan and Avery walk through the door, and there’s more hugging and squealing. We sit around, chatting—or, rather, listening, as Jo and Avie do most of the talking, until Evie arrives and we finally get to the dinner part. I learn none of the girls live in the house anymore, but they came when they heard I would be around. At the same time it makes me feel good in a way, it makes me feel bad, as well. They all have way more consideration for me than I think I have for them. That’s why I try not to get irritated when they start to shower me with questions.

  “Oh, speaking of which,” Avie turns to me suddenly, “Becky, who’s the guy you brought with you to town?”

  “What guy?” Evie widens her eyes.

  “Um…” I don’t know what to say, but I don’t have time to.

  “A blond bloke, really handsome,” Avie answers, nodding. “Or so I’ve been told.”

  “Where is he?” Evie asks.

  “Oh, was it that young fellow that was in the store yesterday?” Dan barges in.

  “You met him?” Avie turns to her father with wide eyes.

  “Kind of, yeah,” he shrugs.

  “He was very handsome, indeed,” Jo confirms.

  “What’s his name?” Evie asks at the same time Avie says, “Who is he?”

  “Tyler. He is… um… he’s…” I don’t know what to say to the sudden silence that follows that. “Back home.”

  “Rebecca!” Jo gasps. “You should have brought him over! Where are your manners?”

  “He didn’t—” I try to argue, but I am interrupted.

  “I’m making him a plate and you’re getting it back to him,” Jo says matter-of-factly.

  “Or you should invite him over right now,” Avie winks.

  “Avery, don’t be sassy,” Jo points a fork to her.

  “Is he your boyfriend?” Evie asks.

  “Pete didn’t mention anything about a boyfriend,” Jo says, shaking her head. But then she opens a smile and looks at me. “Oh, but I’m so glad you found someone, dearie!”

  “Is he a good lad?” Dan asks. He’s also good at this dad stuff.

  “Yeah, but—” I say, only to be cut off again.

  “Do you have any pictures of him?” Avie asks.

  “Avery!” Jo reprehends her.

  “What, I’m just curious,” she shrugs.

  “Don’t listen to her, sweetie,” Jo pats my hand. “Eat, eat before it gets cold!”

  ***

  By the time I leave—with a packed dinner for my very handsome boyfriend Tyler—I’m exhausted. I drive home in silence and notice my ears are ringing almost as much as they do after a concert.

  I creep inside the house slowly, meaning to surprise Tyler as he goes through my stuff. Because I’m certain he’s going through my stuff. I leave his dinner on the kitchen island and climb up the stairs trying to not make any noise. But my bedroom light is out and Tyler is still asleep—as I make sure by entering and listening to his calm, rhythmic breathing for a while. I debate whether to wake him up, mainly because I’m really tired and want my bed back, but decide against it. The stupid boy stayed up for over 24 hours straight. Let him recover.

  So I climb back down and head outside, turning off the kitchen lights. The night is clear and if it’s dark enough, I’ll be able to see some stars. I walk to the side of the garden, where that picture in the hall with my dad was taken and lie down. The grass is moist and cold, but I’m not bothered enough to get a blanket or a towel.

  I just lie there, breathing in the cold air, letting my eyes adjust to the dark, and emptying my mind. One by one, the small spots of light start to appear. I hold out a hand, connecting the dots with imaginary lines.

  “What are you doing?” Tyler’s head appears in my line of sight, his hair falling over his face as he looks down at me.

  “Looking at the stars,” I say.

  He then looks up, standing near my head. He’s already in his comfies and barefoot. I silently hope neither of us gets sick tonight.

  “This makes my neck hurt,” he complains after a while, but doesn’t look down.

  “It’s better if you lie down,” I say, more of a suggestion than a fact.

  Without even thinking, he throws himself down next to me, so close that our arms touch. He puts one hand under his head and I briefly wonder what would it feel like to lie on his chest.

  “It is better,” he says after a while. Then he turns to me and catches me staring
. I’m glad it’s dark and he won’t be able to tell I’m blushing. “How is she?”

  “Better, thankfully,” I say. We stare at each other for a moment, and then I look back up. I can feel him doing the same.

  “Why are you so obsessed with the stars?” he asks.

  “My dad,” I blurt out and a lump instantly forms in my throat. Even so, I manage to continue, “It was our thing.”

  He stays silent for a few more moments. When he speaks again, I notice his voice cracking the way it did the night we arrived, “So this is how you spent your childhood?”

  “Most of it, yes,” I answer, smiling in the dark.

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Sometimes,” I shrug in the dark. Then, for reasons I can’t explain, I add, “I miss my dad.”

  “I miss my dad, too,” he says, startling me. I look over, trying to assess his expression. “Music was our thing.”

  There are a million questions I want to ask. Why does he miss his dad? What happened? When did it happen? But I know that if I do, it’ll give him the opportunity to ask, too. And I don’t want to answer. And maybe he doesn’t want to answer. So I ask something else.

  “Did he teach you how to play?”

  “Guitar, yes. Piano was by my own choice.”

  I can’t help but snort. He looks to me then, frowning a little.

  “I learned piano because of my dad. Guitar was my own choice,” I explain.

  “I guess that’s why you suck at piano,” he says, without missing a beat.

  “Shut up!” I elbow his side lightly. “I bet you suck at guitar.”

  “I don’t,” he says cockily.

  “I’ll need proof of that.”

  “You won’t get any,” he says, then he grins. “But you have my word.”

  “Pfff!”

  “What? Isn’t my word good enough?”

  “Not on this matter,” I argue.

  “That really hurts my feelings,” he says, trying to hide a smile.

  “You can get over it,” I blurt. Crap.

  His small eyes widen to a point I can almost see the blue. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know if I should apologize—again —, I don’t know if he’s offended. So I just wait while he decides what to do.

  After a while, his expression softens, slowly, and he smiles. Then, he says, “I think I can.”

  He rolls over, so he’s lying sideways, facing me. His knees touch my thighs and his eyes never leave mine. I don’t know if I imagine it, but I can feel myself being pulled by his gravity.

  “I’m not gonna kiss you,” I blurt out before I can think straight.

  He looks surprised once again and this time I brace myself for a fight. He laughs, though. He laughs and moves away and I think I would have preferred a fight.

  “What makes you think I’d want to kiss you?” he snorts. “As it happens, darling, you’re not my type.”

  As it happens, Hackley, you’re exactly mine.

  I bite down my tongue, hard. This is not me talking, it’s this place. The place, and the last 48 hours, and how his eyes glisten in the dark, and that stupid fanfiction Pete showed me the other day. It’s not me. It’s not happening. It will not happen.

  “Don’t call me darling,” I say suddenly, maybe still trying to pick up a fight.

  But he bites his lip, clearly trying not to laugh again, with little success.

  “Jesus, Rebecca, you’re impossible,” he says, his face a mix of amusement and annoyance.

  “I don’t like Rebecca, too.”

  He finally looks back at me. Not angry at all. Which is not helpful at all.

  “What should I call you, then?” he asks.

  Gosh, what a stupid question. What exactly does he expect me to say? He knows what to call me.

  “Queen of England,” I say, and now he bursts into laughter.

  He rolls away, holding his sides with his hands. I laugh, too. It wasn’t even that funny, honestly, but his reaction is contagious.

  “Elizabeth it is,” he says when he recovers.

  He rolls back to his original position. And stares. Ugh. I can’t take it.

  “I brought you dinner,” I say as I sit up, preparing to run away. “It’s on the counter.”

  “Okay,” he sighs, not moving from the ground. “Thanks.”

  I get up, shaking the grass off my slightly damp clothes, while he watches me—still lying down, a hand still under his head, his eyes still glistening.

  “We’re leaving tomorrow, by the way,” I say before I turn away to enter the house.

  “Okay,” he repeats.

  “After I bring Eileen home,” I continue.

  “Okay.”

  Then I stand there, staring, again not sure of what to say. Again wanting so bad to know what’s going on under that blond hair of his, but too chicken to ask.

  “If I said I wasn’t leaving,” I say, curiosity getting the best of me, “what would you say?”

  “If you said we weren’t leaving…” he says, stressing the word, “I would say ‘okay’.”

  “Would you really miss a concert because of me?”

  “It’s just work,” he chuckles. “We could cancel, reschedule. We still can.”

  “No, there’s no need,” I shake my head, too overwhelmed to make sense of his words.

  “Okay,” he smiles. I hate that I can still see it in the dark.

  “Goodnight, Tyler,” I say, turning my back to him and finally walking away.

  “Night, Elizabeth,” he calls after me.

  DAY EIGHT

  I wake up before him, for once. It’s weird to climb down the stairs to utter silence. It’s also weird to have him sleeping on my couch. Tyler Hackley in my childhood home, in my small town, on my couch. Now that is fanfiction material.

  I run into the kitchen to make coffee. I open the fridge, gathering some eggs and bread to make a proper breakfast, when I spot some apples. Grandma’s pie is long gone, so I think about making her another one. It will certainly not be anything like hers, but I feel like I owe her. So, as silently as I can manage, I start to work.

  I search for some basic recipe online as I sip my coffee and, soon enough, I’m kneading the dough. It brings back old memories. I used to help grandma with her pies. I used to help mum…

  While grandma has always been great with desserts, mum’s thing was pasta. She knew how to make every single type, and she’d let me choose which one we’d eat whenever she decided to make it. I remember once I went to the school library to ‘research’, and wrote down every pasta type I could find. Then, when mum asked me which kind I wanted next, I raced up to my bedroom and picked up my list. I tried to choose the most difficult ones, or the ones I thought she wouldn’t know how to make. But she always knew. She knew all of them. She made all of them, with my help. The kitchen was a nightmare by the time we’d finish, and dad would always complain about the flour stains we’d leave on his clothes when we hugged him after work.

  But then I grew up. She stopped making pasta. She stopped wanting my help. She just stopped.

  Some days I wonder if these memories are even real or if it’s just a trick my mind plays on me because those are literally the only nice memories I have of her. I don’t even know how old I was. And I never mentioned it to anybody. Because, if they’re not real, then I’ll have nothing.

  “What is this smell?” Tyler walks into the kitchen, yawning and running his hands through his hair.

  “You have one guess,” I joke as I put things away.

  “Apple pie?” he asks surprised as he walks to a stool and sits down.

  “We have a winner!” I smile brightly. He frowns.

  “You’re awfully cheery this bright morning,” he says in a terrible British accent. I start to feel self-conscious about my mood.

  “Don’t worry,” I sigh as I move to make us breakfast, “it won’t last. Eggs?”

  “You’re making me breakfast?” he asks in such a surprised tone that it actually offe
nds me. I just raise my eyebrows until he answers, “Yes, please. I’ll have them boiled, but not too long that it hardens the yolk. I like it soft.”

  I stare for a moment before I say, “Scrambled it is.”

  He chuckles. He was joking, apparently. Well, with him, I can never tell.

  As I crack the eggs on the pan and put the bread in the toaster, he walks to the sink, meaning to wash the dirty dishes I used to make the pie.

  “Leave it,” I say, in vain. “Please, I’ll do it later.”

  “I’ll do it now,” he answers, already scrubbing things with soap.

  He has his back turned to me, so I just watch him for a moment. I watch Tyler Hackley barefoot in my kitchen washing my dishes—another good fanfic moment right there.

  He looks so at home. I can tell his hair is a bit greasy already. He starts whistling, the same song I heard him singing the other day. The one he apparently never showed anyone.

  I’m startled by the toasts jumping out of the toaster. And then the eggs almost burning in the pan. I curse under my breath and start to stir.

  I make our plates, then I fill two mugs with coffee, and we settle down to eat in silence. He scrolls through his phone as he eats, squinting and trying to keep his hair away from his eyes. I’m surprised to realize this is already familiar to me. I’m surprised to realize I already have memories with Tyler.

  It’s so crazy. This is all so… easy. Which is another surprising discovery.

  ***

  “Oi, lad, I can do it myself, thank you very much!” I can hear grandma’s voice from down the corridor. “Now, hand it to me.”

  “Eileen, I can’t let you exert yourself,” Patrick retorts, in that calm tone of his.

  “Since when putting on clothes is exertion?” grandma argues.

  “Good morning,” I say, entering the room and interrupting their bickering.

  “Ah, see? Now I’m not alone, you can go. Go, go!” Grandma waves her arms as if shooing away a dog. Patrick just chuckles.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. The nurse opens his mouth to tell me, but grandma doesn’t let him.

  “The lad doesn’t want to let me dress,” she complains.

  “Well, just Becky,” he turns to me, “as I was explaining to grandma, she has to restart her daily activities slowly. And,” he turns back to her, “dressing is exertion after spending 72 hours on a bed.”