Delicate

by K. L. Cottrell

  Minutes later, his helpful clean-up gesture demands reciprocation when some of the whipped cream he sprays on his hot chocolate also gets sprayed on his shirt. He doesn’t notice—he’s too busy talking with Theo about what we should do with our afternoon.

  I swipe at the few spots of sugary fluffiness for him.

  He takes notice now and throws a sunny, “Thanks, Ellie,” into what he’s been saying about the Planet Earth documentary, which he and Theo glimpsed on the TV while I was preparing our warm drinks.

  Ah, that nickname.

  As soon as Cliff and Beckett learned that I preferred being called by my full name, they made a permanent joke out of shortening it. I knew they weren’t being cruel, just a couple of teasing asses, but it still annoyed me. I had always been completely fine with going by Noelle because I think it’s a pretty name; there was no need to make the effort of changing it up. Besides, if my parents had wanted to call me something else, they’d have done it by then.

  Currently, though, the nickname makes me chuckle before I reply to Beckett, “You’re welcome. And I agree about not knowing if she’s old enough for Planet Earth.”

  He tsks and nods. “There are some kid-friendly animals on there, but I don’t know about the adult lions and stuff.”

  Theo interjects, “I like lions! I like The Lion King!”

  My hum is doubtful. Scar may be unsettling in his own way, but footage of actual lions eating their kills is different.

  “Pleeeease, pleeeease, can we watch the animals?” Jumping up and down, she glances between us. “I only wanna see the cute ones! I won’t look when the scary ones come on, and then they won’t be scary ‘cause I won’t see them! But they won’t get me if I do look, ‘cause I’m always safe with Mommy and Uncle Beck!”

  He and I can’t keep from snickering even as a certain lightness passes between us.

  “True,” he says, “and hey, great job saying ‘animals’ correctly! But we still can’t risk giving you nightmares, little miss. It’s bad form.”

  “I won’t have nightmares!” She skips right over the compliment. “I promise! I have a really, really, really strong brain!”

  And that really cracks us up.

  It’s also funny how hard she tries to make her case over the next couple minutes, because after the three of us finally get situated in front of the TV and start looking for something else animal-related, she changes her mind about Planet Earth the very instant she spots a movie about baby animals.

  “Perfect,” I remark as I turn it on.

  “Perfect,” Beckett agrees.

  Theodora says nothing because her attention is already glued to the screen.

  Surprisingly, the show keeps her occupied the entire time. It’s pretty entertaining for me and Beckett as well; if the baby animals aren’t doing something cute, they’re doing something funny. And there isn’t anything scary, except for a few moments of light drama.

  The movie is so charming that after it ends, Theo feels inspired to draw baby animals of her own. I set her up at the kitchen table with paper and crayons. Then Beckett and I sit with her only to promptly be ordered to go do something else because her work is a secret.

  We obey the command and leave the kitchen. I take this opportunity to ask Beckett for help with something I keep forgetting about.

  “Hey, I just remembered….” I point up at the large vent in the hallway ceiling. “Do you mind changing the air filter for me? No matter what I try to stand on, I can’t quite reach it.”

  He looks up, too, and then grins back down at me. “Sure, I’ll do it. You got a stepstool around here?”

  I retrieve it from the laundry room—and, damn it, the boy steps up onto that thing and is plenty tall enough to reach the ceiling. He unhooks the lock on the vent without issue.

  His laughter follows me on my grumbly way to grab the replacement filter.

  When he’s done installing it, he asks, “Any other tall tasks you need me for?” His teasing tone from the syrup joke is back.

  After a moment of thought, I am reminded of something else…but I shake my head. “No, I’m good.”

  One of his eyebrows goes up. He looks at me expectantly.

  I blink at him.

  He blinks back.

  Surely he can’t tell I’m fibbing.

  Except he says, amused, “Are you aware that I know you? I saw your little flash of hesitation there, so hit me with it.”

  Well, then.

  I guess I’m not that shocked, since I’d have noticed the same thing about him.

  Still, even though he’s totally fine with helping me with my burned-out closet light, I can’t quit telling him I’m sorry. I don’t want it to seem like I’m taking advantage of his kindness and generosity. True, I can’t easily reach things that are high up, but maybe I just haven’t been trying hard enough.

  After mumbling out my third apology, I realize something. I pause chewing on the tip of my thumb to speak on it.

  “I’ve only just noticed how silly it is that I haven’t replaced my little stepstool with one that has some real range. I’ve had it for, like, eight years. Why have I never thought—?”

  “Noelle,” he drags out, carefully holding the frosted-glass light fixture in one hand and the new bulb in the other.

  “Beckett,” I return.

  “Quit feeling bad. You aren’t inconveniencing me.”

  I sigh. “Well, I—”

  “When I offer to do things for you, it’s because I wanna do them. You know that.”

  The reminder is full of meaning.

  I can’t help admitting to myself, Yeah, I do.

  And I’m thankful to have that certainty because a few times after Cliff’s death, I wasn’t certain of it at all. I got so far into my head about it that we ended up in a full-blown argument—the only real shouting match we have ever had.

  Blowing a raspberry, I cross my arms.

  He blows a highly exaggerated one of his own, and the lighthearted mockery makes me smile.

  I tell him, “It’s just that there are better things to do around here than this. You could be doing something fun, but instead, you’re fixing stuff for me.”

  He slants his eyes down to mine. “As long as you and Theo are around, it doesn’t matter what I’m doing. Being with you is never a waste of time.”

  It’s a Beckett variation of my words from last night.

  They reassure me that much more, delight me, turn my smile into a grin.

  He fires a grin back at me, so big that it shines in his eyes. I love how, unlike last night, I’m able to experience it.

  “Okay,” I concede.

  “Okay,” he concludes before resuming his work.

  We get back into the kitchen just as Theo sets down a crayon and announces, “Done! Come look at my baby animals!”

  On par with little-kid art, they aren’t super recognizable as animals, and some of them are very unnatural colors. But as all little-kid art is, the drawings are adorable. She worked hard on them, and they’re imaginative. It doesn’t matter that they don’t boast details Beckett and I are familiar with; we love them, from their disproportionate features to how vibrant they are.

  She tells us each of their names and asks Beckett to write them down for her. Afterward, I ask if she wants to practice her own letters for a little bit, and she does.

  “Only for a little bit,” she reiterates, however blithely.

  Fine by me. Even two minutes of it is better than nothing. I find her practice booklet while Beckett digs a pencil out of her plastic box of crayons and markers.

  And…this is how our day goes.

  One activity comes and goes, and another takes its place. Laughs are shared. Easy conversations are had. A few new things are learned. Theodora shows Beckett the ballet arm positions she’s been learning the last couple weeks in her preschool dance class at the very same studio Ceceli and I used to attend. And in true Beckett fashion, he stands and follows her instructions on how to do hi
s own ballet arms, no questions asked.

  For the second time today, I’m visited by a bittersweet feeling.

  I always hoped that would be Cliff.

  I used to dream out loud to him about him doing things like this with her once she got old enough to learn dance steps. He would always follow it up with things like, ‘Nah, I’ll leave the ballerina stuff to you. Don’t wanna make a fool of myself in front of my girls. I’ll just sit by and proudly watch Theo take after her mom.’

  Beckett doesn’t know any of that. He isn’t trying to bring life to a daydream I once had about my fiancé. He’s just being himself and loving having fun with Theo.

  Thinking about it like that, I decide it’s not so bittersweet after all. It’s special.

  This time together truly is well-spent.

  Later, it’s decided that he’ll stay for dinner, so he helps me prep and cook homemade chicken noodle soup while my silly girl watches the baby animal movie all over again.

  Somehow for the first time ever, he notices how I hold the chef’s knife and quickly stops me chopping the celery. I don’t hurt myself with the knife very often, but I’m apparently in the habit of holding it in a dangerous way. He carefully takes it from me and shows me how to strengthen both my weak grip and the position of the knife on the cutting board.

  And his corrections turn out to be helpful, actually. Once the knife is back in my hand, I can tell I have better control of it.

  “Wow,” I say as I continue chopping.

  “Better?” he asks.

  “Yeah! I had no idea I was doing that wrong. Thanks for catching it. I feel safer and smarter already.”

  Looking pleased, he steps back over to the stove to resume cooking the chicken. “Glad I could help!”

  The soup turns out to be the perfect meal on this cold, rainy night. We all eat our fill of it and enjoy one of the old dance recital DVDs from my younger years. Theo loves watching these things.

  So do I. There were definitely mess-ups and times when my technique and confidence needed improvement, but they don’t dim how important dance always was to me. I love going back and enjoying the routines, recalling the steps like they’re old friends of mine, feeling all over again how proud I was to have learned this or that move.

  “I can’t wait to dance like you, Mommy!” Theo says as she flutters around the living room.

  Adorable.

  Then she starts getting energetic, and I have to laugh.

  “You’ve got some Cece in your dancing too,” I tell her.

  “Yeah! This is how Cece dances!” She starts stomping in a crazy, would-be tap way.

  Beckett joins me in laughing. I pull out my phone so I can take a video and send it to Ceceli.

  Not long after we’re done with our favorite parts of the DVD, Theo’s bedtime comes around. She insists that she isn’t sleepy and begs to stay up and have more fun, but we convince her to get cozy in bed instead—all it takes is a promise that Uncle Beck will read her a story.

  I kneel by her pillow and gently stroke her hair while he reads If You Give a Mouse a Cookie from the edge of her bed. His voice carries a smile as usual, but his tone has lowered to a level that’s even making me kind of sleepy. It’s the ideal bedtime story voice.

  Between it, the warm glow of the nearby lamp, and the sound of rain still falling outside, the little angel is soon dozing.

  Beckett and I quietly tell her goodnight and that we love her. She manages the faintest sound of reciprocation, and then she’s conked out.

  After we’ve crept out of her room, he whispers still smilingly, “Now, how did I know she was telling tales when she said she wasn’t sleepy?”

  I let out an equally hushed giggle. “She wasn’t fooling anyone, huh?”

  “Nope, not a soul.”

  In the living room, we head for the couch again. I fold myself up in the middle, and he settles into a corner with one arm along the armrest and the other across the back of the couch.

  I’m able to speak at a more normal volume. “Thank you for reading to her and for everything else.”

  “Of course. I’ve had a fantastic time.”

  “So have we.” Momentarily, I realize, “You really did stay all day, despite what we thought this morning.”

  Fresh amusement lightens his eyes. “Hey, I did! Time flies when you’re having fun.” He stretches his arms over his head and starts to yawn. “What now?”

  It makes me yawn too. “I don’t know.”

  He nods his agreement.

  The yawns pass. We spend a few moments sitting in easy silence. Then I decide to ask if he’s still feeling all right about Jenna.

  “Better than all right,” he replies. After a beat, he gives a soft chuckle. “This is the first time I’ve even really thought about her today.”

  That’s a pleasant surprise. “Really?”

  “Mmhmm.” He regards me with as much sincerity as ever. “But even though I’m doing great, I appreciate you asking.”

  I tip him a smile. “Had to make sure you’re okay.”

  His responding smile reaches his eyes yet again.

  “You’ve got my back,” he states.

  I nod. “Just like you’ve got mine.”

  “Yep.”

  The way his expression dims makes me wonder if he’s thinking, like I now am, about how those things were also true between him and Cliff.

  I would be willing to bet so, even though what he murmurs about him pertains to something else.

  “Cliff teach you how to hold knives like that?” He tosses a nod toward the kitchen.

  My smile grows, and his follows suit.

  “No,” I answer, “but he never rescued me from my ignorance, either.”

  Beckett shakes his head in good-natured disbelief. “I’m appalled. He’d always been about that superhero life.”

  We share a quiet laugh…but once again, I’m certain he’s reflecting on the truth of that just as much as I am.

  “He really had been,” I say softly. “In a lot of ways.”

  His eyes absently drift over me before he sighs. “Yeah, I miss that. Miss him just…so damn much.”

  There it is.

  Flashes of old memories come back to me—bits and pieces of their friendship that I witnessed, as well as others I only heard about.

  “I know you do,” I murmur. “I’m so sorry. More than sorry.”

  His blue-gray gaze refocuses on me, shows me his deep sadness. “So am I.” A frown creases his brow. “For me and for you. And for Theo.”

  I give a frail smile of agreement.

  He blinks into looking away and around.

  Bit by bit, moment by moment, that frown eases up.

  “I’m getting better, though,” he goes on, voice lowering. “Finally adjusting, I guess. It’s been hard to do—you know how that goes—but I’m…I’m feeling okay. I think.”

  He’s right: I do know how that goes.

  With a lick of his lips, he fixes his stare on the ceiling. “Sometimes I think that’s awful, but most of the time…” he gives a slow shake of his head, “…these days, I find myself just going along with it most of the time. Going along with life whether it’s difficult or not. Knowing Cliff would want that for me, just like he always did.” He sniffs swiftly, scratches at the back of his neck before running his hand forward through his hair, mussing it.

  These divulgences sink into me.

  They’re accurate for both of us.

  It doesn’t seem right to adapt to this kind of change—to life without someone you loved—but it just kind of happens. And even aside from adapting being normal or natural or unstoppable or whatever, there’s also our personal truth that Cliff’s positive influence on our lives hasn’t gone anywhere. We’ve been clearing a path out of this hell one inch at a time, strengthened by the ways he changed us, big and small alike. He left us tools with which to patch ourselves up, from old words and habits to our friendship to Theodora.

  Even though I know I d
on’t have to—even though I know Beckett has seen it from me, just as I’ve seen it from him—I still say it, my voice whisper-quiet. “I’m adjusting too. Getting a little better.”

  It sits on the air for a motionless moment.

  Then he looks at me again. Tender understanding etches itself across his face.

  I swallow hard. “It does feel awful sometimes. And sometimes it doesn’t feel like I’m actually better, just like I’m not numb and paralyzed.”

  He nods.

  Old words come back to me. Words he spoke to me one night right after we lost Cliff, when I was on the brink of losing myself too. Words I never forgot the tone of, the impact of, the truth of.

  Lifting my shoulders a little, I finish, “But sometimes I’m in a good mood, and—and I think that’s okay, because…we can’t just give up and stop living.”

  The breath he pulls in is deep and shaky, and the way he looks at me says he hasn’t forgotten those words either.

  “No,” he exhales, “we can’t.” After a second, he reaches this way across the couch cushion, and I put my hand out, too, and his fingers comfortingly clasp around my wrist.

  It settles me even though I haven’t been feeling all that unsettled.

  Unlike back on that night, I don’t feel broken, but just like then, he’s finding a way to give me strength.

  I really don’t know what I would do without him.

  I don’t know what would’ve become of me—or Theo, for that matter—if he hadn’t been here after Cliff died.

  After I went sailing over the edge of my world, past what I thought I knew of despair, and plummeted downward so fast I thought my heart would give out from the horrific rush of it, I didn’t end up splattered on the ground. I landed in water. He was the ocean that caught me at the end of my fall. If it hadn’t been for Beckett, I would’ve just been…gone.

  I had the support of others, for sure—my parents and Ceceli. But there were so many times when it didn’t touch me, when the only person whose support broke through was Beckett’s because he understood. He knew my loss better than anyone else did. There were so many times when my fear that I wouldn’t make it was fought back by his words, or his hugs, or just his presence. Starting on the night we’re both recalling now.