Pretty Little Mistake

Lights twinkle through the mazelike garden. It’s one of the only things I ever liked about this home. The lush greenery is at arm’s length as I pass through, the air smelling of jasmine. At least, I think that’s what it is.

Dinner was . . . explosive. I expected it, but that didn’t make it any easier to witness. I’ve always known my parents aren’t great people. They’re too focused on the wrong things. Money. Status. But that didn’t make hearing the things my father said about Beckham any easier. It was a slap in the face to know that’s what he thinks of other people. The number in your bank account doesn’t make you any better than someone else. If anything, it’s rotted their hearts.

Even Hunter didn’t stand up to him. He spoke up only once they’d left the room. Despite his confession, it feels hollow since it only came once our parents weren’t there to witness it.

It pisses me off and breaks my heart in equal measure knowing that my father and brother were behind Beckham disappearing from my life. They didn’t care about my feelings at all. When it comes to my dad, all that’s ever mattered is what benefits him.

Beckham handled tonight with more grace than any of them deserve. If I were in his place, I’m not sure I could’ve forgiven my brother for his actions. Despite what Beckham thinks of himself, he has a good heart. He cares about people way more than he lets himself realize.

My hand goes to the small swell of my stomach.

My baby.

I want to love, support, and protect my child, unlike my parents. I want to be the first person my kid tells everything to. As much as my lack of knowledge when it comes to kids scares me, I suppose I have a perfect handbook on everything not to do.

With a sigh, I sit down on the next bench I come across. The hand-carved stone benches are dotted throughout the entire garden.

Tilting my head back, I look up at the night sky. The stars are bright, the moon nothing more than a sliver. A perfect little slice.

So much beauty can exist out here, quiet and peaceful, while inside that mansion, anger and harsh words are slung around.

When I hear footsteps, I know it’s him. I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone with my thoughts for too long, but I appreciate him giving me a few moments of privacy.

“That went well, huh?”

Beckham sighs, standing across from me with his hands shoved in the pockets of his pants. It’s his classic pose, one that suits him well. He’s not wearing his coat. He should be. It’s cold enough to need one.

“Are you okay?” Worry furrows his brows. He shouldn’t be worried about me. He was the one who was treated like crap tonight. Embarrassed hardly feels like a strong enough word for how I feel over this turn of events.

I purse my lips. “Yes.”

Those blue eyes narrow to thin slits, his mouth flat. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.” I look away from him, messing with my hair. With an annoyed sigh, I say, “I’m not surprised, and yet . . .”

“You’re disappointed,” he finishes for me.

I rub my hands together, trying to get some warmth back into them. Even though I did grab my coat before coming out here, the chill is beginning to set in. “I know how they are, and I still keep expecting a different outcome. The things my dad said . . . it makes me sick. I hope you know I don’t think that way. I never have and I never will.”

“I know that, honeybee. And I understand too: they’re your parents. You want them to be different, to prove you wrong.” He holds out his hand for mine, pulling me up from the bench so we can continue on through the opulent gardens. Even in late November they still manage to be lush. “It’s natural to want their approval, even when you know it isn’t likely.”

“I’m a fool.” I watch the tendrils of my breath fog the air, fading into nothingness.

We walk a few steps before he says, “No, you’re not. You’re a daughter who loves her parents and wants them to love her the same way in return. It doesn’t make you a fool, just . . . too good for them.”

“My brother . . . ,” I start, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “I can’t believe he did that to you. To us.” I shake my head in annoyance. “You two were so close . . . all of us were, and in the end that must not have meant much to him, or he wouldn’t have done what he did.”

Beckham sighs. “I guess he felt like he had no choice.”

I crack a small smile. “You’re too nice, and he doesn’t deserve it.”

“Too nice?” He snorts, shaking his head in amusement. “Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”

I lay my head against the side of his arm. “I’m glad it’s you.”

“Me what?”

“That got me pregnant.”

He laughs, Adam’s apple bobbing. I wonder if he knows how beautiful he is when he laughs. He lights up from the inside out. It’s a sight to behold.

“Laugh all you want, but I don’t think I could do this with anyone else.”

He gives me a serious look. “You could. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.” He pulls me toward him, placing his hand on my belly. I’ve only begun to feel the stirrings of what I think might be the baby moving, but it’s all too subtle to be certain or to be felt on the outside. “But you do have me, and we’re going to do right by this kid, way better than your parents did you. You don’t need their approval. You shouldn’t even want it. People like that . . .”

He doesn’t have to go on; I know what he’s saying. In order to get their approval, I’d have to be like them, and that would basically be like going to the dark side, which I have no intentions of doing.

We round the corner where the pools are. In the distance is the pool house, both our eyes going to it. Neither of us says anything. I rest my head against his arm as we take in where it all began.

“I want to take your picture,” he says suddenly.

“What?”

“With the pool house in the background.”

I fight a smile. “Really?”

He nods, pulling out his phone since he doesn’t have his camera. “For nostalgia’s sake.”

He poses me how he wants me and snaps the photo. Then he leans in beside me, taking a selfie of the two of us. Except we’re both looking at each other and not the phone screen.

When I shiver, he says, “We should head inside.” He shoves his phone back in his pocket.

“Yeah, we should.”

I’m desperate to head back to his parents’ house. At least I feel comfortable there. This night has already been long enough.

Inside, we search out my family to let them know we’re leaving. We could leave without doing that, but with silent communication we both know that would be a bad idea. We find them in the formal living area, my brother sipping at some sort of dark liquid while my dad smokes a cigar. My mom paces in the corner, lips pinched.

When we approach it’s like everyone freezes.

My father’s eyes narrow on us. Standing slowly from his favorite leather chair, he plucks the cigar from between his lips. “Your mother and I have discussed it, and we’ve figured out what we’re going to do.”

I give him a funny look, wondering what he’s getting at. Beckham squeezes my hand, and I can’t help but wonder if he knows what this is about.

“You’re going to get married,” my mom pipes in from the corner, turning away from the window. Her shoulders are stiff, chin held high.

Hunter watches us, his worry palpable. I wonder where his girl went, if she went to bed or got the hell out of here when she saw how crazy this family is.

I look between my parents, waiting for them to laugh, take it back, say something. They don’t. Of course they don’t; my parents don’t joke. This is deadly serious.

I start to laugh uncontrollably. I’m not laughing because it’s funny. I’m laughing because if I don’t, I might cry.

Beside me, Beckham stiffens. I don’t know whether it’s over the suggestion of marriage or because of my own hysterical reaction. Shock courses through my system when I feel his pinkie brush against mine before loosely curling around my own finger.

“You have to be kidding me,” I blurt, appalled that they think it’s acceptable to force us into marriage.

“We’re not.” My father takes a puff of the cigar. “It’s the only thing that makes sense to keep our image clean.”

“Image,” I repeat, stunned.

I shouldn’t be shocked right now, and yet I am.

Stupid, naive me.

“You know how important our image is,” he goes on. I can feel myself shutting down. Beckham must notice how unsteady I am, because his arm wraps around me, holding me against his side. “A child out of wedlock isn’t a good look. We’ll have a wedding planned quickly, by Christmas, and make an announcement that this is only the formal ceremony and there was a small service just for family over the summer. Hence, the . . .” He waves his hand at me, at my stomach, at my baby.

I feel my brother watching us. I want to scream at him to be a fucking man and stand up to our dad, to tell him this isn’t okay, but he just sits there sipping his scotch or whatever the fuck it is. I’m enraged by the fact that he stepped in on our father’s behalf all those years ago, and he’s not even making up for it now. He’s sitting back, letting it happen. Complacency is a choice.

“We’re not getting married.” My chin wobbles, fingers curling into fists.

My mom scoffs. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to. Because a baby doesn’t equal marriage. Because—no.” I shake my head, a humorless laugh escaping me. “I don’t have to justify this to you. To either of you.”

The most ironic part of all this is that Beckham and I aren’t even a real couple.

A vein in my dad’s temple bulges and pulses. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this angry.

“You”—he points a finger at me, like he can cast a spell that will force me to listen—“will not defy me on this, Lennon.”

My heart is breaking in half. It’s no secret, even to me, that I don’t have a great relationship with my parents. But staring me in the face is the fact that maybe I don’t have any real family at all, not anyone who truly cares.

“Dad—” Hunter tries to speak up.

“Silence,” he snaps back.

Hunter zips his lips, and that’s that. My big brother, whom I’ve always loved and admired, who took me under his wing growing up, sits back and says nothing more because that’s the easy way out.

“You do realize we’re both adults, correct?” Beckham’s voice is eerily calm as he addresses my parents. There’s power in that—in being the one who doesn’t raise his voice. “You can’t force us to do anything, so this is a moot conversation. We’ll be going now.”

He tugs me away from them, from the room, from my father yelling after us.

He speaks to me in a low, kind tone, but I don’t hear anything he says.

It’s not until I’m buckled in the front of the Tahoe that I let the tears fall.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I murmur to my baby, “I’ll always love you. I’ll always protect you. I won’t be them. I promise.”

Beckham places a gentle hand on my knee, and then the house disappears behind us.

I have a feeling I won’t be seeing it ever again.

I’m not even sad about that fact, only relieved.

I wake sometime in the night, tears streaming down my face.

I don’t know why I feel so sad. Why I’m even crying. Those people, my parents, don’t deserve my heartbreak.

Sitting up in bed, I wipe my tears away on the back of my hands.

Beckham must sense my movement because he reaches for me. “Whasgoinon?” His words are slurred and groggy. He pushes his sleep-mussed hair out of his eyes, stifling a yawn. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look okay.”

I’m sure I don’t. “I don’t know why I’m sad.”

He knows I’m talking about them without me even clarifying it. “You’re sad because you’re not them, because you care. You have love in your heart, and you’re mourning something . . .”

“Something that was never real to begin with.” I cry harder.

Stifling a curse, he shoves the blankets off his body and sits up with me, pulling me into him. His chest is bare, my tears soaking into his skin. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even seem to mind. His fingers gently stroke my hair in a calm, soothing gesture.

“You’re so much better than them, Len.”

Sniffling, I say, “Maybe so, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

I hate that I want their acceptance, their love, even though deep down I know I’ll never get it. How pathetic is that?

I don’t mean to say that out loud, but I must, because Beckham replies, “You’re not pathetic.”

Clinging to him, a buoy keeping me afloat, I ask, “How do you know?”

My body shakes with his chuckle. “Because I know you. There’s nothing pathetic about you. I promise. I’m just sorry I didn’t see how they were when we were young.”

“I don’t think they were always this bad. I think as we got older, they got worse, wanting to force us to fit their expectation. Hunter complied. I didn’t.”

My eyes begin to grow heavy again from the gentle rubbing of his fingers in my hair.

“Go back to sleep.” He kisses the top of my head. “They’re not worth losing sleep over.”

I let him lay my body back down.

I let him hold me.

And because I love to torture myself, I let myself imagine what it would be like if this were real.