Page 43 of Three Months Yesterday

Beckett’s brow furrows, and I see the question in his eyes, but I jump to continue before he can voice it. I don’t want him to think my parents treated me poorly because I came along years after they thought they were done having kids. That would be the farthest thing from the truth.

I’ve never questioned if my parents love me. The number of people who told me my parents were over the moon when they found out they were having a girl is ridiculous. Up until my grandparents died, they told me every time they saw me how happy everyone was.

“My mom had a couple miscarriages, both before and after Wyatt. I think after the last one they thought they were done having kids. But then she found out she was pregnant with me and did everything she possibly could to make sure the pregnancy stuck. No matter how much everyone told her there was nothing she could have done to stop the previous miscarriages.”

And all of a sudden I get it—why my mother held me so close she practically smothered me. I don’t know why it’s this conversation that makes it click, but it does.

The miscarriages were never a secret, and while I’ve never had one or tried desperately to have a child of my own, I don’t need to have experienced either of those things to understand how difficult they are.

To want something so badly you try over and over again to get it only to have it ripped away from you? That has to be torture.

“So maybe her strict nature had nothing to do with me being unplanned or a girl and had everything to do with being afraid something would happen to her miracle baby.” The words are a little more flippant than they should be, but I can’t give them the attention they deserve. Not right now.

Beckett’s hand lands on my leg, gently squeezing in a silent show of support, and I appreciate that he’s so observant and can see my words for exactly what they are.

“Either way, my mom kept a very close eye on me. I know there was a period where I watched all the classic kids shows, but by the time I can remember watching anything, Aiden was already out of the house and Wyatt was out playing with friends more often than not, so I got stuck watching and listening to the things my parents wanted. Which I honestly loved.”

My parents met at a revival movie theater in 1983 and their love of classic movies has carried through their entire relationship. They still make the drive out to Baltimore for the local drive-in movie theater at least once a month, and they host their own little homemade film festival every summer for the entire family.

Their love of classics is one thing I’ll never be mad they passed on to me. There’s something so comforting about watching and listening to them. Like coming home from a long trip.

“It’s not like I haven’t seen modern movies and TV shows. I just don’t find the same enjoyment in them as I do the classics.”

“I can understand that. There’s something soothing about things that have been around and enjoyed by so many for such a long time. I mean, they’re called classics for a reason.”

I’m sure my interest in older movies and music also comes from my appreciation of history…or maybe it’s my love of history that makes me love the silver screen. Either way, there haven’t been many people who’ve understood my love of the classics, and I sometimes wonder if that’s part of the reason I don’t put myself out there. Why it’s so easy for me to lose contact with people.

It’s like a small part of me heals with Beckett’s easy understanding, and I can’t help but sink a little farther into the couch, truly comfortable with where I am and who I’m with.

“Sooo…” Beckett drags the word out, a teasing smile forming on his lips. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“No way.” I shake my head. There’s no chance in hell I have an answer to that question. “I could never pick a favorite. There are too many amazing choices.”

“Everyone has a favorite.”

“Can you pick your favorite musician?”

“Touché.” He laughs, tipping an imaginary hat in my direction. “All right, what’s a movie you wish more people watched?”

“Charade with Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant,” I answer instantly.

“That was a fast response.”

“It’s an easy question,” I say on a shrug. “It’s definitely in my list of top ten movies and it’s one I don’t hear many people talk about, especially when you’re talking about two leads like Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn.”

Beckett’s gaze moves around the room before landing on the TV, and I can’t say I’m shocked by the question he asks.

“Can we watch it?”

“Right now?”

I see the moment Beckett’s entire body goes taught, concern weaving its way into his features. “Unless you’re tired of me intruding on your night off.”

“No. I just thought you wanted to work on your music.”

“It can wait.” He shrugs, and I see the truth in his words.

Writing is not a priority for him right now. This conversation and watching one of my favorite movies with me is.