But I couldn’t help it.

He looked sad.

No.

He looked heartbroken.

He seemed so different than how he had come across at the Mended Hearts group. Then he had been jovial and upbeat. Incredibly optimistic given all he had been through. I had found it unsettling and jarring. I hadn’t been quite sure how to handle that level of positivity, given that I was the least happy-go-lucky person out there.

But this Beckett was someone I could identify with. Because right then, staring at the men running across the makeshift pitch, he looked like someone who had lost everything. He was a man that was mourning.

I swallowed around the thick lump in my throat, feeling a complicated rush of emotions that was both startling and unfamiliar. I knew how Beckett was feeling. I recognized the look on his face because I had seen it so many times when I looked in the mirror.

It was the look of a man who thought his life was over.

Beckett continued to sit there, unmoving, with a visible weight on his shoulders. Until the game was over and several of the guys noticed him sitting there and came over to speak to him. Then I saw a smile. I heard a laugh. And Beckett became Mr. Positivity once again.

But for a moment, when he was completely unguarded, I saw something else. Something that made him so much more real.

And in his grief I saw a man that I wanted to know.

Chapter 4

Beckett

“Beckett! How was your appointment last week? I forgot to ask last time!” Candace asked when I arrived at the Methodist church for the Mended Hearts support group on Tuesday. In some weird way, the ragtag group of randoms had become a second family. Friends that actually got it. People I wanted to spend time with.

The hospital social worker had given me a list of community resources and supports before I was discharged. I had looked them over and chosen the group at the top. And when I had shown up at the first meeting, I was still more than a little skeptical of the whole thing.

But as the weeks went by, I began to feel comfortable in that strange group. They didn’t ask a million obnoxious questions or look at me like I was walking death. They didn’t expect me to talk about how I was feeling or what I was going to do now that my life was oh so different.

“Pretty good.” I tapped at my healing incision. “Everything’s working the way it’s supposed to. So score one for the ole ticker.” I smiled and it was genuine.

Candace patted me on the shoulder in a maternal way. “That’s great. I have no doubt you’ll show that obstinate heart who’s boss.” I winked and she laughed, a deep belly guffaw that sound a lot like a donkey, before turning to Clive and Jennifer, two group members who had just arrived.

I poured myself a cup of tea and took a sip, closing my eyes briefly. I missed coffee. It was just another thing in my life that I had to give up. I hated tea. I hated the taste. What it represented for me. But I drank it anyway. Because I had to. Because that’s what my life was now.

One never-ending concession.

“I’ve never seen someone look so unhappy to drink tea in my life.” I opened my eyes and found Corin standing beside me, her hands tapping the tabletop in a nervous, repetitive fashion.

I was glad to see her again. After my mildly disturbing behavior toward her last week I hadn’t been so sure she’d come back. But I had been so surprised and honest-to-God relieved to see her that day that I couldn’t help but be over the top.

That day when I found her having a panic attack in the slushy snow had been a big deal for me. I didn’t really know why, but there was something about her that made me instantly protective. It was weird and made absolutely no sense, but it had been powerful stuff.

I hadn’t thought twice before I knelt down beside her, not caring about my soaked jeans and freezing fingers. She couldn’t breathe, her hands fluttering wildly in front of her throat as she made scary gasping sounds.

I knew what a panic attack looked like. I had suffered from my fair share after finding myself in the hospital, hooked up to a few dozen beeping machines. I also knew that what she was feeling was very real and very scary.

I had gotten her to her feet and spoke calmly, trying to soothe her. I had been on my way to pick Sierra up from work. But then I had stumbled upon Corin. In those few minutes I didn’t think about where I needed to be or what I should be doing.

I just wanted to help her.

And when she had finally gotten herself together, she had rushed off before I could say anything else. I never even got her name.

I found myself thinking about Corin a lot after that. Wondering about her. Hoping she was okay. I wasn’t sure why I was fixating on her so much, but the thought of her had burrowed deep regardless.

So when I saw her at the Mended Hearts support group last week, I saw it as some sort of sign. Like fate had thrown her back into my path for some important reason I didn’t comprehend yet. I had felt an understandable relief that she was okay. She was standing there still breathing and that made me feel good.

But Corin hadn’t jumped at the chance to engage in further discussions about that day that had connected us. In fact she looked as though she wanted to deliver a swift punch to my throat.

The whole thing had been odd. Unsettling. And I had convinced myself that Corin Thompson was just a random blip on the radar of my life. If she never came back to the support group, then that was her decision, and I couldn’t care one way or another.

Yet here she was. Bobbing up and down on her tiptoes, drumming her fingertips on the tabletop, attempting to smile and failing horribly. And I wanted to laugh at how awkward we both were. There was this twist of genuine humor that felt pretty damn awesome.

I gave her a broad smile in a way that was slightly insane and registered pretty high on the creep-o-meter.

“No, it’s fine,” I said, grabbing another cup and pouring her some. “Milk and sugar?” I asked.

Corin frowned. I hadn’t thought my question was that confusing. Maybe I shouldn’t have given so many options. Should I speak slower? Perhaps make a list on PowerPoint? Because I could swear I almost saw her brain exploding.

“Uh, yeah. Both please,” she answered after a painfully uneasy pause, her gaze flittering away from mine and then returning again. And when she met my eyes, it felt like a gift. As though she were giving me something she never gave anyone.

What was wrong with me? I was thinking in sentimental bullshit!

This sort of insanity should be reserved for the meeting of supermodels and sports icons.

Not quietly good-looking girls with obvious social phobias.

The truth was Corin was very pretty. Though understated. Not the type of pretty I was used to with Sierra, who dressed in a way meant to show off as much skin as possible with her boobs on permanent display. That had been such a turn-on when we had first met.

Corin’s brown hair was long and held back in a simple ponytail. Her eyes were a dark, intense brown that was nice to look at when she wasn’t staring at her shoes. She didn’t seem to wear any makeup. I hated when women caked that shit on their faces so it was impossible to see what was underneath. I hadn’t seen Sierra’s natural skin tone until we had been together for eight months and that was purely by accident after walking into the bathroom just as she got out of the shower.