Page 64 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
Keep things uncomplicated with a coworker, even though I’m already developing feelings for him—to keep myself safe.
Leave calligraphy as a business for those who were more daring—to keep myself safe.
In the end, my safety net had become just that: a net. And I didn’t know how to cut myself free from it, not without letting my life crumble apart in the process.
We rounded a bend, and the waterfall came into view. Water slipped past moss-covered rocks to thunder into a pool below.
I watched as a man in a red speedo used the waterfall to slide off the cliff. He jackknifed into the natural pool below, only to surface and join his laughing friends on the other side.
How did this enclosed oasis exist? How was it that people were out here living their lives so fully while I shied away from any sort of risk?
This vacation wouldn’t be enough to satiate my new cravings. It would only serve as a reminder of what I had missed out on. The realization was barbed.
Beck said something, an eager look across his face, but I couldn’t hear him over the roaring of my mind. He did a double take before his brows furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
I waved Beck off, hastily wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I went to step around him, but his hands paused me with a gentle grip on my shoulders.
“Lane, stop. Are you hurt?”
“No. I just—” I groaned. “Can we keep moving? I really want to get closer to the waterfall.”
I tried to push him off, but he held firm. “Tell me what’s going on, first.”
“You’ll laugh at me,” I said, trying to cover my eyes, but Beck grabbed my wrists.
“Emily.” His soft tone threw me off guard. I stopped fighting him and looked into his searching eyes. “Please, trust me with this,” he said, lobbing back at me as I’d asked him to do yesterday.
I could have confronted him about not trusting me with his secrets. But for some reason, I wanted to tell him. I wanted someone to see me and the hurt, to understand. Even if that someone was Beck. Maybe, especially if that someone was Beck.
“I forgot what this felt like,” I managed.
“Taking the stairs?” he teased, but his tone and expression were all concern. The look made my heart swell.
“To feel alive,” I choked on the last word but took a steadying breath. I needed him to understand. “Not only the hike. All of this. The trip. The calligraphy.” And before I could stop the snowball from getting bigger, it rolled over my resolve. “You.”
And on that one word, I cracked. I worried Beck would make fun of me for being dramatic and crying, or he’d shy away from my admission of feelings for him. So it surprised me when he pulled me into his chest and held me tight.
The protectiveness, the care in Beck’s grip, made my chest ache in an entirely different way. I melted there, hot tears soaking his shirt. He didn’t try to cheer me up, urge me to look on the bright side, or quiet me down. He just rested his head on mine and rubbed calming circles between my shoulder blades.
I don’t know how long I stood there crying or how many other tourists Beck had to assure could go around us, and that, yes, I was fine. His tone never hinted at impatience or embarrassment over his emotional hiking buddy.
But as suddenly as the crying had come, it dried up. “I’m sorry,” I said, peeling myself from his solid chest. “I don’t know what came over me. Oh, God, I soaked your shirt.”
“Don’t apologize. I thought we established that I don’t have some weird obsession with shirts.”
“Sorry.” I laughed a little, wiping my face. “I spent so long thinking you hated me over a shirtsleeve. It’s going to take a while to rewrite that narrative.”
“I can wait.” We walked quietly for a bit before Beck asked, “Are you okay?”
I shrugged. Then, I decided to target one of the problems—specifically, one of the problems that didn’t include my feelings toward him. “I’ve been so looking forward to a vacation, and now I’m here, it’s better than I could have imagined. All I can think about is how this will be over in a few days. Then it will be back to that cubicle—behind cell walls.” I stopped, realizing how dramatic I sounded. “I don’t mean to whine. Everyone feels this way on vacation.”
“Emily, everyone feels that way to a certain degree. But you shouldn’t be dreading work so much that it keeps you from enjoying everything else. That’s a problem. You look like you are heading for a root canal every time you step off the elevator at the office. Why are you at The Arlow Group if you obviously hate it?”
“Have you ever considered it’s the people I work with,” I said with a hip bump. I wanted to turn the conversation around, missing the lighthearted air of our morning together.
But Beck wasn’t having it. “Come on, seriously.”
We’d reached the bottom of the stairs and made our way over slippery rocks to a shallow part of the nature-made pool. I plunked down, taking my shoes off with a little too much attitude.
