Page 29 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
Beck eyed where a TV would normally go, but across from the couch sat my desk, and next to that was a wall of shelving that would rival an entertainment center in size. Paper and supplies of all sorts filled each cubby to the brim, like a mini-Hobby Lobby right in my own living room.
“It’s not that I don’t watch shows and movies. I do. On my phone all the time,” I said, feeling the need to defend myself from looking like a complete weirdo. “I just only have a limited amount of space in the apartment.”
“And you chose what mattered to you,” he said as though he was seeing a new side of me.
“Yeah, exactly.” It felt weird to agree with him, even weirder at the way my stomach felt all fizzy with his approval.
“I don’t need a TV,” Beck said, pulling his backpack around so he could reach inside to get to his laptop. “Three hours should be enough time to knock out those reconfigurations.”
I blinked. “I was supposed to do that.”
“I know, but you seem like you have a lot on your plate.”
I started to protest, but I really was drowning. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” I motioned toward my desk. “Make yourself at home.”
I moved my mirror kit and RSVP list out of his way, allowing Beckett Atteridge to get comfortable in my living room.
I wasted no time cleaning the mirror and taping my guidelines. It was the actual placing of my marker against the mirror that made me pause. Oh, how out of place the mirror looked, sitting by a mystery stain on the carpet, not two feet from a roach trap.
I fought the urge to yank Beck by the collar and demand he take the mirror back to Victoria.
I can’t do this.
I’m going to fuck this up.
My thoughts went south quickly, the delusion of pulling off this job dissolving with the reality of the situation. What was worse, I had an audience. While he seemed busy working, my hesitation felt palpable, thick. I didn’t want him to realize my alarm because nothing said unqualified quite like fear.
I huffed out a breath and then thought of Hailey’s advice: Try on my life.
What would Hailey do in this situation? She wouldn’t second guess herself. She’d throw on some nineties rap, put her hair in a high pony, and get it done.
I decided to give Hailey’s method a try. Just go for it. I opted for my own style of music, a playlist of punk music stripped down to acoustic guitar with vocals devastatingly soft and raw. Beck’s eyes slid over as I started it up, but to my surprise, he didn’t object. Then came the rest of the ritual—pulling my hair into the nest of a low bun and lighting my favorite pineapple-scented candle for good measure.
Along the edges of the tape, my reflection peered back at me. The girl in the mirror might have had more freckles and darker eyes than Hailey. Her cheekbones weren’t as defined, and her nose wasn’t quite as long. But she did have Hailey’s confidence. And why shouldn’t she? I thought back to my conversation with Beck earlier in the week. I’d done this before, not to this magnitude, but I’d completed mirror projects dozens of times. More importantly, I trusted my skills.
An hour into lettering, Beck’s deep voice made my marker slip on the glass.
“Can I bother you for—” he stood, looking at the streak I’d made. “Oh, shit! Did I mess you up?”
I laughed and wiped it away easily. “It’s fine.”
He let out a breath. Then he seemed to get distracted, watching me work. So much so that he left his initial question behind.
I had just started the calligraphy for table five when he spoke again, “You’re lifting your marker up.” He said it like he’d finally caught me—the fraud he knew me to be the entire time.
“. . . And?”
“And isn’t that . . . cheating?”
“You are thinking of cursive.” I finished the word and turned to him, my head cocked. “You know, I think you’re the one who is unqualified here. How can you determine if I’m a legit calligrapher if you don’t know the first thing about it? Could you have bothered to . . . I don’t know. Do a quick Google over calligraphy practices?”
He narrowed his eyes at me, but the corners of his lips turned upward. “Mind if I get a drink?” he asked, not entertaining my review of his qualifications.
“Sure.” I used my marker to point as I said, “Cups are in the cabinet by the fridge. You can take your pick of water, coffee, or almond milk.”
“How will I ever decide?” he said with mock enthusiasm.
“Yeah, I forgot I was having royalty over. Sorry I didn’t stock the fridge just to your liking, Mr. Atteridge.”
