Page 76 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
Awfully sweet of you, considering your post was the catalyst for this whole mess. But then I chided myself. That wasn’t fair. We’d started this mess.
I couldn’t even regret the choice to come to Costa Rica, not after all the memories I’d made with Beck. Memories that seemed to be hardening into pillars in my mind—holding up what I hoped to be a future with him.
Madison came jogging back as the paramedics loaded me into the ambulance. “Here is her passport,” she said, handing it over to Beck. Then she trained her eyes right on me. “Rae is such a beautiful middle name. Emily Rae,” she said, testing it. “It has a much better ring to it than Hailey Emily. Doesn’t it?”
She backed away, and the last thing I saw before the EMT closed the door was Madison’s predatory smirk.
She’d opened my passport. She’d seen my name.
She knew I wasn’t Hailey.
And for the second time in the span of thirty minutes, it felt like my world had bottomed out.
Chapter 21
As it turned out, I wasn’t given a leather strap to bite into for the pain but a shot of lidocaine. My hospital visit in Costa Rica seemed analogous to what I’d expect in the med center.
When the doctor came in, she’d had me recline back and propped my injured arm on a pillow. I couldn’t see much with the angle of my injury being on the outside of my arm. And that was fine. I didn’t want to watch my arm being threaded back together like some unfortunate, too-loved stuffed bear ripped at the seam.
Beck dragged his chair as close to the bed as it could get, lacing my fingers through his. And that’s where he stayed for the entire process. When the doctor plucked a pair of forceps off the tray, I eyed them warily, praying the lidocaine worked through the length of the procedure.
Beck pulled my attention away. “I have a confession,” he said, his deep voice matching the somber ER. Something in my stomach dropped at the tone. My mind immediately catapulted to, He’s getting back with Reagan. “Do you remember that day in the pool? When we accidentally switched headphones?”
I laughed both at the memory and from relief that this conversation wasn’t tilting toward his ex. “You said my music was the neutered version of yours.”
With light fingers, he straightened my hospital bracelet. “That night, I went home and made an acoustic playlist.”
“You’re lying,” I said, stunned.
Beck pulled out his phone, fished around on Amazon Music, and then pulled up a playlist titled Lane.
If I’d been hooked up to one of those heart-rate machines, I would have flatlined. He hit shuffle, and an acoustic cover of Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls started playing. My eyes closed at the intro. So much love and hurt in a few measures of guitar strumming.
“I love this song,” I whispered.
“Me too,” he whispered back, brushing his lips over my knuckles.
Eyes still shut, I let myself get lost in the music and the assurance of Beck’s presence as he rubbed his thumb over mine. And for a second, I could almost believe it was only the two of us, not in a hospital or anywhere in particular. Just together.
I knew what he was doing. He was trying to distract me from the doctor’s work—from the stitches and the needle and the blood. He didn’t need to do that. I couldn’t feel much from the lidocaine, and I was flat on my back—so the threat of fainting had returned to minimal. But I found myself wanting to be distracted by him.
The song ended, and I opened my eyes to peer at the wonder that was Beckett Atteridge. “I can’t believe you made a playlist because of me,” I said, the pressure behind my eyes warning of a possible break in the damn holding back my tears.
“I like listening to it when I’m stressed.”
I pictured the average workday Beck. He knocked out support tickets with ease. He rolled with the punches and changes that corporate wanted immediately implemented. Hell, he even had enough time to engage in watercooler chats with teammates, and he did it all with charm and class and a smile. Before this trip, I never would have believed that Beckett—calm, cool, and collected—Atteridge needed music to help him unwind.
But I believed it now. Especially after how close he’d come to unraveling when I fainted. Then there was what he told me about Poppy.
“I like learning things about you,” I admitted.
Beck gave a half-smile, then sat up straighter, getting a better look at my arm. I assumed he was gauging how much time until the doctor finished suturing. When I tried to look too, his hand splayed over my ribs, halting the movement. He didn’t want me to see—probably afraid I’d pass out again.
“She’s almost done,” he said in a hushed tone, then gave a supportive squeeze. “You’re doing great.” He sat back in his seat, resuming the caressing of my hand with his thumb. “What else do you want to know?”
I bit my lip, unsure if I wanted to ask him in case the request landed painfully. “Tell me more about Poppy.”
Beck’s eyes tightened. At first, I thought he’d deny me, but then he shifted in the chair. “How to explain Poppy,” he said pensively.
