Page 82 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
“No.” He shook his head.
“No?”
“No,” he said stubbornly. “I don’t buy that. You are acting as though you have turned into a completely different person on this trip than who you are at the office—the person I first met. And that’s not true.”
“We shouldn’t have ever done this. We complicated everything,” I said, going with a different tactic. “We fucked it all up,” I choked.
He stepped forward, and I knew if my head hit his chest, it would be over. My resolve would melt. I’d crumble into his arms, and he’d tell me how much he loved me, and I’d admit my feelings for him.
I wanted it so badly. The comfort of his scent. The wholeness I felt in his embrace. He’d kiss the bridge of my nose, and all the pain would evaporate—he’d be Novocain to the throbbing wound in my chest.
The tug of my longing was nearly a physical force, but I gritted my teeth and stood my ground.
Because I knew what the future held. Not today. Maybe not for a few weeks, but eventually, he’d tell me about his decision to get back with Reagan, and he’d shatter my heart beyond repair.
I needed to keep him away from me, and the first thing that came to mind was to strike first.
“Look, this was fun while it lasted.” I sniffed, working to keep my face and voice even. “But I don’t feel like myself when I’m with you.”
I watched it hit him like a physical blow. Watched it knock the air out of him as I parroted Reagan’s words. Guilt squeezed me like a vice.
I stepped past him, and he let me go—let me walk right out of his life.
Chapter 23
Ilearned two things while at the airport in San Jose. One, there was a storm in Houston delaying flights back home. And two, the changes Wesley had promised Frank he’d complete himself, well, let’s just say he’d reverted to his old ways of delegating. My inbox was approaching maximum density at an alarming rate.
The realization left me with some choices. I could stay at the airport to see if a flight became available while shuffling around in search of better Wi-Fi to best help Wesley. Therefore, hopefully, proving my worth to the company. Or I could post up at a nearby motel with reviews that suggested it might have a pest problem but not a Wi-Fi one. The flight I had already booked left in three days anyway, which should give the storm enough time to get the heck out of town before my original flight.
I chose the latter, mostly because I couldn’t stop crying and was tired of the looks I’d been getting while sobbing over my open spreadsheet.
That’s how I spent most of my Thursday and Friday: plopped in the middle of a sad motel mattress. A laptop on my thighs surrounded by tissues, some chocolate I’d picked up at the airport, and my broken sandal. I’d already pulled the chancla on three roaches’ asses. But one had scurried under the dresser before I could get him.
I tried my best to work. I really did. I needed to get into good graces with Wesley. Working through the tail-end of my vacation showed initiative and remorse. By some cosmic mercy and punishment, the long and meticulous reconfigurations took almost zero percent of my brain power. I could complete them with my limited brain space, but it also meant I wasn’t distracted. Consequently, I thought about Beck the entire time.
My mind ping-ponged between him being so tender and so sweet this entire vacation to him ripping my heart straight from my chest with that kiss from Reagan. Then, the warning signs flashed behind my eyes.
I knew he wanted to make Reagan jealous.
I knew this relationship was fake.
I all but handed my heart to him on a silver platter with a polite bow and an Enjoy your meal, sir.
I was glad only the cockroaches bore witness to the pitiful show. After another stint of crying—this one lasting a few hours—I collapsed on the mattress and stared at the ceiling, hiccupping. A good cry takes everything out of you, carves out your insides like a jack-o-lantern, and leaves you numb. And numb is how I felt when my phone vibrated with a text. I reached for it without sitting up, patting several scrunched tissues before making contact.
I expected Wesley or my sister or, hell, even Beck. But it was Amanda’s name on my screen.
“What does the wedding planner want?” I groaned.
Maybe Victoria had told her about my dishonesty. I imagined I was about to get my ass reamed out via text message. Instead, it said:
Where are you?
That was none of her business. I’d never agreed to come to the wedding as a calligrapher. I’d agreed to go as Beck’s date. Beck’s fake date. I tossed my phone on a nearby pillow and covered my face with the crook of my elbow, preparing for another crying marathon.
Because in another life I would be going to Victoria’s wedding as Beck’s date. We’d get to dance to our first slow song together and laugh at Koontz making a fool of himself, and I’d drink too many pina coladas, and I’d get Gabe to tell me embarrassing stories about teenage Beck. Then, Beck and I would stumble into our suite, a tangle of limbs.
In another life, I kept him.
