Page 84 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
“What?” she asked.
“Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Why would he be with Reagan?”
I tested the marker on a nearby scrap of paper, capped it, and then made myself busy unwrapping the plastic off the paper towels. I was done with this conversation.
Victoria leaned back against the conference table. “Beck used to tell me everything, but after this week . . .” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Please, Emily. I’m asking you. What happened? After everything, I think you owe me that.”
I sighed. Then faced her, arms crossed. “He is with Reagan because they are back together, Victoria.”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “Why do you think that?”
Not the reaction I expected, but okay.
“Because—” God. Why did it feel like tattling? Fuck it. She wants the truth. She can have it. “Because I caught them kissing by the elevator bank.” She straightened, ready to interject—to defend her brother, but I put up my hands. “It’s fine, Victoria. We weren’t even really dating. We were pretending so that things wouldn’t be awkward between you and Reagan, mostly, but also because Beck wanted to make Reagan jealous. And it worked.”
Victoria looked at me like I’d started speaking in a different language. “You were fake dating?” She shook her head. “No. I don’t buy that. It didn’t look fake.” She scoffed. “I realize I don’t know you very well, but Beck is not that good of an actor.”
I shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, he fooled me too.” I realized my bitter tone was unbecoming, but I couldn’t help it. “I thought we might have . . . something.” I sniffed, working to keep the emotions contained. “But—anyway. They are back together.”
The tears overflowed. I wiped at them with my good forearm, then started cleaning the mirror, ready for her to leave already. Let me finish this project and then get the fuck out of this Atteridge resort—be done with Atteridges for the rest of my life.
“They aren’t back together,” she said quietly.
I stopped wiping the mirror. The certainty in her tone held my attention.
“I spent the entirety of yesterday with a sopping wet shoulder because Reagan was heartbroken over Beck’s rejection.” Victoria appeared at my periphery, and I met her gaze. “She kissed him in one last attempt to rekindle things. And he told her he wasn’t interested. That he’d moved on and hoped she had too.”
My head spun. I overlaid her words with what I’d seen, looking for a hole in the version she’d been given. But it could have been that the doors to my elevator opened right as Reagan pulled him in for a kiss. It could have been that the doors had closed before I saw him push her away. But then that would mean . . .
My shoulders slumped with the realization of what I’d done.
“I hurt him, Victoria.” For no reason. “I—” I sucked in a breath, feeling moments away from crumbling to the floor. “He told me he loved me. But he doesn’t,” I said to myself as much as to her. “He loves who I’ve been pretending to be while trying to be more like Hailey.”
Victoria shook her head. “What does that even mean? He was in on the whole thing. He knew you before you started using your sister’s name, right?”
“Not well enough to know I’m not this person who lies about her identity or to her place of work to get time off or fake dates her coworker. I’m not the girl who demands a kiss in the rainforest or jumps off a cliff or quits her job to pursue what she's passionate about.”
“But you are that girl. You did those things. Didn’t you?”
Most of them, I mentally agreed.
“It doesn’t sound like you were trying to be your sister,” Victoria continued. “You were trying to be bold. Do you think you are incapable of being brave because you are careful by nature?”
Did I think that? That I was incapable of being courageous? Normally, I’d answer no without thinking twice about it. But based on my feelings and actions as of late, how could I argue otherwise? Somewhere along the way, I’d convinced myself I couldn’t be brave.
“I don’t know you well,” Victoria said, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “But I do know my brother. He’s infatuated. Just the way he watches you—like he’s hanging on your every word. Like you hold all the answers.”
I had to stop her because those words were salt in a wound. They were a tight grip on a sunburn. They made my breath catch. I didn’t need any further damage. I hurt enough. I picked up the level and masking tape to make my guidelines.
“I’d better get busy if you want a seating chart at your wedding tomorrow.”
“Fine. I’ll leave you alone, but first, I need to know something.”
I swallowed, dreading her question.
“Why doesn’t Beck go to the beach?” Again, I wasn’t expecting that.
