Page 86 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
Wesley kept talking, but I couldn’t make sense of the words he’d strung together. Beck had quit?
For me?
Or to get away from me?
Both scenarios had my heart cinching painfully again.
“Anyway,” Wesley said, “this is good news for you. You’ll be taking over his role as a senior analyst.”
I waited for his words to conjure a spark of happiness, a mote of excitement. But nothing came. This future seemed colorless in comparison to what I’d had: practicing calligraphy and being with Beck. This was the keto version of the dessert I really wanted.
I couldn’t go back. Not to Emily Lane’s old life, where I worked all the joy out of my day and didn’t allow time for anything else. How could I, after I’d had a sample of what my life could be?
“That role should have been mine from the beginning,” I said, surprising myself with the levelness in my tone.
Wesley scoffed. “Yes, well. A good deal of politics goes into hiring,” he said, a mean edge to his voice. “Be glad you don’t have to deal with that side of things.”
The grass isn’t always greener . . . a small voice tried to warn me.
Fuck that.
“I won’t be dealing with any side of The Arlow Group. I’ll put in my official two weeks when I return on Monday.”
“Emily, let’s be reasonable.” He sounded panicked. “I can’t lose you too.”
“Sorry. I’ve got the rest of my troubled paradise to enjoy.”
I hung up, feeling like Genie when Aladdin finally wished for his freedom. Before the cuffs of Excel barely had time to hit the floor, I was out the door.
I needed to find Beck. Maybe I was bold. Maybe I could be the girl he thought I was.
Just as Victoria had said, Beck either wasn’t in the suite, or he wasn’t answering the door. He also didn’t answer his phone, but I came prepared. I took out the stationery and pen I’d taken from the lobby. Using the wall as a desk, I wrote my note:
Beck,
I really need to talk to you. I’ll be in the Sunset conference room until about seven tonight.
-Emily
I slipped the note under his door, releasing it like a dandelion wish.
I finished the last name on the mirror with a sigh of relief. Then I sat back on my haunches, feeling a full thirty seconds of triumph before looking at the time: eight minutes past seven.
Beck wasn’t coming. Of course, he wasn’t.
I used my phone’s remaining four percent battery life to secure an Uber for the three-hour trip back to my motel in San Jose. Numb legs moved me to the door. A numb mouth made small talk with the driver. Numb fingers unlocked the room at the motel. A numb heart refused to acknowledge what I’d done, what I’d lost.
Feeling gross from hours of travel, crying, and the marker on my hands, I turned on the faucet for a steamy shower, hoping to scourge the day from my skin.
But with the heat of the drops, in the solitude of the shower, my feelings began to wake back up—prickling and then sharpening.
My own words echoed in my mind. I don’t feel like myself when I’m with you.
I hurt him. Beck. The same guy who’d made a playlist because of me. The one who brought me dinner when I’d been overwhelmed with work.
And then I thought about his tight grip when we danced. That freckle on his throat. His curls. Those sleepy eyes. How he let me cry on his shoulder during a rainforest hike. The way he slipped out every Thursday to secretly teach babies how to swim.
He was a good guy. A great guy. And I’d hurt him. I couldn’t get that last look he’d given me out of my head—like I’d ripped his heart out and stomped on it.
