Page 89 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
A blush spread, flaming across my cheekbones. I looked down for a moment, then smiled. You too, I mouthed back.
And he did. He looked like a model for the damn button-down he wore. His picture belonged plastered on a David’s Bridal billboard. I thought he had a penchant for wearing nice shirts all this time, but maybe he just made shirts look that good.
Then he smiled that charming smile of his. It made me breathless. He was effortlessly, recklessly handsome.
The music shifted again for the bridesmaids and then for Victoria, who absolutely stunned the crowd with her beauty. The dress hugged her curves intimately until fanning into a mermaid shape at the end—all in intricate lace. And the sunset definitely put on a show—streaking hot-pink and tangerine clouds across the sky, only to be reflected in the waves below. I couldn’t tell you a single thing uttered by the officiant, though. I was completely distracted by the bride’s perfect brother.
After the ceremony, I meandered around the reception, waiting for Beck to finish having his pictures taken with the rest of the bridal party. Right over the sand, a canopy of string lights illuminated long tables lined with candles. The area seemed to say, Gather here. Break bread and celebrate.
The glass sign I’d painted a lifetime ago actually looked like it belonged right along with all the other décor—something I’d created, braless while my downstairs neighbors hurled insults at each other. The sight made pride swell in me, as did the five-foot mirror guests stopped at to check their table numbers. It had turned out good—great—despite being last minute and lettered with a broken heart.
Last, there was the tribute to Poppy on a small table by itself. “I wish you could have been here,” I said to the candle flickering in the glass.
What could have been sat like a stone on my chest. I could only imagine how Beck and Victoria felt.
Arms snaked around my waist, warm hands met at my navel, lips at my ear. “Jesus, Emily. This dress—” He stopped, his breath snagging, his fingers tightened around me for a moment before releasing it all in a low exhale. “Did you do this?” he said, moving to my side to get a better look at the lantern. “Or was it your sister?”
“It was me,” I said quietly, watching the turmoil overtake his features.
“It’s—” His fingers stretched toward the lettering, In Loving Memory of Poppy, but stopped not even an inch away. He wore so much in his expression: pain, regret, love, admiration. “It’s beautiful.” He looked at me, eyes shining in the low lighting. “Thank you.”
I smiled and let him lead me to the dance floor. Beck talked the DJ into letting him pick a song, and we danced our first slow dance to Iris.
After a few dances, dinner, and cake, I gathered with the other ladies for the ritualistic bouquet toss.
Reagan surprised me by choosing the empty space at my side. “I’m sorry if I made things hard on you this trip.”
I looked at her, expecting a patronizing look plastered on her perfect face, but she seemed nothing but sincere. “Well, not just me, but Madison too.” She looked at where her friend was booty-bumping another laughing guest. “She was trying to be a good friend, but she took things too far.” Reagan suddenly became very interested in straightening the sash at her waist. “Like I took things too far by kissing Beckett. I just—” For a second, she appeared close to crying but then rallied. “I really messed up with him. Fucked things up royally. And I thought I could win him back, but it wasn’t my place to do that. I’ve missed my chance. Anyway.” She tried to smile, but this time, tears welled in her eyes. “Do you think you could forgive me?”
I thought of how my fear of love almost made me lose Beck. Fear could make you do crazy things, but love was worse. Before I could answer her, something lobbed through the air at us. I caught it, blinking in surprise at the gorgeous arrangement of tropical flowers in my grasp. I handed the bouquet to Reagan.
“I forgive you,” I said, then padded my way through the crowd to find Beck.
Except Beck wasn’t where I’d left him with Gabe and Koontz. In fact, all the other guys had lined up for the garter toss, but Beck wasn’t anywhere on the floor. I weaved in and out of guests who talked and laughed excitedly as Doug reached under Victoria’s dress to pull out the garter.
I finally saw him when I reached a break in the crowd. He stood on the beach, gaze trapped in the waves not far from the tree line.
I slipped my hand in his, and we stood for several minutes, listening to the crash of the waves. Watching the reflection of the tiki torches glimmering in the tide.
“I was going to try.” Beck’s voice sounded croaky. He cleared his throat. “Just dip my feet in.” He gestured toward the water, looking awfully nervous for Beckett Atteridge. “But I don’t think I can. Not tonight. Not when Poppy should be here, and we have a lantern lit in her stead because I—” He choked to a stop on the last word.
I pulled him to me and squeezed him tightly, trying to calm the hammering of his heart. I looked up at him, and he rested his forehead on mine. “You don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready to do. But Poppy wouldn’t want you to feel this way about the beach. Based on what you told me, she was the coolest kid ever.” Beck gave me a small smile and rubbed lazy circles on my back. “She didn’t want you to get in trouble over the vase because she adored you. Just like she didn’t hold it against Victoria for breaking her wrist.” He lifted his head off mine, and I watched my words sink in. They were words to heal, but healing was often painful. “There’s no way she’d blame you for what happened. She’d want you enjoying the waves and sunshine.” I gripped his hands. “You, volunteering—teaching ISR—that’s honoring her. You, avoiding a place where you two used to love playing together? That’s a shame.”
Beck exhaled a trembling breath, watching the surf for a long while. Then his eyes met mine. “Will you uh—will you come with me?”
I squeezed his hands tighter and nodded, not trusting my voice to speak. I felt like I didn’t deserve to be with Beck at a moment so crucial while simultaneously being so thankful he picked me to hold his hand.
His pants rolled up, my dress hiked in one hand, we took step after step until the tide reached out, washing over the tops of our feet. Beck stood tensely next to me for a few minutes—he was still as a statue save for his curls blowing in the wind.
But little by little, breath by breath, he relaxed. “You were right,” he said, wiping away a few tears before wrapping an arm over my shoulders. “Sometimes you just have to get in before you’re ready.”
That statement rang true with our relationship and my pursuit of a career in calligraphy as well. I wasn’t ready for any of this, but being here for Beck, facing something so great, I’d take the uncertainty. I would, every time, if it meant I’d be the one he trusted with this. To be his anchor.
I squeezed myself tighter against him. I’m not letting go, I willed my body language to tell him. Beck seemed to hear my silent proclamation because he laid his head against mine.
“Thank you,” he whispered before planting a kiss on the bridge of my nose. I tilted my face, catching his lips with my own.
I used to love to tell myself the grass wasn’t always greener. It was easier that way. Safer.
