Page 62 of Business Casual
“Probably a month ago,” I sigh. It was actually three weeks ago, right before the wedding, and I was in so much pain I couldn’t move from my bed for an entire day. My medication didn’t help. I had to just lie there and wait for it to pass.
“Was it ocular?” he asks.
I shake my head. I didn’t lose my vision this time. Just the pain and some general numbness in my hands and feet.
He huffs. “You’re getting them more often.”
I shift in front of the sink, running my hands beneath the water. I know exactly where this conversation is leading, and I have no interest in talking about how to manage my pain with my brother. I can’t slow down right now. I can’t push things off my plate. Everything that’s there needs to be there, and I need to keep moving forward if I have any hope of achieving the goals I’m desperate for.
“I’m managing,” I tell him. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
He grumbles something under his breath that I don’t hear, dragging his cloth aggressively around the outside of a dish. It’s a miracle the thing doesn’t crack in half.
“Anything else bothering you?” I pour some more soap on the sponge shaped like a cob of corn. My mom has really committed to the agriculture theme in the kitchen. “Now’s the time.”
He sighs. “Vanessa mentioned she stopped by the studio the other day.”
“She did. She harassed me about dating and tattoos, and then she left. I think she needed some company.”
Beckett nods and holds out his hand for the next dish. “She said the place looked nice.”
Ah, okay. Now I know what the issue is.
I haven’t let Beckett see the studio yet. He’s been asking for months, but I tiptoe my way around an invitation every time. It still isn’t ready. I need to hang the light and I want to move some of the plants around. The workstations aren’t quite set up yet and I’m missing a few chairs. I want everything to be perfect when he sees it for the first time.
“It’s a work in progress,” I explain, reluctant.
Beckett makes a frustrated sound and slaps the sink off with the palm of his hand. My fingers are still covered in suds. I try to turn the water back on but he nudges it off again. Apparently, we’ve reverted to the teenage versions of ourselves.
“What the hell, Beck?”
He flips the dish towel up over his shoulder and crosses his arms over his chest. “When do I get to see the studio?”
“When it’s ready.” I try to turn the water on again. Beckett nudges my hand away.
“When will that be?” he asks.
I flick off the soap and grab his dish towel, focused on drying my fingers instead of the look on his face. My honest answer is never. I don’t think I’ll ever feel ready for Beckett to see the studio. His approval means more to me than anyone else’s, and while I know he’d give it without hesitation, I want to earn it. I want to deserve it.
Beckett has spent his entire life sacrificing for our family—for me. When my dad was left paralyzed by an accident when we were kids, Beckett dropped out of school to start earning an income to support our family. When I decided I wanted to be a tattoo artist, he offered to be my very first client. When I said I wanted to open my own studio in Inglewild, he went around town inquiring after properties and sending me real estate information, even though I know he hates talking to people. He has always believed in me.
And what have I done for him? How have I repaid all his sacrifices? I’ve put together a tattoo studio that isn’t even finished yet. I’m fumbling along, barely holding it together. I’m terrified it won’t liveup to his expectations. I’m terrifiedIwon’t live up to his expectations. That’ll he’ll look around the space I’ve created and find it lacking in some way. That he’ll regret entrusting so much to me.
“I’ll send you some pictures tomorrow.”
His frown deepens. “Why don’t you want me there?”
“I do want you there. I just—” I tuck some of my hair behind my ear. “I need some more time.”
“For what?”
“For the…” For everything to be perfect. For the gnawing ache in my chest to ease. “For the plants,” I answer.
“The plants,” he repeats. “What about the plants?”
I roll my lips together and think. “The ivy needs to grow.”
“Nova.”
