Page 63 of Business Casual
“It’s true. It hasn’t started wrapping around the edges of the planters yet. I’m hoping those little vines will eventually drop down so it looks—” I do something stupid with my hand. I have no idea what I’m talking about. “So, it looks like you’re in a jungle or something. Wild. Ink and Wild. Get it?”
“Yeah, I get it.” Beckett is still frowning at me. “When will that be? When will the greenery finally be to your satisfaction?”
Charlie chooses that moment to stroll into the kitchen, his arms laden with cups and bowls and a giant ceramic dish in the shape of a tractor. He’s grinning down at it like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.
“Where did your mom get this thing? It’s awesome.” He rearranges the dishes in his arms so he can take a closer look, inspecting the tiny cats that are hand-painted along the wheel. He is blissfully oblivious to the standoff at the sink. “Was this custom made?”
I’ve been painfully aware of him all evening. If I thought having sex with him would suddenly make him less appealing, I’ve sufficiently proved that hypothesis incorrect during the course of this dinner. I kept sneaking looks at him in his pale blue button-up, collar undone. I found myself wondering if I pulled that collar down, if thehickeys I left would still be there. If maybe they’re a deeper purple now. What colors they might turn if I put my mouth on them again.
I clear my throat. These are not thoughts I should be having about Charlie in my parents’ kitchen while standing next to my brother. These are not thoughts I should be having about Charlie, period.
One and done. Out of our systems. That was the agreement.
“Yeah,” I answer, grateful for the interruption, even if it’s Charlie- shaped. I don’t want to talk about the studio with Beckett anymore. He’ll see it when he sees it. “Beckett got it for her for Christmas.”
“Nice.” Charlie glances up, smile faltering when he notices the way Beckett is trying to stare holes in the side of my face, arms still crossed over his chest. Charlie’s eyes dart back and forth quickly as he reads the room, an unusual seriousness in the set of his mouth. “Everything good in here?”
His knuckles brush against my arm as he dumps the dirty dishes in the sink and he stays close after. A silent show of support.
“Yeah, everything is good.” I flick the water back on. Beckett allows it.
“We were just talking about vines,” Beckett says, voice dry as a bone.
“Oh, nice. The ones in Nova’s studio? They look great.”
My eyes slip shut.Shit.
“Beckett,” I start. But he’s already shaking his head, looking down at his boots. He doesn’t look mad. It’s worse than that. He looks hurt.
“Am I the only one you haven’t let inside?”
“He just stopped by for a minute,” I try to explain. “He was walking me home after the harvest festival meeting and—”
“It’s fine,” Beckett says. But it’s not fine. He won’t look at me and his mouth is set in a firm, frowning line. My stomach hollows out. The only thing I’ve ever wanted to avoid is disappointing my brother, and it seems I somehow managed to do it anyway.
“I, ah—” He puts down the dish he was drying and tosses the ragon the counter. He scratches roughly at the back of his head, a nervous tic that makes my heart squeeze in my chest. He glances at me briefly and then looks away again, like he can’t bear the sight of me. A hot pressure burns behind my eyes. “It’s your choice, Nova. I’ll stop by after you open. Or…not. Whatever you want. Don’t worry about it, okay?”
“Beck, I’m—” My voice catches in my throat.
He gives me another half-hearted quirk of his lips and leaves the kitchen. I listen to his boots against the creaking wooden floor, the gentlesnickof the sunroom door opening and closing. Voices grow louder and then muffled again. I sigh and press the palm of my hand to my forehead. Some dish soap smudges on the bridge of my nose.
“What’s your choice?”
I drop my hand and glance at Charlie. “Beckett hasn’t seen the studio yet,” I explain.
He frowns. “Why not?”
“Because—” I let my hands drift beneath the running water, soap suds slipping over my inked knuckles, down my wrist to curl around the tattoos there. “Have you ever felt the weight of someone else’s expectations? I know he doesn’t mean to, but his unfailing belief that I can do whatever I set my mind to just makes me feel—” Claustrophobic. Terrified. Undeserving. “It makes me feel like I can’t fail. Like there’s no room for it.”
I release the confession like the end of a balloon string, watching it float up, up, up to the ceiling. I wish letting the words slip out of my mouth made me feel better, but I just feel empty. Exhausted and sad.
Charlie makes a low sound, fingers reaching for the end of my braid the same way he did back in the entryway of the house. He tugs once and that feels the same too, the curl of warmth that slips over my shoulders in response. “No one would care if you failed. Especially Beckett.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. The weight on my shoulders grows heavier.
“I would,” I whisper. I can’t make my voice any louder. “I’d care a lot.”
“That’s not what I meant, Nova.”
