Page 92 of Business Casual
I don’t respond and he doesn’t move to fill the space with an explanation. I shake my head, and I hear him shift in his chair.
“Hardly worked at all,” he repeats quietly. “Nova. You’ve been working your ass off for years to establish yourself. I might havebeen—I might have been the first person to sit in your chair, but that was a favor to me. Not you.”
“How do you figure?”
I turn with two mugs of tea in my hand and set them between us. Beckett pushes out of his chair, circling the table until he can collapse in the seat closest to me. He grabs my hand with his, the ink on his wrist a pair to the ink on mine. “I like all of this ink you gave me. It’s always felt—” He sighs, staring hard at me. “You know I’m shit at telling you how I feel, but I’m going to try, okay?” I nod. “I volunteered to be your first client because I wanted to have your work first. The tattoos…they always felt like something special for just the two of us. I like that we’re the only ones in our family that look like this. I like that I can say I have the first ever Nova Porter design.” He swallows. “The things you have are because of you. Not me. I’m not the one who is filling your appointment books. I’m not the one busting my ass to launch a tattoo studio. All I did was believe in you. You were the one who was brave enough to try.”
My fingers flex in his hand. “I know, but—”
“No buts,” he says. “It’s as simple as that. You’ve earned this. You’ve done it.”
I sniffle. “It doesn’t always feel like that though. Sometimes it feels like if I mess this part up, everything is going to disappear. It feels like maybe I won’t get another chance.”
“And how are you going to mess it up, huh? You gonna run out of ink? Your vines not gonna drop the way you want them to?”
I garble out a laugh. Beckett’s face softens into something it only seems to do occasionally, that big heart of his right on his sleeve. He squeezes my fingers again.
“Some of that is my fault, yeah? I haven’t listened the way you need and I’m sorry about that. I’m going to do better, but I need you to do better too. I know you’ve got no problems yelling at me, Nova Ray Porter. I need you to start talking louder.”
“I will,” I tell him. “I promise.”
“Good.” He leans back in his chair, still keeping my hand in his. “And don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t give a fuck about the tattoo studio. The studio doesn’t matter.”
“What?”
“It’s not about what color you paint the walls or those giant mirrors you have in the front—”
“You’ve seen my mirrors?”
“—or how your vines look or any of that other shit, okay? It’s about you, Nova. And whether or not you’re happy with what you’re doing. The rest of it is just extra.” His face twists as he thinks about it. “The…fertilizer on top of the soil. You’ve got good soil. Good dirt.”
“I’ve got…good dirt?”
He nods.
I can sort of see the metaphor he’s going for. “Okay, but—”
“The support I’ve given you doesn’t come with a price tag. That’s not how this works. I’m your brother and I love you. You don’t have to hit a certain metric for that love to make sense. It’s not going away and you don’t have to earn it. It just…exists. It’s there. I’ve already given it to you.”
“But you’ve given me enough.”
Beckett sighs and squeezes my hand hard enough to hurt. “I really want to put you in a headlock right now,” he murmurs. “Is this why you won’t let anyone help you with a goddamn thing?”
I shake my head, think about it, then nod. It’s important that I do this by myself. I want to prove to myself that everything that’s happened—all of my success and clients and the ability to turn my dream into a job—I want to prove that it won’t disappear in a cloud of smoke. That I’ve taken every opportunity and sacrifice I’ve been given and turned it into something incredible. Nothing else will do.
Beckett grunts. “Well, cut that shit out. Asking for help doesn’t make you less deserving of anything you’ve already achieved on your own.” He leans back in the chair and lets go of my hand, dragging hispalm across his jaw. “I wish I could put myself in a headlock. I can’t believe I ever made you feel like you don’t have the room to be anything other than perfect.”
I let that sink in, aching to feel the relief I know those words should bring. Some of the knots loosen, but they’re still tangled up. I blow out a breath and dig my knuckles into my cheek. I’ve got a feeling the uncertainty is going to be a work in progress.
And that’s okay. For the first time in a long time, it feels like maybe it’s okay that I’m a work in progress. Just like my studio. Just like the little plants breaking through the soil and reaching for the sunlight. I’m trying, and maybe trying is enough.
“Maybe…maybe you could come take a look at the studio,” I say slowly. Beckett shifts in his chair. “You can tell me what you think. Honestly.”
“If that’s what you want.”
I nod. I need to rip off the proverbial Band-Aid. I need to stop being so afraid I’m not going to measure up to someone else’s expectations. Because Beckett’s right. The details don’t matter. The light I still haven’t figured out how to hang in the back is not going to make or break my business.
I need to start giving myself more credit.
