Page 91 of Business Casual
“I thought you were going to let me stand out there on the porch,” he says quietly, peeking up at me. “When you didn’t answer. And thenI got worried that maybe you were having a migraine. I’m sorry I just…burst in here like that.”
“No,” I sigh. “Don’t apologize. I get it and I—I don’t want to avoid you anymore, Beck.”
He nods and adjusts his hat again, blowing out a heavy sigh. “Good. Because I hate avoiding you.” Half of his mouth lifts up in a hesitant smile. “Don’t tell your sisters, but you’re my favorite.”
“Obviously I’m your favorite. But I think—” Nervousness twinges in my belly, that touch of imposter syndrome that sits heavy on my shoulders making itself known. The idea that I can’t make a single misstep without disappointing someone else. Him, in particular. “I think that’s the problem, actually.”
“What is?” Beckett asks, all traces of humor gone. He’s alert, concerned, looking for the thing he can fix and make better. But I’m the one that needs to fix it this time.
“Your unwavering faith in me,” I say quietly.
Hurt brackets his mouth, a punch right in the middle of my chest.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
I nod toward one of the chairs at my kitchen table and busy myself with two mugs, pulling out the tea I know he likes. I consider it, then reach for the small bottle of whiskey. I need the liquid courage. I’ve never been great at sharing how I feel, especially with Beckett. The person I admire most in the entire world. I fill the kettle, set the bags in the mugs, and try to find my words. I try to find the root of this messy, uncomfortable pressure that sits heavy on my heart.
“Do you know why I wanted to open my shop here? In Inglewild?”
Beckett toys with the saltshaker in the middle of my table. “You said it was because you wanted to be closer to home.”
I turn my cup in my hands, my palms pressed tight to the sides. “That’s true. I do like being closer to you guys. I like seeing you more than every other weekend. But more than that, I think I wanted to—I wanted to do something that made you proud.”
Beckett frowns at me. “I’m always proud of you.”
“I know you are. I know. But I’m—” I stare hard at the tabletop and try to untangle the knot in the middle of my chest. I don’t know how to explain it. “You’ve been taking care of me my entire life, Beck. That’s who you are. You’re a caretaker.” He grumbles and I roll my eyes. “You are,” I insist. “And you—I think you see the best version of the person I am. Or you see the person I could be. You never think I’m going to fail, and I think—I think sometimes that makes me feel like I can’t. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
Even the idea of Beckett thinking less of me has tears pushing at the backs of my eyes. My throat feels too thick, my heart too heavy. Somewhere in the back of my mind, logically, I know that Beckett wouldn’t be disappointed in me over a tattoo studio. That I could never have another client again and he’d be just as proud. But that’s the point, isn’t it? I want to earn it. I want to deserve it.
“Is that why you haven’t shown me the studio yet?” he asks.
I nod. “I want it to be perfect before you see it. I don’t want you to see it and regret the time and trust you’ve invested in me. I want it to live up to your expectations.”
He gapes at me across the table. “What?”
And that’s it, I think. That’s the thing I’ve been terrified of this entire time. It’s why I’ve been pushing myself so hard to be good at all of this. To do it by myself and succeed. Because Beckett has been quietly standing behind me this entire time, never asking for a thing in return. If he can do it all by himself, I should be able to, too.
“I wouldn’t have any of this if it wasn’t for you. And I don’t—I don’t know how I can ever possibly repay you for it.” I take a deep breath through my nose and swallow hard. My voice is trembling. My hands too. I squeeze them around my empty mug. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be opening my own place. I probably wouldn’t be tattooing at all, and I—I never—” I have to stop again, and I force myself to look at him this time. To be brave. “You’ve always believed in me the most, Beck. You’ve blindly supported every whim, every idea,every project I’ve ever had. You don’t think I can do anything wrong, and I think that’s turned into me thinking I don’t have the space to do anything wrong.”
Beckett watches me, his face falling. “I’ve been putting pressure on you?” he asks. “Nova, this whole time…” He rubs his hand over his jaw. “This whole time, I’ve been hurting you?”
“No, that’s not on you,” I say quickly. Those are my own thoughts. My own insecurities that he inadvertently amplified. That’s something I need to work through on my own. I just—“I don’t want to disappoint you. I don’t want you to see the studio and think I’ve squandered the chance you gave me. You’ve always worked so hard, and I’ve hardly worked at all, and it isn’t fair that I’ve gotten the things I want when—”
“That’s enough,” Beckett says, his voice sharp at the edges. My words stutter to a stop, and I press my lips together to keep anything else from falling out. He looks serious and confused, the little line between his eyebrows that’s a perfect match for mine appearing in earnest.
The other side of my coin.
My big brother.
“That’s enough of that,” he says again, voice gentling.
“Okay,” I rasp, horrified when my lower lip begins to tremble. I stare hard at the wood grain beneath my mug and tell myself I’m not going to fucking cry.
The kettle begins to whistle on the stove. I stand, grateful for the chance to piece myself back together. I don’t know what I expected from Beckett, but I didn’t expect him to shut down the conversation.
I lift the kettle and pour the tea, steam curling around my wrists.
“How can you say that?”
