Chapter 14
14
NOVA
“What’s going on with you?”
I hand Beckett another dish, soap suds up to my elbows. He’d been quiet throughout dinner, more so than usual. He typically keeps to himself, especially when we’re all together and loud, but something seems off tonight. He keeps shooting me concerned glances out of the corner of his eye like I’m about to collapse to the floor in hysterics.
Does he know what I did with Charlie? Is he mad about it?
Do I care?
“What do you mean?” he asks slowly, dragging the dish towel along the corners of the casserole dish.
“I mean you keep giving me puppy eyes.” I turn to him and exaggerate a frown. “Like that. What’s up?”
He gives me another quick, quiet look, his mouth turned down at the corners. I want to dig my finger into his cheek and scream SEE . But I don’t. I just keep washing the serving spoon Harper was using as her own personal utensil and wait for Beckett to say something.
“When was the last time you had a headache?”
“Do you mean a migraine, or do you mean a headache?”
“Migraine,” he corrects, voice lower like he’s afraid to say the word too loud.
I wish my migraines felt like headaches. Instead, it’s a full body experience. When I was a kid, Beckett and my sisters helped me through them. I don’t think they’ve been able to let that go. They still see me as someone they need to take care of.
“Not lately,” I answer, evasive.
Beckett isn’t having it. “Nova.”
“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 live up to his expectations. I’m terrified I won’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.”
“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 the hickeys 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 rag on 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 gentle snick of 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.”
I’m frustrated with myself. It’s easy enough for that frustration to bubble up and over to the man standing next to me. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be comforted. I don’t want the small, flickering lick of warmth that glows in my chest when Charlie presses closer next to me. I shouldn’t want a damn thing from Charlie. It falls way outside of the lines we’ve drawn for each other.
I just want to finish these dishes and go home. Turn on a dumb movie and fall asleep to the sound of a laugh track.
“You can stop with all of”—I wave my soapy hand between us—“this.”
Charlie lets go of the end of my braid. “Stop with what?”
“The emotional check-in. I don’t need it.” I grab the tractor plate and start scrubbing furiously at a spot of stuck cheese. “We’re not—” Together , I almost say. “We aren’t anything, Charlie.”
He falls quiet next to me. There’s nothing but the sound of the sink water and my brush against the plate. The pound of my heart in my ears.
“Friends don’t make sure their friends are okay?” he finally asks.
A laugh sputters out of me. “Is that what we are?”
Do friends argue the way we argue with one another? Do they fuck each other and then pretend it never happened? Do they snark and twist and bite? I don’t know what we are to each other, but it doesn’t exactly feel friendly.
Charlie stills next to me, his body one tense line. He leans back until there’s a perfect two inches of space between us, not a single point of contact.
“I thought so, but I guess not.” I watch him drag his palm over his jaw from the corner of my eye. He huffs a disbelieving laugh. “I guess I’m just the guy you had a good time with. Noted, Nova. Thank you very much for clarifying my place.”
That’s not what I meant. “Charlie—”
“It’s all good. You’re right. This is what we agreed to.” He gives me a tight smile and nods toward the same door Beckett just walked through. “I’m going to say bye to your parents and head out.” He pauses. “I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
He leaves without another word, and I stare hard at the sink.
“Well,” I tell the tiny painted cats judging me with their little black eyes, “I fucked that up.”