10. Chapter 10
Chapter 10
BECKY
T ears were cascading down my cheeks as I scurried back to my cottage. I vacillated between feeling heartbroken and furious. And I know it was silly of me to be so upset, but I was having such a blast during the afternoon, and I really thought Weston would love the meal I made for him. When he reacted so poorly, it completely shattered my spirit and I had to run out before he saw me cry. Whether or not he deserved it, I still valued his opinion of me. And there was nothing worse than looking like a silly, emotional mess over something so simple.
Caught in turmoil, a small, bitter voice inside me began to whisper. It was the same voice I’d heard since I was a child, the cruel refrain of being unlovable. I’d been generous, I’d been friendly — was my kindness too much or too little? Or was it me, just intrinsically me, that was too unlovable? Yet others claimed to love me. If they did, shouldn’t Weston as well? Unless their love was a lie, a heartless deception played out over the years.
I felt the tangle of those thoughts tighten, strangling my self-esteem. But I also found a glimmer of solace in my faith. God loves me unconditionally. I reminded myself. If only knowing this felt like enough. Perhaps, if I kept reminding myself, then one day its truth would reach my heart.
As I sat in my room, the tears from my ugly cry had just begun to dry on my cheeks. I felt drained, a jumbled mess of emotions swirling inside me. I was trying to regain some semblance of composure when a knock sounded at my door. My heart skipped a beat. Who could it be? The thought of facing anyone in my current state was mortifying. I quickly dabbed at my eyes, trying to erase the telltale signs of my breakdown. Giving myself a mental pep talk, I mustered the courage to answer the door.
Standing there was Weston, his presence overwhelming in its intensity. He looked almost out of place, holding a plastic container and appearing somewhat sheepish .
“Even though I didn’t ask you to cook, thank you for the food. It’s amazing,” he said, his voice a mix of gratitude and awkwardness. He tilted his head to the side, a gesture so characteristically masculine yet vulnerable in that moment. “And I’m sorry for being a jerk about it.” His amber eyes, usually so guarded, now held mine with an openness that caught me off guard.
I wanted to respond, to say something witty or reassuring, but my voice was a traitor, stuck in my throat. So I just nodded, hoping he couldn’t hear the pounding of my heart.
“I brought you some for your dinner. I wasn’t sure if you intended to eat it too.” He handed me the container, his movements uncertain. “Have you been crying?” His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied my face.
“No,” I lied, not ready to admit to the last five minutes. I was still clinging to the remnants of my pride.
“Again, I’m sorry for being an idiot about it. How can I make it up to you?” His words were like a balm, soothing the raw edges of my emotions.
I was taken aback. Weston, apologizing twice? It was unexpected, and it made the tight coil of anger and embarrassment inside me begin to unravel. “Apology accepted. And I’m sorry for trespassing,” I said, my cheeks warming .
“Well, if you want to cook in Gray’s kitchen, I don’t mind. Just ask next time,” he said, his voice gentle, understanding.
“Thank you.”
“We good?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and gesturing between us.
“I think I need a hug,” I said with a breathy laugh, my words driven by an overwhelming need for harmony, for some physical reassurance that things were okay between us.
“A hug?” He sounded puzzled, as if the concept was foreign to him.
“Yes, you know, a hug. Everyone needs one occasionally.”
“I don’t,” he replied, almost defensively.
“Of course you do. Hugs are good for the soul. I don’t like all this animosity between us. A hug would make me feel better.”
Weston stood there on my porch, scratching his head, and scrunching up his face funny—a clear sign of his unease. It dawned on me that I might be asking too much of him. He always seemed so reserved.
“Never mind. Thanks for the food. And I’m sorry again,” I said, starting to close the door, feeling a pang of disappointment .
“Okay, fine.”
Confused, I asked, “Huh?”
“Fine, I’ll give you a hug,” he declared, a hint of reluctance in his voice.
“No, really, I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll be fine,” I insisted, not wanting to impose.
“No. We might as well hug it out if it will make you feel better,” he said, and then, to my surprise, he opened his arms.
Hesitantly, I stepped into his embrace, still clutching the Tupperware in one hand. His hands rested gently on my shoulders, a tentative touch that spoke volumes. I counted to twenty in my head, remembering something about the benefits of a long hug. As I held him, I could feel Weston’s rigid form slowly softening. My own frayed nerves settled, comforted by the steady beat of his heart against my ear. When I reached twenty, I lingered for a moment longer, not wanting to let go of the feeling of safety and connection.
Finally, I stepped back into the doorway of my cottage.
“Happy?” Weston asked, clearing his throat.
I smiled, feeling a sense of peace settle over me. “You know, I just wanted to prepare some better meals for you. Elle mentioned your upcoming race, and I couldn’t help but notice last night that you might not be getting enough of the right type of calories for all the exercise you’re doing.”
Weston, with that maddening self-assurance of his, gave a dismissive shrug. “I eat just fine.”
I tilted my head, studying him. “Are you sure about that? Do you feel you have the energy you need to train effectively?”
A crack appeared in his armor. He hesitated, his gaze drifting away before he admitted, “Actually, I’ve been feeling off lately. Energy’s been a bit low.”
My heart twisted for him. “Why don’t I cook for you while I’m staying here?” I suggested, my voice softening. “It could really help with your race prep. Gray’s worried about you, and honestly, I enjoy the distraction of cooking.”
His eyebrows knitted together. “Is that why you were cooking for me? Has Gray been talking about me behind my back?” he asked, suspicion threading through his tone.
“No, it was all me,” I assured him quickly. “Gray does worry, but I thought of cooking for you myself.”
He seemed to ponder this for a moment. “I don’t need your charity. Or Gray’s concerns, for that matter. But… do you really think different food will improve my training? ”
“I know it will,” I said with a confidence that came from the heart of my passion. “It’s my job, Weston. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”
He considered this, then finally nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Fine, but I’ll pay you. I want to be billed for your consultation and for your time cooking.”
“Oh, I’m not charging you. I’m not a registered dietitian yet,” I protested, waving away his offer. “I’m happy to help.”
“No. No charity,” he insisted, a stubborn edge to his voice. “If you’re going to help, I insist on paying.”
A part of me wanted to argue, to tell him how unnecessary that was, but another part—the part watching every penny, dreaming of a life less burdened by debt—silently rejoiced. “Alright, if you insist.”
We stood there a moment longer, an awkward pause hanging between us. I almost continued the conversation, eager to share more of my thoughts and feelings. But something held me back. Offering a smile and lifting the container he’d brought over; I toasted to our new understanding. I scooted backwards into my cottage and closed the door, feeling a welcome lightness in my spirit.
Three days later, Weston and I had developed our own little routine. Every day, I would hear him leave the property before dawn to get in some training for his upcoming triathlon. I tried to be awake, dressed, and have my makeup done while he was out. I would read a Bible verse or two on my porch while I drank my coffee so that I could catch him upon his return. He was often in a better mood after training, so I used that time to chat a bit and build on our fragile friendship.
Weston never chatted long, and I got the impression he was still avoiding me, but he seemed to tolerate my presence better and for that I was grateful. I was learning that with Weston, less was more. I’d always hated the strife between us and if this vacation could help us find a tentative friendship, I would be over the moon. After our morning conversation, he would seclude himself in one of Gray’s spare bedrooms, which he had temporarily turned into his home workspace. Apparently, they were fixing the pipes at his office.
Mid-mornings, I would set out to explore—sometimes venturing into Gray’s delightful garden, other times to the beach. Hidden behind his house, I’d found a quaint herb patch and a charming swing. The swing was particularly striking, crafted from a rustic wooden plank that had been carefully varnished. It dangled just above my hips, a touch too high, which deterred me from ever actually sitting on it. But just its presence made me happy.
I also loved my time on the beach, the soft sand under my feet and the gentle sea breeze playing with my hair. My phone was always in hand, ready to capture the perfect selfie. But something had changed. As I snapped photos for Instagram, I realized none of them were bikini shots. It wasn’t a conscious decision at first, but something that evolved from a deeper contemplation over the last few days.
There was a time when the idea of showing off in a bikini, basking in likes and comments, seemed appealing. But now, as I thought and prayed about it, I found my craving for that particular kind of attention had waned.
Yet, the allure of social media still had a hold over me. I couldn’t deny the thrill of receiving likes and comments on my regular photos. A part of me still highly valued this virtual affirmation. So, with ample time at my disposal, I focused more on other aspects of my appearance. I spent more time in front of the mirror, blending, contouring, and highlighting until I felt a surge of pride in my reflection. The photos I chose to share were carefully selected, each showcasing my best angles. The likes flooded in, and they filled me up. At least for the moment.
In the late afternoon, I’d cook a healthy meal in his kitchen for our dinner. I would chop vegetables, read a few chapters of my fantasy novel, stir the simmering pot, then read a few more. My ideal afternoon. However, I often found myself glancing at the clock, eagerly anticipating the moment he would join me.
As we sat down to eat, Weston’s initial reluctance gradually gave way to contented silence. Watching him savor each bite made my heart swell with a sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t just about the food; it was about him acknowledging, even if just through his actions, one of my qualities. His subtle nods of approval and the faintest hint of a smile as he ate were like silent confessions of his acceptance of me. But, like clockwork, as soon as his last mouthful was eaten, he’d excuse himself for his evening run, swim, or cycle.
Friday morning followed the same pattern. I showered and dressed in time to catch Weston after his exercise. The gentle rays of the sun smiled down on my patio, the warmth filling me with positivity. His footsteps alerted me to his arrival before I saw him .
“How was the run?” I asked, trying not to appreciate how manly he looked when covered in sweat.
“Great, thanks. I’ve noticed that I feel less fatigued than before. I had no idea that eating foods in a particular order could impact my blood sugar. And who knew that when food tastes decent, you’re able to eat more of it?”
I laughed at him joking with me. “I’m so glad. Have you been drinking the apple cider vinegar before meals too?”
“Yup,” he said with his hands on his hips, catching his breath. “I forgot to mention there was a courier here yesterday morning, and he wanted to deliver something to you personally. It was when you were at the beach. I told him he should come in the evenings or during the weekend.”
I froze. By courier, did he mean my document delivery guy? I thought I’d escaped that for now. My desire to accept said documents while on vacation was zero, so I’d have to think of a plan to dodge him.
“Hello? Rebecca? Did you hear me?”
“Um, yes, thanks. I’ll sort out the courier company,” I said.
“Cool. I’ve got work to get to.”
“Bye,” I said half-heartedly, my mind now elsewhere .
How did they find me? Oh no, maybe it was my Instagram account. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been posting my location all over social media if I wanted to stay under the radar. I’d tagged Gray’s address several times because I thought it might help drum up interest in his cottage rentals.
After much thought, I decided that the best way to steer clear of the courier guy was the tried and tested method of absence. I’d quit posting on social media while I was here and if I wasn’t around, he’d be unable to deliver my document. I would sort out all this mess once I was back in Atlanta.
Weston didn’t know it yet, but today I would join him for his evening run. It was the ideal escape plan because both of us would be away from the house during delivery time. Plus, if we became running buddies, it would help strengthen our budding friendship or whatever was developing between us. I dressed in my running gear before I made dinner. We ate in the late afternoon as usual. But today I finished before Weston and put my dishes away.
“I’ll be joining you on your run this evening,” I announced while loading my dishes into the dishwasher.
Weston choked on his food and said, “No, you won’t.”
“What? You don’t think I can keep up with you? ”
“You won’t be able to keep up with me. But that’s beside the point. I enjoy running on my own,” he said, as if that was the end of the conversation.
His reply only increased my determination to prove him wrong. “Well, I’m more fit than I look, so you’ll just have to eat humble pie when we get back.”
“Stop talking like it’s a done deal. I said you can’t join me. Don’t you have a package being delivered sometime around now, anyway?” he said in the no-nonsense tone I’d come to expect from him.
I should have just left him to his solitary exercise. I knew that. Deep down in that place where my better judgment screamed at me to shut up, I was fully aware that Weston preferred his runs unshared and silent. But I had a courier I desperately needed to dodge, and crashing Weston’s evening run seemed like the only viable escape at that moment.
I didn’t exactly have a Plan B brewing in the back of my mind—just a chaotic scramble for a way out, which somehow morphed into a challenge. My competitive streak flared up, egging me on with the temptation to show Weston I could match his pace, stride for stride. So, I forged ahead with the ridiculous plan.
“It’s a free country, and you can’t stop me from joining you, so I’m coming,” I blurted out, the words like clanging symbols to my own ears. I winced internally, half expecting him to call me a brat. But desperate times called for desperate measures, after all.
When he didn’t respond, I continued, “My packages are my responsibility. I told you I’d sort out the courier guy.”
I began to stretch my quads, trying my best to appear unfazed, but I caught Weston’s expression out of the corner of my eye. He wasn’t pleased. Not at all. With a growl of frustration that rumbled like distant thunder, he turned on his heel and marched off to change into his running gear.