21. Chapter 21
As it turned out, I wasn’t given a leather strap to bite into for the pain but a shot of lidocaine. My hospital visit in Costa Rica seemed analogous to what I’d expect in the med center.
When the doctor came in, she’d had me recline back and propped my injured arm on a pillow. I couldn’t see much with the angle of my injury being on the outside of my arm. And that was fine. I didn’t want to watch my arm being threaded back together like some unfortunate, too-loved stuffed bear ripped at the seam.
Beck dragged his chair as close to the bed as it could get, lacing my fingers through his. And that’s where he stayed for the entire process. When the doctor plucked a pair of forceps off the tray, I eyed them warily, praying the lidocaine worked through the length of the procedure.
Beck pulled my attention away. “I have a confession,” he said, his deep voice matching the somber ER. Something in my stomach dropped at the tone. My mind immediately catapulted to, He’s getting back with Reagan. “Do you remember that day in the pool? When we accidentally switched headphones?”
I laughed both at the memory and from relief that this conversation wasn’t tilting toward his ex. “You said my music was the neutered version of yours.”
With light fingers, he straightened my hospital bracelet. “That night, I went home and made an acoustic playlist.”
“You’re lying,” I said, stunned.
Beck pulled out his phone, fished around on Amazon Music, and then pulled up a playlist titled Lane.
If I’d been hooked up to one of those heart-rate machines, I would have flatlined. He hit shuffle, and an acoustic cover of Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls started playing. My eyes closed at the intro. So much love and hurt in a few measures of guitar strumming.
“I love this song,” I whispered.
“Me too,” he whispered back, brushing his lips over my knuckles.
Eyes still shut, I let myself get lost in the music and the assurance of Beck’s presence as he rubbed his thumb over mine. And for a second, I could almost believe it was only the two of us, not in a hospital or anywhere in particular. Just together.
I knew what he was doing. He was trying to distract me from the doctor’s work—from the stitches and the needle and the blood. He didn’t need to do that. I couldn’t feel much from the lidocaine, and I was flat on my back—so the threat of fainting had returned to minimal. But I found myself wanting to be distracted by him.
The song ended, and I opened my eyes to peer at the wonder that was Beckett Atteridge. “I can’t believe you made a playlist because of me,” I said, the pressure behind my eyes warning of a possible break in the damn holding back my tears.
“I like listening to it when I’m stressed.”
I pictured the average workday Beck. He knocked out support tickets with ease. He rolled with the punches and changes that corporate wanted immediately implemented. Hell, he even had enough time to engage in watercooler chats with teammates, and he did it all with charm and class and a smile. Before this trip, I never would have believed that Beckett—calm, cool, and collected—Atteridge needed music to help him unwind.
But I believed it now. Especially after how close he’d come to unraveling when I fainted. Then there was what he told me about Poppy.
“I like learning things about you,” I admitted.
Beck gave a half-smile, then sat up straighter, getting a better look at my arm. I assumed he was gauging how much time until the doctor finished suturing. When I tried to look too, his hand splayed over my ribs, halting the movement. He didn’t want me to see—probably afraid I’d pass out again.
“She’s almost done,” he said in a hushed tone, then gave a supportive squeeze. “You’re doing great.” He sat back in his seat, resuming the caressing of my hand with his thumb. “What else do you want to know?”
I bit my lip, unsure if I wanted to ask him in case the request landed painfully. “Tell me more about Poppy.”
Beck’s eyes tightened. At first, I thought he’d deny me, but then he shifted in the chair. “How to explain Poppy,” he said pensively.
He looked past me, and I could see the memories flashing behind his eyes.
“She was daring. The kind of kid who would slide down the banister in nothing but her underwear during a dinner party. Or would shoot spitballs at paintings in restaurants when the adults were too busy talking.” A smile broke out across his face. “But she was also the biggest tattletale when it came to the little things—one of us taking her bouncy ball or calling her stupid or not giving her a turn on the Wii. She would never rat us out on the things she should have, though—the things that could get us in serious trouble.
“For instance, one time, she and Victoria were pretending to be Ninja Turtles when Victoria pushed Poppy over a planter’s box in the garden. Poppy landed wrong and broke her wrist. I watched the whole thing. When the nanny ran over and questioned Victoria about what she did, Poppy insisted she tripped. Swore she did.
“Another time, I did batting practice in the house. I got carried away, and the baseball shattered my dad’s favorite art piece—a scalloped glass bowl by David Chihuly.”
I winced.
“Yeah. My father saw the pieces in the hall and looked a second away from having an aneurysm. He would have skinned me alive if Poppy hadn’t shuffled forward, ball in hand, tears in eyes.” He gave a short laugh. “The anger rolled right off him like water off a duck. He gathered her in his lap and gave her a stern, ‘Poppy, you could have been hurt. We’ve talked about this. You can’t play ball in the house.’” Beck laughed, shaking his head, and I laughed with him. “My dad acted differently with Poppy, more tender than with Victoria or me. And I don’t say that for sympathy or in a woe is me, my dad doesn’t love me, kind of way.” He shrugged. “Poppy coming into the world changed him. And her leaving did too.”
Something twinged in my chest.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Off topic.”
I squeezed his hand. I’d take what I could get. “Anyway. You would have loved Poppy.”
“I think I already do,” I said quietly.
But I was falling for her brother too, and that really scared me. Beck’s words of encouragement, the way he held my hand and tried to keep my mind off things—it was all simple. So simple. But it meant everything.
I could see a future with him at my side on my worst days: when I’d be sick or in pain or scared or a sobbing mess. I wanted it—him being there. And I found myself wanting to be there on his worst days, too.
When it all boiled down, wasn’t that what everyone needed? An anchor when life tore at you with hurricane-force winds, ripping the shingles off your sanity and security. Someone to say, I’m not letting you go. No matter how ugly things get.
I worried about how quickly I’d let my guard down on this trip. I’d unlocked the treasure box holding my heart and left it wide open for Beck to take.
This is risky,my brain tried to say.
But my heart was too busy to listen to trivial things like logic while in Beck’s hands.
The doctor finished the twenty-eight stitches, bandaged me up, and gave me a fresh tetanus booster for good measure. Then we got to go home—home being the resort.
In a weird way, the hospital stay had served as a sort of escape from what awaited us: Wesley’s call. Madison’s new intel. It all piled back on during the cab ride to the resort. Beck also seemed to be wading through it, staring out the window for most of the drive, absently chewing his bottom lip.
“Beck, what are we going to do?” I finally asked.
“About Wesley?”
“About Wesley. About Madison. All of it.”
He sighed. “We don’t know if Madison is a problem yet.”
“She’s going to give Victoria my real name.”
“You don’t know that.”
I gaped at him but then clamped my mouth shut. Because he didn’t know why Madison would love to watch me die in an avalanche of my lies—that it was in the name of friendship. Her bestie wanted Beck back, and she’d do anything to tip the scales. I swallowed, not able to relinquish that bit of information to Beck. Not willing to risk losing him to Reagan.
“Call it a hunch,” I said.
“And if she does, we’ll explain everything to Victoria. It’s a weird position, but you’ve proved your worth as a calligrapher. I don’t know why she’d be mad.”
Because people don’t like being lied to,I thought. But I didn’t press the issue because Beck had moved on.
“And I’m not going to let you lose your job. I’ll explain to Wesley. Tell him I pressured you to come if I have to.”
“No, Beck.”
“It’s not that far from the truth. I hassled you about it enough.”
“You didn’t hassle me. You were just . . . persistent.”
“This is all my fault.” He groaned, his head falling into a waiting hand. “I never would have, in a million years, pictured the trip going like this.”
Going like this? As in him kissing me in a rainforest, sharing all our deepest secrets, and him taking me during a thunderstorm, scraping the skin off his knees to catch me, holding my hand in a hospital?
Sure, there was the We might lose our jobs part, the Cutting myself open and passing out part, and the I might lose my chance at becoming a calligrapher before I’ve really had a chance to begin part.
But knowing what I knew now, I still would have come with him. “I don’t regret this trip,” I said, looking right at him so he could read the truth in my face for himself.
His hand slid away from his eyes. “You don’t?”
I shook my head.
He reached across the middle seat to grab my hand. Then his lips pulled into the slightest smirk. “Maybe you did hit your head when you fainted.”
“Maybe so,” I agreed with a quiet laugh. It would be nice to have something to pin all these emotions on.
“Emily, listen. I know you are worried about losing your job and Madison ruining things with Victoria, but you are going to be fine because I am going to take care of you.” He caught my eye. “Okay?”
At that moment, without a doubt, I knew I could lean fully onto him, and he would hold me up. Just like I knew the sky was blue and Houston traffic was terrible. It was a fact: Beck wouldn’t let me down.
I trusted him.
“Okay,” I said, then rested my head back against the seat, not entertaining a single concern, at least not until we got back to the hotel.
We approached the elevators to our suite just behind Victoria, Reagan, Kat, and Madison. They’d donned spa robes, and each of them had their hair wrapped in towels. I made a mental note to check out all the resort amenities when I got back to our suite. I might be out of commission for more beach days or jungle hikes, but I could still enjoy a facial or a long sit in a salt room. Hell, I could make the salt room even saltier with the tears over my impending job loss.
I was close enough to ask them about their spa day when Madison said, “I mean, it’s creepy. Why would she pretend to be someone else? We should call the police and have them check her basement for the calligrapher you hired.”
Kat snorted. “I can’t believe I was going to hire her for my wedding.”
Beck’s hand landed on my shoulder. “Come on,” he whispered into the shell of my ear. “We’ll get the next one.” He wanted to shield me from their conversation. I let him pull me back a few steps from the elevator.
Then Victoria spoke in that authoritative voice of hers. “We don’t know anything,” she said, sounding a lot like Beck. “Except that she’s been going by a different first name. For all we know, she simply doesn’t like the name Emily and wanted to try something new. Or she’s in the goddamn witness protection program. There are a thousand possibilities. So, let’s not jump to conclusions.”
I could come back from this. I could pluck one of her suggestions and run with it. There could be a plausible explanation. Beck and I could back away now, regroup in our room, and come up with a lie free of holes.
Until whatever story we webbed together got punctured by a slip-up or a discovery, and then we’d have to patch it up with another lie and another. When I’d started lying about who I was, I had planned on it being finite. It had an end date: June 24th, Victoria’s wedding. But now, I wanted a future with Beck, and I didn’t want to stare his sister, someone he was very close to, in the face and be dishonest.
Even if Beck wasn’t involved, I’d gotten to know Victoria better from our sailing trip—this glass-ceiling-shattering badass who also loved a good life hack and New Girl and Camilla Cabello and drinking whiskey straight—and I wanted her to know me better too. Me. The real me.
The elevator dinged open, and I stepped from Beck’s grasp before I knew what I was doing. “Victoria!”
The group whirled around, and I couldn’t help but notice the glee in Madison’s eyes. She looked about ten seconds away from pulling a bag of popcorn from under her robe—like she’d been waiting for this live dumpster fire all day.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry for being dishonest with you.”
Victoria padded forward in her fuzzy spa sandals, waiting.
I licked my bottom lip. “Hailey is my sister. She got a wild hair to move to Florida, and she needed someone to finish your wedding.” Victoria’s mouth fell open, so I started talking faster, trying to finish my story before her mind could conjure up some twisted version of the truth or Madison’s words could fill the void. “She’d already done most of the work. And I’ve been practicing calligraphy longer than her anyway. For years longer, actually. She should have just told you the truth. I should have just told you the truth,” I amended. “But you are an Atteridge—a huge client for my sister. And she didn’t want to lose your business or the connections a big event like yours could provide. And we were afraid you’d be angry if she told you her sister was stepping in.”
Victoria just blinked at me for an agonizingly long moment, her bottom lip detaching from the top as she processed my admission. Then her gaze shifted to Beck. “You knew about this?”
Beck stepped forward. “Vic—”
She put out a hand. “How long did you know, Beck? The whole time?”
A muscle in Beck’s jaw jumped. Then he straightened. “Not the whole time. But long enough.”
You would have thought he’d slapped her from the look on her face. “We tell each other everything, Beck.” Victoria, Queen of Atteridge Hotels and Resorts, became teary-eyed. “Don’t we?”
The elevator arrived again, depositing an elderly couple who looked ready for the pool.
“Come on, Victoria.” Madison wrapped her fingers around Victoria’s arm. “You don’t need this drama so close to your wedding day.”
What a statement, especially from the woman who’d probably been adding gasoline to the drama all afternoon.
“Vic, please. Let’s talk about this,” Beck said as they entered the elevator.
But the doors closed, separating us from them.
I squeezed Beck’s hand, trying to comfort him, but found it difficult when I was hurting so much myself.
Two parts of my life met in the middle like those elevator doors: my future in calligraphy and my relationship with Victoria. Only these doors would never open again. A welder had taken my lies and used them to seal it shut in one steady stroke.
There was no coming back from this.
That night, when my tears had dried, I laid down with Beck in our suite’s bed and replayed it all. Hailey and I should have come clean at the beginning with Victoria. Told her the truth and put the ball in her court. I could have shown her my work and convinced her. Maybe my sister could have offered a steep discount. Something. Anything except lying.
While my mind raced, Beck stroked my hair with light, relaxing fingers. Through it all, he stayed with me. And I wanted to keep him there, but I realized if lying had gotten me into this mess with Wesley and Victoria, I needed to come clean with Beck before I lost him too, although I might anyway.
The low lighting of the room reflected lazily in his soft brown eyes. I wanted his eyes to be mine to look into. I wanted my hair to be his to comb his fingers through. I wanted to have his hand to hold for all life threw at me. I wanted his laugh and his voice and his smile to forever be in my life.
But it wasn’t up to me.
“Reagan wants you back,” I whispered.
Beck’s hand stilled in my hair. “What?”
“Reagan wants you back.” I swallowed. “She’s been shooting heart eyes at you and staring daggers at me the entire trip. And that night when we went dancing, I overheard her in the bathroom with Madison. She knows she made a mistake.” My heart slammed against my chest with a shut up, shut up, shut up rhythm. “She loves you,” I managed, even though it broke my heart to say it because I knew it might change things between us.
Beck pulled his hand back from my hair, resting it on his chest. “Why are you telling me this?” He looked hurt.
“Because this was your plan.” My sternum felt like it had shrapnel in it. “To get her back.”
“Was it?” Beck asked so softly I almost couldn’t hear him.
“You wanted to make her jealous to win her over.” Hot tears made pathways to the pillow.
Beck touched my cheek, wiping the tears with his thumb. “And you honestly still think that?” he asked, his eyes drilling into mine.
“I don’t know,” I said wetly. “I just—being dishonest hasn’t worked out for me. I thought I should try being truthful to someone.”
Beck leaned in to kiss a spot on the bridge of my nose, wiping more tears after he did. “You should rest, Emily. You’ve had one hell of a day.”
He pulled me into him, my knee over his hip, my bandaged arm safely on his chest. We stayed there in the dark, neither of us able to sleep, it seemed.
And the glass-half-full part of me thought anything could be keeping Beck awake. His day had been just as taxing as mine. But most of me wasn’t optimistic. And I all but knew he was thinking about Reagan.