Page 40 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise
I nod. “It’s a fine line to walk,” I concede. “Let me just say one last thing, then, and I’ll drop it. Because I can tell this makes you uncomfortable to talk about, but I feel like it might be good for you to hear. Deal?”
Beckett sighs. “Fine.”
I clear my throat and then begin. “As the official spokesperson for the O’Malley family—”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Yes it is,” I say, swatting him. “As the spokesperson for the O’Malley family, I would like to tell you, in my most official capacity, that you are henceforth and forever an honorary O’Malley. This means”—I raise my voice when he shows signs of interrupting—“that you will always be invited to Thanksgiving dinner. You will always have a place at our table. You will always be welcome, no matter what you do or say. Our love for you is not conditional. Okay?”
The silence that follows is a little bit awkward—I feel it, and I know Beckett does too. He looks like he’d love to chuck himself over the side of the boat; his tanned skin is flushed pink, his expression hovering somewhere between confused and supremely uncomfortable.
“Oh, come on,” I say, trying to lighten things up. “Get rid of that look on your face. It’s not like I’m confessing my love to you. I’m just saying that you’re a part of our family, and you don’t have to worry about us leaving you. That’s it. That’s all.”
“Right,” he says after a second. “I—thanks, I guess. Now.” I watch him inhale and then heave out a long breath, looking wryly at me. “If you really want to be my nonjudgmental safe space—”
“I do!” I say, delighted that he’s going to put this to good use.
“Great. In that case, I could do with some silence right about now,” he says. “Introvert, need to focus, so on and so forth.”
“Of course,” I say quickly, and then I clamp my hand over my mouth, giving him a thumbs up.
He just looks at me and shakes his head, a little smile pulling at his lips. “Thanks, Baby—Molly. I caught myself,” he says when I raise one brow at him.
A feeling of warmth trickles through me, ignited by my name and spurred on by his smile. I can’t say why, exactly, but this moment in time feels pivotal—like a sign that things are changing, maybe, or a sign that Beckett might see me as my own person rather than a relation of Wes’s after all.
And I should shut that feeling down, but I don’t. I let it run through my veins, making me feel all warm and gooey, giving me…hope? No. That’s stupid. There’s no hope for Beckett and me romantically.
Is there?
What would have happened if I kissed him this morning?
I spend the remainder of the boat ride silently thinking about that moment in the hut—his hands on my shoulders, his face close to mine, his eyes dropping to my lips so briefly I might have imagined it.
Maybe he would have pushed me away if I had kissed him.
But maybe he would have kissed me back.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
* * *
Our return to St.Thomas is anticlimactic. I half expect my family to be waiting for us at the pier when the speedboat pulls in, but they aren’t. I don’t know where they are, or if they realized I wasn’t on the ship before it left port. I have to assume they’ve been trying to reach Beckett and me, but both of our phones are out of commission for good. Beckett pulls the boat into its spot and kills the engine, leaping out and securing it in place. I follow him, and we make our way to where a row of cabs is waiting to ferry tourists around the island.
The taxi driver gives us some seriouslookswhen we climb into his taxi, drenched to the bone and covered with all the dirt and grime the rain couldn’t wash away.
“Sorry,” I say, wincing at him in the rearview mirror.
He just grunts and waits for us to get seated, watching expectantly.
Beckett turns to me once he’s pulled the door closed behind him. “I don’t suppose we can just go to the drug store and get you some more medicine.”
I give one single, humorless laugh as I think of my one-thousand-dollar-per-month medication that I can only afford because I qualify for the patient assistance program. “No,” I say, rubbing my hands over my thighs as I try not to succumb to my worries. “Definitely not.”
“Didn’t think so,” he says dully, “but I thought I’d check. Is there anything there that might help?”
“No,” I say with a sigh. I appreciate his thinking, but the truth is, I just need to get back to that cruise ship.
“All right.” He directs his attention to the impatiently waiting cab driver and directs him to someplace I’ve never heard of. The driver pulls out of his parking space, and we’re off.
