Page 63 of Beauty and the Beach
I know—I’m horrible. I’m awful. But I don’t actually wish death upon my grandmother. All I wish is consistency—I need to know what’s going on, because I’m married to Holland Blakely, and the plan is tostaymarried until Mavis passes and I can inherit.
My heart sinks as my brain rushes through the implications of this development. It sinks all the way down to the pit of my stomach, and then it keeps going.
I can’t ask Holland to stay married to me indefinitely. Whether or not I would be interested in exploring that option is irrelevant; she didn’t sign up for forever, and she doesn’t seem to be in the headspace where a relationship with me is evengoodfor her. If I make her miserable—my heart somehow sinks further—I can’t force her to stay.
“Phoenix,” my mother says. “Phoenix, are you listening to me, baby boy?”
“Don’t call me that,” I say, suddenly ten times more exhausted than I was before. “I have to go. Thank you for telling me.”
I hang up. Then I glance at Wyatt, who’s just let himself quietly into the room.
“Your facial expression is concerning,” he says, a little frown pulling at his thin lips.
“Mavis Butterfield appears to have made a miraculous recovery,” I say. I give in to the urge to slump forward, letting my forehead rest on my desk. Then I go on, my voice muffled, “The doctors have sent her home with a relatively good bill of health.”
Wyatt is silent for a moment. “Shall I assume you’re currently working on a plan for your marriage situation?” he finally says.
“Yes,” I say wearily. “I can’t ask her to stay married to me forever. She doesn’t want that.”
“Assumptions are how major miscommunications begin,” he says after another pause. “I would be sure before you make any significant decisions.”
He’s right, I can grudgingly agree.
This timing is terrible. Could Mavis not have waited a bit?
“I would recommend going for a run at the moment,” Wyatt says, and it’s only then that I realize my leg is jumping, my entire body tense, as my thoughts spiral.
“A run,” I say, my voice strained. I lift my head and nod absently; there’s a treadmill in the lower level of the house. “Yeah. Good.”
“Clear your head.” He looks more closely at me, and a little crease appears in his brow. “Consider taking a nap as well. Reset and approach this with a clear mind.”
I stand up and leave the room without another word.
I makemy peace with my next course of action somewhere around mile three.
Holland can stay if she wants to, but I have to give her anout. It would be wrong to keep her with me now that the situation has changed so drastically.
My feet pound rhythmically on the treadmill, my thoughts louder even than the grinding sound of the machine, and it feels good to be pushing my body like this—to be exhausting myself so thoroughly that my mind slowly lets go of its worries and holds instead to only those things I need to survive.
Breathe in; breathe out. Keep moving forward.
When I was a kid, my favorite movie wasBeauty and the Beast—something Wyatt and Wyatt alone knows. I loved all the talking household items; I loved the industrious chaos of Maurice’s inventions. I loved the magic and the music.
I never thought I would find myself relating to the Beast.
But Belle is in my castle, and I have to let her leave if she wants to. I can’t keep her here forever; not when she only agreed to a few months.
After mile five, I finally allow myself to be done; it’s been a long time since I ran this far, and my legs are shaky when I step off the treadmill, my vision swimming as my eyes readjust to a surface that isn’t perpetually zooming away.
I lift my shirt and wipe my sweaty forehead, forcing myself to breathe deeply instead of panting. Then I grab my phone and send a message to Holland before I lose my nerve. I press send with a sinking feeling in my stomach, one that weighs me down as I head up the stairs, my muscles protesting every step of the way.
When I reach the top and see Wyatt, I’m expecting a small smile or a hint of approval—not the wide-eyed look of concern he gives me.
“What?” I say, frowning at him, and he hurries closer.
“Your mother and the CEO are here,” he says, his voicetense. “They’re parking the cart they rented, and then they’ll be at the door.”
I stare at him for longer than I should, considering the urgency. “What?”
