Page 65 of Beauty and the Beach
The roaring fire of humiliation somehow grows higher until I can feel the flames licking at the back of my throat, hot and miserable.
Is this because I kissed him? Did he hate it that much?
Would it kill him to talk to me about this in person? Who does this kind of thing over text? And why do I feelhurt?I have no right to feel anything but relief—not after how we treat each other; not with our history.
But there’s no relief to be found, not even when I scrape the deepest corners of my mind until my nails tear and my fingers bleed.
My thoughts whirl, chaos of the highest degree, half-formed ideas and questions and cobwebs of confusion that trap all the little kernels of logic trying to take root. I shake my head and stand up, giving my cheeks a few firm pats.
I can’t just sit here stewing. It will only make things worse.
So I grab my phone, take a deep breath, and then force myself out of my room. I fortify my defenses as I hurry down the hall, every step I take louder and stompier. I peek aroundas I pass the living room and kitchen area, but he’s not there, and I don’t expect him to be.
If he’s at home right now, I’ll find him in his study.
When I turn the corner of the hall and see light coming from under his study door, I know I’m right.
You are not a child,I remind myself,so don’t shout or throw a fit.
I have big feelings. I always have. Usually that means my anger and hurt and frustration are bigger than normal, too.
I don’t knock on the door, because I’m too impatient, but I do resist the urge to throw it open. I just let myself in (with admittedly more energy than is helpful) and hold the phone up, reigning in the urge to yell.
“What is this supposed to mean?” I say instead, crossing the office in several strides until I’m right in front of his desk. My voice is hard, but it is normal in volume, which I think is to be commended.
Except I swear, Phoenix could not look more horrified to see me if he tried. His eyes widen, his brows fly up—but the expression lasts for no more than half a second, replaced almost immediately by a blank, neutral mask.
Something happens then, little tendrils of memory niggling at the back of my mind, and for a second, they elude me—I chase them, my brows furrowing as I study his face, until?—
Last night.
The memories flood in—the nightmare. Phoenix. The dream that wasn’t a dream; the things I said. And a question from him, murmured absently as I was drifting off to sleep against his bare chest:Do you think I could ever make you happy?
The words ring in my ears as I stare at him, his unflinching gaze, his lips pressed into a tight line.
Sleep well, Holl.He said that, too.
“You—” I begin, my mouth moving without permission. “You called meHoll. You asked if you could ever make me?—”
But I break off as his expression changes, and I watch, fascinated; his eyes dart away, his throat bobs as he swallows, and his cheeks begin to flush red.
Understanding hits me then, not gradually but all at once. Because whatever else can be said, I know Phoenix Park. I know him well. I know the parts of him I try to ignore and the parts of him I choose to focus on.
He didn’t send that message this morning because I kissed him. He sent that message because I told him last night that looking at him hurts. And now that Mavis is supposedly feeling better, he doesn’t want me to have to be his wife with no end in sight.
I don’t have proof; I don’t have confirmation.
But I know I’m right.
Just like I know that he never meant for me to hear what he said.
My embarrassment, my humiliation—they fade as something else unfurls in my chest, something hesitant but curious.
“Mrs. Park,” Wyatt says, and I startle. I hadn’t even realized he was there. But he steps up from behind Phoenix now and speaks again. “Please welcome our guests,” he says, gesturing to something behind me. “They dropped by to visit.”
I whirl around and find, to my dismay, that there are two women here already: Mavis Butterfield and a woman who can only be Phoenix’s mother. She doesn’t have his dark hair or dark eyes, but considering the distaste on her face as she looks at me and the faint resemblance to Mavis, I don’t see who else she could be. Wyatt’s subtext is clear, too; they came uninvited and without warning.
Perfect. Just…perfect. I amfreshout of bed, my hair a mess, my body clad in pink pajamas—not a pearl in sight, and not my wedding ring, either. It’s still on top of my dresser, where it usually lives.
