Page 79 of Beauty and the Beach

I’m tempted to say no, just to revolt against my feelings, but the lie probably won’t come out as anything more than a high-pitched squeak. I think of Phoenix’s flawless bone structure and the way his eyes flash when we argue. “I guess so,” I say.

Nana shifts, trying to sit up straighter; I stand up quickly and help her adjust the pillows behind her back. She’s so frail, so feeble, but she still makes time to be with me and chat about stupid things.

“Is he a nice boy?” she asks once we’ve eased her body back against the pillows.

“He…can be nice,” I say, my voice grudging. I don’t want to lie to Nana, even if I’d like to lie to myself. “But sometimes he’s a jerk.”

The lines in Nana’s aged face grow even more pronounced as she frowns. “But you’re such a nice girl. Don’t like him if he’s a jerk, sweetie.”

But you’re such a nice girl.

Heat creeps up my neck—the heat of shame and guilt. I’m not nice to Phoenix; not really. I’m petty and rude. And I’m not sure I know how to interact with him any other way.

Nana and I move on to other topics, but her words stay with me even after I leave for the day. The wind is formidable outside, and the sun from this morning is nowhere to be found; a storm is coming. So I pick up my pace as I walk, lost in thought, the chilled air driving my steps faster and faster.

And I don’t realize where I’m going until I’m there.

“Good grief, Holland,” I mutter as I look up at the two-story building with rock beds and palm trees. “Really?”

But you’re such a nice girl.

I exhale roughly. I’m about to turn around and go straight home when the first rain drop hits me, a fatsplatright on top of my head. The brisk wind blows harder, pulling my short dress this way and that, trying to lift it to inappropriate heights. So I accept my fate—if I had been paying attention to where I was going, I wouldn’t be in this situation—and then hurry up the sidewalk, past the rock beds, and to the entrance of Phoenix’s office building. The stupid wind likes this direction; it pushes me from behind, an invisible hand shoving me toward the husband I’m not all that nice to.

The husband who got soaked head to toe this morning to make sure I was okay after hitting my head.

I’m coming to your office for a bit, I text him as a heads up, and then I go in.

Inside the office I find the quiet hustle and bustle of closing time; people are pulling on jackets and organizing desks and packing up briefcases.

I wonder if they know how hard their boss works, long after they’ve left for the day.

Several of them smile or wave as I pass the rows ofcubicles, and I smile in return, trying at the same time to feel my hair and make sure it’s not too crazy from the wind and rain. I head for the back and then climb the stairs, hurrying left down the hallway until I reach Phoenix’s office.

A few of his blinds are open, so I lean closer to the window, trying to see if he’s in a meeting, but there’s only him. I open the door and stick my head in, the blinds rattling.

We’re going to pretend this morning never happened.

“Yes,” Phoenix is in the middle of saying. He gives me no more than a glance before he waves me in, returning his attention to whoever he’s on the phone with. “I think that would work.”

I slip in and close the door quietly behind me. Then I turn my eyes to the ceiling, looking for a vent; once I find it over by the bookshelves, I position myself directly beneath it and pull my dress away from my body, trying to speed the drying process. I do this for a few minutes and then run my hands through my hair, airing that out too.

When I glance over at Phoenix, I’m startled to find his gaze already on me; he raises one brow and mouthsWhat are you doing?

“It’s starting to rain,” I whisper, pointing out the window behind him.

He swivels around and then turns back to me, nodding. “And what about the lease?” he says into the phone.

The lease? Is he moving?

Whatever. I continue my airing-out process until I’m feeling marginally dryer; Phoenix is still on the phone, so I decide to check out his bookcases. I peruse down the row—there are a lot of classics, some business books, and a few that even look like old college textbooks. I ignore my fluttering pulse as I pass the shelf he pressed me up againstwhen we kissed, because I’m not sure now is a good time to indulge in those memories. So I move resolutely on, until I reach the desk.

I scoot past it and continue searching for anything that I might like to read, but there’s nothing. I turn my attention to the large window instead; the wind is blowing harder now, and the rain is coming down in sheets. A twinge of nervousness plucks at my insides, but I force it down and turn away.

I’m sure the weather won’t get too bad.

I poke around the books a bit more until I’m bored out of my mind; then I pick up Phoenix’s cell phone from the edge of his desk. He’s not even looking at me—his phone conversation has moved on to square footage and maximum capacities—so I press the home button to sneak a peek at his lock screen.

You can tell a lot about a person based on their phone wallpaper.

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