Page 67 of Dirty Little Secret, Baby
But before I deal with that, I have to do something that's even more important: talk to Beth.
I have to tell her what I found out and hope she believes me. The whole thing sounds so absurd—I wouldn't believe it myself, and I rate my chances as slim as I pack up my things.
But I don't want to give up. I don't want to give up on Beth. On us.
"Do you have an appointment, boss?" Eric asks me as I open the door and walk past him with my bag packed.
"Private matter," I say, barely able to look him in the eye, knowing I can't take too long to bust him. Every day he spends here, he can harm me.
But Beth takes priority. She actually always has, ever since I met her. I just didn't want to admit it to myself.
Her words, that she never wants to see me again, echo in my head. Still, I hope she'll listen to me.
I can't give up on her. Because—damn it, I think I really love her!
Chapter 31
Beth
I wanted to fight—tell him what I think of him and...
What did I even want? Was Veronica right after all when she tried to stop me from going to see him? What on earth was I thinking? That I could take on a rich businessman from New York and everything would be fine just because I told him what I think of him and his schemes?
Yeah, that’s pretty much what my poor, beleaguered heart must’ve thought. But now, back in the shop, I don’t feel a bit better—worse than before, really. Facing him was hard. Harder than I thought. Because his mere presence in the room still stirs something in me, and I hate myself for it. I pushed it away to try to focus. Worst of all was having to listen to him play the clueless one and then try to justify himself.
On the cab ride back to my shop, tears ran down my cheeks, and the driver asked me twice if there was anything he could do, to which I just shook my head emphatically.
Back at the shop, even Veronica’s hug didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse, because she was right again. Still, she held me tight and spared me anI-told-you-so. She also kept an eye on the shop and looked after Ben, who’s sleeping peacefully after I gave him something to drink and told him that Mommy messed everything up again.
I try to calm down by processing the online orders that came in. But even working with my beloved plants brings me no peace. My hands tremble and trimming is hard.
The bell over the door rings; I turn around and see a customer who stops by my shop regularly.
"Good afternoon, I’d like a new arrangement for my husband’s grave," she greets me with a friendly smile, takes off her hat, and sets down the little cart she uses to pull her groceries behind her.
"Of course, Miss Shield. What would you like?" I ask, trying to sound professional. Our conversations always start this way, but this time I think about how wonderful it must have been to have a man to spend her life with—one she still brings fresh flowers to even after his death. That must be true love, even beyond death. That kind of thing doesn’t seem to be in the cards for me. On the contrary, the man I thought was a ray of hope first gets me pregnant, then seems to enjoy tearing me and my life apart.
"Sweetheart, are you all right? Not feeling well today?" Miss Shield asks, apparently having noticed my watery eyes.
"I’m fine," I sniff. "Just not my day."
"I know the feeling. When my Peter and I were still together, we had our blowups, too. But we always patched things up. And that’s what matters, isn’t it?"
"Mm-hm," I say, nodding silently. I can’t manage more, because I don’t think I’ll everpatch things upwith Alex again.
"How would you like a small, heart-shaped arrangement with white roses and some greenery around it?" I ask, pointing to a photo in my binder that shows several possible grave arrangements, trying to change the subject.
"That would be lovely. You always have such wonderful ideas. That’s why I love coming to you. Can I pick it up later?" she asks with a smile.
"Yes, it should be ready in thirty minutes. Does that work?"
"Sure, sweetie. That works. I’ll run a few errands in the meantime. I might not be back for two hours. Take your time. See you later." Then she heads to the door and pulls her cart behind her. "Oh, and sweetie?" I hear her call. I turn and see she’s facing me again. "It’ll be okay."
"Thank you," I say thinly, forcing a smile because I know she means well.
Before my emotions can flood me again, I get to work and start right in on the heart-shaped arrangement for Miss Shield, before I handle the next online order, which won’t be picked up for another hour anyway.
The bell rings again. I wonder if Miss Shield has changed her mind, which has happened more than once. Sometimes the color isn’t right, sometimes it has to be something completely different—it’s like a kind of game I keep agreeing to play.
