Page 16 of Beautifully Messy
I bury my face in my hands. To recover from the embarrassment. To hide the effect those words have on me. To let the embers of hope and warmth filling my insides die before I can allow myself to believe this is real. Once my mortification passes, I run my finger along the smooth hardcover, amazed at the coincidence in us choosing the same books for each other. And I say, “These are two of my favorite authors. I can’t wait to dig into them. Maybe we should start a little book club?”
James smiles, nodding, but there’s something beneath it. A pause. A softness. And I can’t help but wonder if he feels it too. This quiet, impossible ease that shouldn’t exist between two people who just met.
We read for a while in comfortable silence, cocooned in lamplight while a light snow falls outside. Even as I focus on the story, I’m keenly aware of him: the soft scent of his woodsy cologne mingling with our coffees, every page turn, every quiet huff when I imagine something delights him. When I finally permit myself to glance up over the top of my book, he’s already looking at me. We quickly look away.
Guests hustle down the hall, chatting and laughing, carrying food back to their rooms. The smell of bacon hits me, greasy and overwhelming. The room tilts sideways. My throat tightens, mouth salivating the wrong way. Heat builds at the back of my neck.Shit. I bolt for the nearest bathroom, desperate not to lose my breakfast right there. I gag and heave, but nothing comes up.
James is leaning against the wall, waiting. “You okay? What was that?”
“I’m fine,” I reply automatically. “My stomach feels off. I should head back. Don’t worry about me, I can get an Uber and leave the car for you.”
His jaw tightens, and he steps forward, raises his hand toward my cheek, but abruptly lowers it. “I’ll drive you. Don’t be ridiculous. Wait here, I’ll grab our things.”
I don’t know what to make of him. It’s like someone engineered him to be the anti-Mason. And now he’s walking back to me with my purse slung over his shoulder, bookstore totes in one hand, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Come on, let’s get you home.” His hand brushes the small of my back as he steers me outside, and I have to stop myself from leaning into him.
Once he’s finished clucking around me and we’re in the car, he blows a breath out of his cheeks and says, “You scared me. You went white as a sheet.”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“Has this been happening?”
“A few times…” I regret the confession the moment it leaves my mouth.
“Maybe you should see a doctor or talk to Jules.”
“It’s nothing. Probably anxiety or something I ate isn’t sitting well,” I say, though a part of me is beginning to wonder. But I push that thought aside. It can’t be that. “I’ll be fine.”
He doesn’t argue but looks at me with weary eyes, not buying my explanation.
The cabin rests in hushed stillness. Beyond the glass, the mountains stand draped in white, breathtaking in their winter peace. My stomach churns, rough and unsettled, a turbulent force in this snow-globe world.
“I’m going to lie down.”
He follows me upstairs, placing my things inside the bedroom. Before I can thank him, nausea sends me stumbling into the bathroom. The toilet seat smacks against the tank as I shove it up, and my stomach heaves, emptying itself in violent waves. After an eternity, I flush and rest my head against the wall, then look up to see James standing in the doorway wearing the most endearing expression of concern.
“Oh God, please go. You don’t need to see this.” I wave a weak hand, urging him away.
He disappears without a word, and I rest my head against the wall.
But minutes later, quiet footsteps return. James places a glass of water, a few crackers, and a bottle of Tylenol next to me. Grabbing a towel from the shelves, he spreads it on the floor, offering me somewhere warmer than the cold tiles. His eyes land on a scrunchie, lifting it in question.
My arms feel heavy, my head throbs. I nod, grateful.
Kneeling behind me, his fingers sift gently through my hair, untangling knots. He gathers it into a loose ponytail, his touch careful. I close my eyes and let myself absorb it. Forget this isn’t mine. It’s not something I can rely on.
“I’ll try to reach Mason for you, but I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
“You don’t have to do that.” I can’t bring myself to say,‘Don’t bother. Mason won’t hurry back.’Even if that’s my reality.
After a while, I rinse my face and brush my teeth. My body still aches, but my stomach has settled. I pull on leggings, an oversized sweater, and Christmas socks. The kind of comfort I can rely on.
I open the door and gawk. James sits in the hallway, phone in hand, Bell’s head resting on his thigh.
He looks up. “You’re still pale. Do you think it’s a fever?”
The green of his eyes shifts with his concern, a kaleidoscope of sage and emerald that seems to hold entire landscapes.
