Page 202 of Spicy Ever After
He said he missed me too, and I believe him.
I believe him. So that must mean we aren’t over.
Right?
“I feel…” I search my mental feelings chart, thinking how closely it resembles the Aurifil thread catalog.
My spicy brain pounces on an idea to print out the Italian threadmaker’s catalogue and replace the color names with emotions. I grin at the thought of that project.
I mentally skim over to the blues—but not the deepest hues. Not depression or despair. Something lighter, but still blue. Like their Lake Como blues.
“A little sorrowful.” Mixed with it is a bit of purple. Their Dusty Blue Violet. “There’s regret there too.”
But that’s not all.
There’s something warm there too. The amber of Beck’s eyes.
The color of hope.
That night, when I call Beck—six o’clock my time, eight o-clock his—he answers on the second ring.
“H—”
“My therapist says I’m not used to being able to trust others, and even though you gave me your full acceptance, which is really the best gift, by not trusting you, I shoved it back in your face—” I blurt out the words in a rush. “Because how could you accept me when I couldn’t accept myself? My whole self. The part of me that needs extra help.”
And here’s the part where my voice breaks because that part of me is still wounded, and Beck’s love is only the second love she wants.
“I can’t change what I did, Beck. But I’m sorry. I know what it means, and I’m working on it. I’m?—”
“Hattie—honey—” He interrupts my word vomit. And—thank you, Baby Jesus—I don’t hear the anger that was in his voice two days ago. “H-hold on… I’m—shit—I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back? Like in an hour?”
I feel like a punctured balloon. An embarrassed, punctured balloon.
“Yeah,” I squeak. “Please call me back.” I hardly have a right to beg, but I beg anyway.
“I will. I promise.” he vows. “As soon as I can.”
He says goodbye, and when the call ends, I’m wishing I’d told him I love him.
Because all of me does.
I set down my phone and pace around my room. Which is hard to do because it’s smaller than my room at home, but no less cluttered with my clothes and bags from Viv Couture.
I grab the newest one. The one I brought back yesterday with the two yards of saguaro chambray.
I’m making Beck a long-sleeved button down using one of Vivian’s original patterns. It has cuffs. I’ve never done cuffs, but I imagine they’ve got to be fairly similar to collars. A lot of turning out and pressing, corner clipping, and button-holing.
And this is the project that saves me from my restlessness.
I’ve got the paper pieces cut out thirty minutes later when Beck calls back. I trip over a pair of shoes and nearly face plant attempting to reach my phone.
“H-hello?” I probably sound crazed. I am a little crazed.
“Hattie? You okay?” Beck sounds tired.
“Yeah. I’m fine. I was just hurrying to get to my phone and I—” I debate telling him about the tripping and the shoes but then just go for it. “I almost ate dirt trying to answer.”
I hear the rasp of his chuckle. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He heaves a sigh. “I was talking to Pop and my uncle.”
