The Belle and the Beard by Kate Canterbary (carter reed TXT) 📗

"Am I the dog or the wall?"

"Neither," I replied. "But you are the person who has heard all my gross, mushy secrets."

"Fair enough," he grumbled. "When I was in my twenties, there was someone. We were close through college and shared the same circle of friends so we were always hanging out once we were out of school too. Camping trips, snowboarding trips, beach trips. Always in the same group. I had feelings for him, some big feelings. Bigger than I'd had before then, and I'd dated more than my share of people during college."

I smothered a laugh at his bashful grin.

"There were a few times when we got close to—I don't know—something. But then he started seeing someone or I started seeing someone and it didn't happen."

He stopped, kneeled down to inspect some flowers alongside the path. I wasn't positive though it seemed like the flowers were not part of his overall inspection of these woods but an opportunity to stop speaking.

That was fair. I'd stared at a lot of flowers and rocks in these woods to avoid talking about my issues too.

"I spent a ton of time thinking about those feelings. Obsessing, really. I was always working up the nerve to tell him. It went on for years, even after we hooked up on a camping trip. I had a clear shot at asking for more and I didn't take it. Sometimes I think back on that and wonder what the fuck was wrong with me."

"I literally ask myself that every single day," I replied. "The other day, I relived an intern orientation meeting I led twelve or thirteen years ago. I don't understand how anyone put up with me. I was the absolute worst."

Linden squeezed my hip, saying, "It wasn't as bad as you remember. Promise. And neither were you."

"Back to your obsessing. I need to hear the rest of this. It's really helping to recalibrate the scales in terms of which of us is the disaster. I've been the hard favorite for much too long."

"There isn't a rest of the story. I didn't say anything. He moved to Idaho and I didn't tell him."

"Just because he moved doesn't mean you can't—"

"I know," he interrupted. "I know. After he left town, I decided I was ready to reach out because distance didn't matter. Why would it, you know? I'd made it through all these years of keeping those feelings to myself, I could make it through some distance too. But there was an accident."

"Oh, no."

"Yeah." Linden bobbed his head, his gaze fixed on the ground. "He was on life support for months. His family was convinced he'd pull out of it. He was young, he was healthy. All those things. And there was always a story about some other young, healthy guy coming out of a coma. Seemed like it was possible. Like we weren't hanging on to empty hope." He sighed, stayed silent a moment. Then, "They let him go about six months after the accident. They told everyone when they were doing it, in case people wanted to say goodbye before they took him off life support."

"Oh my god. Linden. I'm so sorry."

"I could've gone to the hospital. The whole group from school went out to Idaho. I should've, actually. But it just felt like I'd have to tell him I'd had all these feelings and that seemed like opening one door while closing another. At the time, it didn't seem right. It didn't seem fair—to me, to him, I don't know."

All I could say, again, was, "I'm so sorry."

He continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Altogether, it was five, six years of my life spent getting close and losing him over and over, each time worse than the one before. After he died"—he stopped, pushed his fingers through his hair—"I just didn't want to go through that ever again. I didn't want to invest all that energy into hoping and wanting. I didn't want to watch while someone slips out of my fingers and I didn't want to wish I'd figured out my shit sooner."

I took his hand in mine, squeezed. We walked without speaking. He stopped every so often to make notes in his book, other times to push fallen branches out of the trail.

After about ten minutes of heavy silence, I asked, "How long ago was this?"

Linden glanced to the side, almost as if he was surprised to find me there. "Right before I turned twenty-seven, so, nine years ago."

"That's more than a couple of years, you know."

"Yep."

"And the casual thing has been working for you since then?"

Again— "Yep."

He sounded as confident about that as I did about my career prospects, and that was why I let him get away without pushing on that response. He didn't have all the answers and neither did I.

21

Jasper

"You're sure you won't let me drive you?"

I glanced at Linden in the bathroom mirror before returning to my makeup. "Positive."

"I have visions of you calling me from Providence or Springfield because you missed an exit or something."

He dragged his gaze over my denim shirtdress, his eyes narrowed in a manner that suggested he either loved it or hated it. Even if he hated it, I wasn't changing. This dress was my casual weekend girls' lunch go-to. Denim was never appropriate at the Capitol so I didn't have much of it, and while this dress looked like a boring blue sack on the hanger, the right belt made it magical on me. In my last life, I very much resented that I couldn't wear it to work.

"That probably won't happen. Your sister gave me very explicit directions and told me exactly where to park too. I'll be fine."

"What about a car service? Uber or something like that."

I twisted open the mascara. "Your concern is unnecessary."

"My concern is founded upon you getting lost in a small town on multiple occasions."

"I've survived the traffic circles. I will be quite fine on my own,