Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(72)

And it was right where I deserved to be.





Mallory


On my phone, there were a dozen missed calls and texts.

There were texts from my mother, asking where I was, and from my father, warning me to not upset my mother on Christmas Day. There were missed calls from my brother, from my grandparents on my mother’s side, and from Chris — who had left a few threatening voicemails that he’d beat down my door if I didn’t answer him soon. There were texts from acquaintances and “friends,” wishing me a Merry Christmas and a happy new year.

But there wasn’t a single word from Logan.

I didn’t know why I hoped for it, why my heart leapt into my throat every time my phone buzzed, or why I ever expected to see his name on the screen when I unlocked it. Last night hadn’t been a small fight. It hadn’t been a little misunderstanding that would feel silly and insignificant in the morning light. It had been the final blow in a fight neither of us even realized we were in. It was a total knock out.

And now, here I was, beaten and bruised on the cold floor of what I hoped my life would be, wishing I could go back in time and do everything differently.

If I had Doc’s DeLorean, I’d set the dial to send me back a little over a month ago. I’d go back and tell my father to take his deal and shove it right up his ass, because I would have listened to that little voice inside me that knew he wasn’t exposing all his cards. I’d known who my father was my entire adult life, and I’d been na?ve to ignore what I knew about him just so I could selfishly pretend there was no reason not to take the deal he offered me, to get my dream if all I had to do was sacrifice a little time at the distillery.

If I hadn’t realized it from the beginning, I definitely should have figured it out once I got on the inside.

Once I saw how everyone in that department looked up to Logan, once I saw how, effortlessly, he was the best on that entire team, and once I put two and two together that my uncle was retiring, and that I’d been sent to that department despite the fact that I was the least qualified in our family to give tours…

I should have known.

I should have stood up, found my voice, fought for justice like I always did.

I should have stopped it.

But I didn’t.

Part of me ignored it because I didn’t want to have my dream ripped from me when I’d only just had the chance to hold it in my hands. Part of me ignored it because I was scared, because I had nowhere to go, because failing didn’t feel like an option for me — and I would avoid it all costs.

And perhaps the largest part of me ignored it because the more time I spent with Logan, the more I fell for him — and I thought if I ignored everything else that wasn’t him, I could live in a blissful little bubble where nothing could touch us.

I didn’t think of him, of his dreams, of his happiness — when it seemed all he’d done the past month was put my dreams and happiness first.

My chest ached as memories of us working in the shop filtered through my mind. I longed for those long afternoons, laughing and listening to music and learning more about him. I yearned for a different last name, for a different family, for a different circumstance where I could have met Logan Becker and fallen for him and let him fall for me without any of this shit being an issue.

But that wasn’t the world I lived in.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table again, but this time I didn’t even move to check the screen. I knew it wasn’t Logan, and I knew that whoever it was, I didn’t want to talk to. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. It didn’t matter that it was Christmas Day — I was perfectly content being miserable.

And alone.

It was what I deserved to be.

I hadn’t eaten since the night before, the thought of food so revolting I couldn’t stomach so much as a piece of toast, so my legs were a little wobbly as I wrapped my thick robe around me and padded downstairs to the shop. Snow had covered the town last night, leaving us with a beautiful white Christmas that every little kid and mother, alike, had prayed for. Under different circumstances, I might have run out to play in it. I might have been having a snowball fight with Logan, or laughing as I got soaked making snow angels.

As it was, Main Street was empty, everyone home with their families celebrating the birth of Christ, and I found the vacancy comforting. It left me alone with my thoughts, alone with my misery, alone with my broken heart — and my ability to use it to create something.

It was the only thing I wanted to do, other than sit around and feel sorry for myself. I wanted to bring something to life — and before I could make a choice of how, my body made it for me. My feet carried me numbly over to one of the stools in front of a blank sketch pad, and I sat with my back to the store windows, letting the late afternoon light cast its light over the cream paper.

It was cold in the studio, but I didn’t turn the heat on. If anything, I wanted to feel that cold down to my bones. I sat there, shivering, pulling the sketch pad into my lap and propping my feet on the footrest of the stool. For a while, I just stared at that blank sheet, vision blurring, heart slowing to an almost nonexistent beat within my chest.

Then, I drew.

Time slipped away easily, just like it always did when I lost myself in art. The afternoon light turned to evening light, a bright glow from the setting sun reflecting off the snow and casting the studio in a halo so beautiful it might as well have been sent from the heavens. I found comfort in the familiar scratching sounds of the pencil against the paper, in the way nothing slowly turned to something. Gray dust covered my hand, and my back and shoulders ached from poor posture, but still, I drew.