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I could have had a career, started a business, worked my way up to management—despite never wanting acorporate job. Jon was that guy, the one who worked his ass off and was never home. Maybe I should’ve sucked it up and gone for it anyway.
I’ve spent a lot of nights thinking over the choices I’ve made and wondering which of them I would change, given the chance.
But that stops right now. Because every single one of those choices brought me here, to Target at eight p.m. on a weeknight beside the single most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
“What comes next?”
“Next?” Bee asks, distracted, playing with the neck of her shirt. There’s a Capybara on the front proclaimingdon’t worry, be capy, and I’m thirty seconds away from crushing my lips to hers or imploding from how much I want her. Honestly, it’s a coin toss.
“Hmm.” Rogue strands of hair have escaped en masse from her bun, and as I draw closer to her, I catch the scent of her shampoo. It’s labeledStimulating—a promise I can confirm is true—but despite spying the ingredients during my last shower, I don’t think it’s the peppermint and green tea that’s doing it for me.
It’s all Bee.
Softly, I tuck one wayward lock behind her ear. “I’m curious about your process. Is the interview all of it?”
If we weren’t so close, I might have missed her shiver. “You’re determined to learn all my secrets, aren’t you?”
“Guilty.”
Bee clears her throat and walks ahead, leaving me to smile at her back. “It depends on the project. The publisher likes a steady stream of cozy memoirs, so there’s a pseudo-blueprint I work from, but every subject wants to say something different. The trick is figuring out what. What is the thesis? Are they trying to teach us a lesson or talk about social movements? Do they want to highlight a personal achievement and show how they got there?” When she reaches the detergent, she frowns at the empty shelf and deliberates the alternatives. “Writing a puff piece is different from writing an exposé. First, I need to know how open the person even is to talking about themselves. How much will they share and how self-aware can they be? Their answers determine what I have to work with and how I structure it. Then the real interview starts.”
Bee stills when I lean closer, crowding against her back. I drop my voice to ask, “How would you write your story?”
Her next breath is shaky as she sways into me. “Mine?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, um.” She swallows. “I don’t… have a story yet.”
“Do you know what I think?”
I add a lamp to the cart, then explain when Bee frowns in confusion. “It’s for you. I know you like to read at night, but you don’t like the main lights. This way you could read on the couch if you wanted to.”
I’m damn near exploding with the need to kiss her perfect mouth.
I push away.
Jesus fucking Christ, I need help.
“I think,” I start, before clearing my throat and moving toward the checkout. “That’s bullshit. Everyone has a story.”
The cashier huffs a laugh as I load up the conveyorbelt, and Bee’s cheeks flare pink, but I’m not letting her off the hook that easy. If she wants to learn how to be unapologetically herself, it starts here. In owning who she is.
Because the way I see it, she’s phenomenal.
“And if you don’t already see how incredible yours is, I’d be happy to show you.” There’s so much I wish she could see, so many ways I want to prove to her how deserving she is. But for now, I make do with brushing the tips of my fingers down her arm. “Your dreams are valid, Bee. More than that, they’re as beautiful as the dreamer. Don’t dull them for other people, and don’t stop yourself from chasing them.” She’s beautiful. I wonder how I’ll ever look at anyone else. “Dream big. Throw yourself amongst the stars. Let them shine as brightly as you do.”
For a moment, we stay just as we are while the steady beep and rustle of the store continues around us.
Bee’s voice is just above a whisper. “How do you do that?”
“What?”
“Have such faith in me?”
I smile. “It’s easy. Because you’re you.”
Her eyes fall closed, a frown forming. “Sebastian.”
