I learned the hard way that sewing machines need regular cleaning, oiling, and maintenance. If it weren’t for the good people at AllBrands back home, I would’ve had to ship my Singer off when it started eating fabric.
It’s a relief to hear that Vivian—who’s clearly such a success—isn’t good at all the things needed to make her shop work.
“I feel better,” I declare.
Her face brightens. “Do you?”
“Yeah. I don’t have to do it all by myself.”
Vivian’s eyes widen. “Hattie.” She leans in and places a hand on mine. “You can’t do it all by yourself. No one can.”
And hearing this is a relief too.
On the bus ride back to Summit House, I take out my phone and open my chat with Beck. I scroll back to my text from Saturday.
Me: WOULD IT BE OKAY IF I CALLED YOU?
Late Saturday Night:
Me: I GET IT IF YOU DON’T WANT TO TALK TO ME. I GET IT IF YOU ARE ANGRY. MARGARET TOLD ME A COUPLE OF WEEKS AGO THAT I SHOULD CALL YOU.
I COULDN’T CALL YOU THEN. IT’S HARD TO EXPLAIN. BUT NO MATTER WHAT, I SHOULD HAVE AT LEAST RESPONDED TO YOUR TEXTS SO YOU’D KNOW I WAS OKAY.
I TURNED MY PHONE OFF THE DAY I GOT HERE BECAUSE READING YOUR TEXTS WAS TOO TEMPTING. I DIDN’T REALIZE HOW WORRIED YOU’D BE UNTIL I TURNED IT BACK ON AGAIN THE DAY YOU CALLED MARGARET IN HAWAII.
I’M READY TO TALK TO YOU NOW. I UNDERSTAND IF YOU’RE NOT READY TO TALK TO ME.
I NEED YOU TO KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU AND THAT IT’S CRAZY HOW MANY TIMES A DAY I THINK ABOUT YOU.
Rereading it, Saturday night’s message makes me cringe. Not the declaration of love, but my obvious cowardice. My blatant selfishness.
Why didn’t I call him the moment I turned on my phone again? That first Friday I was here? Why didn’t I text him right then and just say, I’M OKAY, BECK. I LOVE YOU, AND I’M OKAY.
I let myself shut down instead, and it wasn’t until an hour later, after a distracted lunch with my group mates, that I saw Margaret’s missed call and called her back.
I called my sister. Not my boyfriend.
Not the man I love.
Shit.
I was so ashamed to…
Fuck.
I scroll past nearly a week of my messages. He’s read them all. And clearly, I haven’t said anything he wants to respond to.
Which is gutting.
I deserve it.
And he may not have texted, but he’s sending me a message all the same. Texting him in the middle of the night like a chicken shit?
It’s not enough.
Of course, it’s not enough.
My first impulse is to call him—as terrifying as that is—but I’m not yet at the next stop, and no one on this bus needs to witness the snot fest that will surely ensue.
