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“My negligible career ambitions, my reckless financial instability, how unrealistic it is to live off my art, how unwise I am to keep working for a business that’s constantly courting bankruptcy.” At least my dad’s efficient. He hit all his favorite talking points in one message. “And that part’s completely untrue. Dogeared is doing amazing.”
“Slights against the bookstore are the least of my concerns.” Miles tips his head closer until I meet his eyes. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
I love the vehemence in his usually calm voice. It’s a nice contrast to the condescension that rang out loud and clear in my dad’s.
“He’s not totally wrong, though. I don’t have huge ambitions. I just want to make art and read books and be happy.” I try for a laugh, but it comes out a snort. Like even I don’t believe I can achieve that much.
“You should quit the bookstore.”
My mouth drops open, but I snap it shut and squirm out of his grasp to walk across my living room. This again? “Miles Forrester, stop trying to fire me.”
His mouth twitches into something like a smile. “I would never fire you. But you should quit so you can makecovers full time.”
My heart squeezes. That’s the job description I’ve been working toward these last few years:Georgia Donnelly, Illustrator. But I can’t pretend my dad doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He didn’t build his seven-figure company without learning a few things about smart business choices.
Going totally out on my ownisreckless. I want to…but I don’t want it to fast-track me to debt and disappointment. And I’ve got this troubling fear that the second my art becomes my entire job, it will lose its magic.
And anyway, I’ve invested a lot of time and energy at Dogeared. I can’t just abandon Miles to go do my own thing.
“Are you saying you don’t need me?” I cock a hip against my kitchen counter because I know I have him. Not to brag, but he couldn’t have breathed new life into that store without me.
His mouth flattens into a thin line. “I would never say that.”
“See?” I toss a hand up at him. “As long as you need me, I’m staying.”
He slowly approaches me across the room. “Okay. You’re staying. But try to put your dad’s opinions out of your head.”
Some of my swagger fades. “It isn’t easy.”
“I know. I wish…” He moves one hand like he’s going to touch my face or brush my hair out of my eyes—something—but stops himself. He balls his hand into a fist and drops it to his side. “Your father should support and encourage you. He should always have your back, no matter what. He should be defending you, not cutting you down.”
“Maybe in a parallel universe.” I try to exhale out all my frustration, but it doesn’t work. I hate that Dad’s low opinions still get to me even after years of telling myself I don’t care. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain when you…”
It’s unfair Miles had such a great dad but so little time with him. I sound like a brat whining “my daddy’s not being nice tome” when Miles would do anything for one more minute with his.
Drunk drivers are the literal worst.
“We don’t do that. We don’t need to compare our past hurts.”
“I know. You’re right.” He’s told me that every time it comes up, but I still feel like a jerk. “Can I have a hug?”
This look comes across Miles’s face as thoughhe’sthe one who’s being comforted—it’s tender and sweet and just makes me want to hug him even more than usual.
He doesn’t say anything, but he wraps me in his arms. I burrow in, sighing against him. Sometime in the last three years, I learned what a great hugger he is and developed a slight addiction. He holds me close like he’ll never let go—none of this “loose hands, almost ready to pull away” nonsense some guys do. He goes all in for as long as I need.
I take slow breaths, safe in my cocoon, and try to forget Dad’s message. Miles’s heartbeat at my ear soothes me until I feel like myself again. I hold on even longer, soaking in the goodness. I have so few high-quality huggers in my life. I don’t give up the experience easily.
But eventually, I let him go. I can’t use my boss/best friend’s hugs as free therapy forever.
Or can I?
No.
“Want to see my latest cover?”
His half-smile is a sparkler dancing around in my chest.
“Always.”
