Page 10 of The Runaway and the Rugged
I knew I wasn’t destined to be a comedian or anything, but I always had a gut feeling that Nathaniel was the one who lacked humor.
And I think Beau just proved my theory right.
“So what is it you do then?”
Once his laugh had dwindled, the weight of his question began to sink in. Not often was I asked what my profession was. Even in the company of Nathaniel's friends and colleagues, most of them were uninterested in knowing anything about me. They just saw me as a woman who was lucky enough to have caught his attention. But in the moments I found myself lost in thought, I often wondered what my life would be like if I would have never met Nathaniel. If I’d finally have a degree and be living somewhere on my own,
“I, uh… I don’t really…” I stammered, unsure of how to respond without sounding like a complete leech. In the beginning it sounded great to be taken care of emotionally and financially. Especially at the ripe age of eighteen when I was desperately trying to figure out what I wanted out of life.
But as time passed, I found myself further immersed in the lavish, controlled lifestyle of Nathaniel. Where anything you could have ever wanted was more than attainable, yet seemed impossibly out of reach. I was no longer the bright-eyed, naivegirl whose head was filled with endless dreams and possibilities, and instead was a woman who was desperately clinging to the hope that one day that same girl would reemerge.
“It’s complicated,” my stare darted downward as a torrent of humiliation engulfed me.
God, what he must think of me.
One word,weak.
“Hey, I get it.” He nudged me softly with his shoulder. “None of my business.”
He was right. It wasn’t his business, but that didn’t stop a pit from forming in my stomach. It wasn’t his fault for asking a perfectly reasonable question, if anything it was mine for being so careless to my future self who desperately yearned for more out of life.
It wasn’t like my regrets didn’t replay endlessly in my head, but more so I chose to ignore them until times like these when I was reminded.
“What’s your story?” I somehow managed to claw my way out the discomfort hovering in my gut and diverted the question over to him.
“Not much to tell, really. I suppose I’m just your typical small-town boy born and raised in Dusty Meadows.” He shot a brief smile in my direction before refocusing back on the road.
I eagerly waited for more, but it never came.
“That’s it?” I teased. “I think anyone could have guessed that.”
He laughed.
“Oh yeah? Well, let’s hear it then, sunshine. What do you think my story is?”
“Hm, okay. Well, let's see here.” A hint of a smile lifted on my mouth. “You’re Dusty Meadows’s notorious bad boy. A natural flirt, and a magnet for trouble.”
He scoffed teasingly.
“And judging by all the marks on your hands, I’d say that you're a tradesman? Maybe a builder?”
“Not a builder, but good eye, sunshine. I do work with my hands,” he added, flexing his fingers along the steering wheel while shooting me a wink.
I rolled my eyes, “You like to hide behind humor. The flirting, the joking, it's all a defense mechanism to distance yourself from your emotions. You’ve done it for so long, you do it without even thinking now.” As soon as the words came out, I regretted them.
I had no room to talk about defense mechanisms when I used them myself.
It was the pot calling the kettle black.
I watched his jaw go taut and his relaxed composure went stiff.
Crap.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that,” I whispered as my hands found their way into my lap.
It felt like an eternity before he responded. Even the loud rumbling of the truck's engine wasn’t enough to eliminate the tension until finally he let out a laugh.
“Damn.” He chuckled, drawing my attention to his palm that was kneading his chest.
