Page 119 of Don't Make Me Beg
I shake my head. “Nothing. I was just in my head.” I grab a fresh paintbrush and dip it in black paint, then carefully sign my name at the bottom.
It’s the night before the festival, and I’m sitting cross-legged on the sofa, freshly showered, eating a bowl of ramen as we load the schedules onto the iPads and double-check that everyone’s information is accounted for.
For as chill as Luka seems to be on the surface, he’s a lot more tense than you’d expect. I wouldn’t go as far as to say he seems stressed, but from the number of times he’s texted Ivy and asked for her feedback over the changes he’s made in the past week, I’d say he’s definitely taking his role seriously.
It was so cute seeing his nerd brain in action as he explained the new automations he added to the scheduling spreadsheet, making it completely interactive with only a click of a button.
Sometimes I forget how smart he is, but then I get a glimpse of him working in his zone of genius, and I’m reminded of how he was able to accomplish so much in so little time.
It amazes me, and I can’t help but feel the tiniest twinge of jealousy that he’s discovered his calling in life.
“Are you excited for tomorrow?” I ask.
“Yeah. I think so.” He looks up from the iPad he’s working on. “Are you?”
“Mostly…” I admit, fumbling with my chopsticks as the noodles slip through.
Luka stays quiet as he waits for me to continue.
I swallow hard, then finally say. “I’m nervous about the mural reveal. What if they don’t like it?”
He places the iPad down and shifts to face me, giving me his full attention. “Are you crazy? Of course they will.” Luka clicks his tongue and places his bowl of ramen down on the coffee table. “Talk to me. What’s going on in that pretty head ofyours?” His eyes search mine, like he’s searching my soul for the answers.
I blow out a breath and finally admit my fear out loud. “I don’t know… I guess I’m just… sad that it’s over.”
He chuckles quietly, then finally says, “You’ve always been like this, you know.”
“Been like what?”
A small smile pulls at the corner of his lips as he gives me a knowing look. “It’s cute that you’re so predictable.” He rustles my hair playfully. “You always get sad when things end. While everyone else sees regular endings as a change in direction, you see it as the end of a story.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
He shakes his head and smiles. “No, it’s not a bad thing. I think your heart’s just bigger than everyone else’s. You feel emotions at a higher intensity than everyone else.” His green eyes lock on mine. “It’s your superpower, and it’s one of my favorite things about you.”
My chest fills with warmth at his compliment. “I don’t know… It kind of feels more like a weakness than a superpower.”
“Nah, caring too much is never a bad thing. You just need to make sure you’re caring about the right things, that’s all.” He pulls me toward him and tips my chin up to meet his eyes. “What are you really worried about?”
I blow out a sigh. There’s no use hiding it. This man sees right through me anyway. “This mural has given me purpose and finishing it feels like staring at a blank page. I’ve lost everything I’ve spent my whole life working toward, and once I close this chapter, I’m not sure what comes next.”
“Well, what do you want?”
It’s a simple question, but there’s nothing simple about the anxiety it elicits inside me. I feel my heart begin to race, my palms growing sweaty.
I shake my head. “I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before,” I say honestly.
“What did you see yourself doing when you were younger?”
I tap my finger to my lip pretending to think, as if we both don’t already know the answer to that question. “Let’s see… at first I wanted to be a ballerina, and then a professional hockey player…”
“You know what I mean,” he chides.
“Fine,” I say on a sigh. “I always pictured myself as an artist.” I shake my head. “But that’s not a real job. I may as well have stuck with ballerina, as practical as that is.”
“What do you mean it’s not a job?” Luka looks like I’ve just insulted him. He gets up and walks to the kitchen, and when he returns, he’s holding a checkbook in his hand. “What if I wrote you a check right now?” He scribbles on the paper, then tears it off. “There. Now tell me being an artist isn’t a real job.”
I stare down at the check in my hand, made out to Scout Kingsley for one hundred thousand dollars. “Luka, this doesn’t… this doesn’t count, and you know it.”
