Chapter 160: The Hardest Conversation

Chapter 160: The Hardest Conversation

The next two hours crawled by with all the urgency of a sleepy snail on vacation. I sat behind my desk with an open manuscript in front of me, my laptop glowing patiently, and a blinking cursor waiting for comments that never came. Normally, I could lose myself completely in editing. Missing commas, awkward dialogue, plot holes—I noticed them all within minutes. Today? I had reread the same paragraph six times and still couldn't remember a single word of it. My entire brain had abandoned literature in favor of rehearsing approximately one hundred different versions of the same conversation. Every few minutes, my eyes drifted upward toward the desk directly opposite mine. Elliot sat exactly where he always did, typing viciously on his laptop with the intensity of a man personally fighting every grammatical error in existence. His fingers flew across the keyboard at frightening speed while his expression shifted between concentration, mild annoyance, and occasional triumphant satisfaction whenever he apparently defeated another particularly stubborn sentence. Meanwhile, I was engaged in an entirely different battle—the impossible task of figuring out how to tell my best friend that I would soon be leaving for Scotland.
I rested my chin on one hand and watched him over the edge of my monitor. Maybe I should just tell him immediately, I thought. Rip the bandage off. Quick. Painless. Efficient. My imagination immediately betrayed me. "Elliot," I'd say casually. "Small announcement. I'll be in Scotland next week helping Aunt Helena with a wedding." He'd stop typing. Slowly remove his glasses. Fold his hands together like a detective who had just caught a suspect contradicting themselves. Then would come the questions. Endless questions. "Which wedding?" "Why you?" "Why Scotland?" "Why didn't your aunt hire an actual wedding planner?" "How long have you known?" Somewhere around question twenty-three, I'd accidentally blurt out Grayson's name, and Elliot would experience the kind of dramatic emotional collapse usually reserved for daytime television. I grimaced. "...Absolutely not." Plan A officially died before it ever had the chance to exist.
Fine. New approach. Casual conversation. I'd wait until lunch. We'd be discussing manuscripts, coffee, or Elliot's ongoing campaign against semicolons, and I'd casually slip it into the conversation. "Oh, by the way, I won't be here next week." That sounded natural. Didn't it? My imagination immediately replayed the scene. Elliot would freeze halfway through sipping his coffee. "Why?" he'd ask suspiciously. "Scotland." Another pause. "Why Scotland?" I'd smile politely. "Wedding." He'd narrow his eyes. "...Whose wedding?" I'd answer. Then he'd ask another question. Then another. Then another. Before long, we'd have abandoned lunch entirely and he'd be constructing an evidence board using sticky notes, red string, and alarming amounts of misplaced determination. By the end of the afternoon, he'd somehow conclude that I was secretly eloping despite the inconvenient detail that I wasn't actually engaged to anyone. I slowly rubbed my temples. "...Why is every imaginary conversation with him so exhausting?"
Across the room, Elliot suddenly let out a victorious whisper. "Ha!" His fingers hit the keyboard one final time before he leaned back in his chair with unmistakable satisfaction. "Take that." I blinked. "...Take what?" He looked up. "Chapter twenty-two." I nodded slowly. "Congratulations." "The villain's motivation finally makes sense." "I'm happy for him." Elliot frowned. "...Are you all right?" My spine straightened so quickly it was honestly a medical miracle. "Me?" I laughed a little too loudly. "Of course!" He stared at me for a second longer before turning back toward his laptop. "You're acting weird." "I'm not acting weird." "You just congratulated a fictional villain." "...He's worked very hard." Elliot gave me one of those deeply suspicious looks that made me feel as though he could somehow hear every guilty thought inside my head. Then, thankfully, his email notification chimed, distracting him just long enough for me to release the breath I'd been holding. That was close.
I slumped lower in my chair once Elliot's attention returned to his screen. This was hopeless. Completely and utterly hopeless. Arthur had believed my explanation in less than fifteen minutes. Aunt Helena had confidently declared she could handle everything. I had walked into work that morning convinced the hardest part was already behind me. Yet here I was, two hours later, still incapable of speaking a single sentence to the man sitting less than ten feet away. I glanced toward the folder inside my desk containing my approved leave request and silently sighed. Getting permission to leave the country had somehow been easier than finding the courage to tell one overly protective friend about it. "You're impossible," I muttered under my breath, though whether I was talking about Elliot or myself, I honestly couldn't say. 
By the time the office clock crept toward five in the afternoon, I'd successfully accomplished absolutely nothing. The manuscript on my screen remained almost completely untouched, my coffee had gone cold over an hour ago, and the speech I'd been mentally rehearsing all afternoon had evolved into approximately forty-seven different versions, each somehow more disastrous than the last. Across from me, Elliot was blissfully unaware of the emotional crisis unfolding less than ten feet away. He had long since moved on to another manuscript, occasionally muttering things like, "Who uses three adverbs in one sentence?" and, "This plot twist should be illegal." Under normal circumstances, I'd happily join his commentary. Today, however, I couldn't hear a single word. Every time I looked at him, all I could think was, He's going to hate this. Not because I was going to Scotland. Because I hadn't found the courage to tell him.
I quietly closed the leave request folder and slipped it into my desk drawer before anyone could accidentally see it. Then I looked at Elliot again. He was laughing softly at something on his laptop, completely relaxed, completely unsuspecting. Guilt twisted uncomfortably inside my chest. "I can't do it," I whispered to myself. I genuinely couldn't. The more I imagined opening my mouth, the more convinced I became that I'd ruin everything before I even reached the word Scotland. He'd ask questions I wasn't prepared to answer. He'd notice the hesitation in my voice. He'd somehow connect every tiny detail until he reached the one name I was desperately trying not to mention. And then... the entire carefully constructed plan Aunt Helena had created would collapse before it had even begun. I rested my forehead against my monitor for a brief moment. "I'm a terrible liar," I muttered. "A catastrophically terrible liar."
Then, almost without warning, a different thought drifted into my mind. What if I don't tell him now? I slowly lifted my head. The idea settled quietly into place, almost cautiously, as though afraid I'd reject it. I wouldn't have to lie to his face. I wouldn't have to answer impossible questions while standing in the middle of the editorial department. By the time he knew, I'd already be there. In Scotland. Thousands of miles away. If he became dramatic—and he absolutely would—there would be an entire ocean separating us. The thought was strangely comforting. I could call him the moment I landed. Explain everything calmly. Tell him Aunt Helena genuinely needed my help with the wedding. By then, there would be nothing he could do except complain very, very loudly over the phone. I frowned thoughtfully. "...Actually..." I tapped my finger against the desk. "...that's not completely unreasonable."
The decision settled over me with equal parts relief and guilt. Relief because the impossible conversation no longer had to happen today. Guilt because Elliot deserved better than a phone call after I'd already boarded an international flight. I knew that. He was my closest friend. He worried about me because he cared, not because he wanted to control my life. But I also knew him well enough to predict exactly what would happen if I told him before leaving. He'd spend the next several days trying to convince me not to go. He'd produce arguments, statistics, hypothetical scenarios, and probably at least one color-coded presentation. By the end of it, I wouldn't know whether I was making my own decision anymore or simply surrendering to his relentless persistence. "...I'll call him as soon as I land," I whispered quietly, trying to convince myself as much as anyone else. "He'll be angry..." I sighed. "...But at least he'll know I'm safe."
I glanced across the office one final time. Elliot looked up just then and caught me staring. He smiled absentmindedly. "Everything okay?" My heart squeezed painfully. I smiled back, hoping it looked convincing enough. "Yeah," I replied softly. "...Everything's fine." He nodded, accepted the answer without another question, and returned to his laptop. I watched him for another second before lowering my gaze to my own desk. "I'm sorry," I murmured so quietly that only I could hear it. Then I reached for the manuscript in front of me, determined to focus on work at last. Scotland was no longer just an invitation. It was becoming real. And whether it was the best decision or the worst one, there was no turning back now. The next time Elliot learned where I was... I'd already be standing on Scottish soil.