“A career?” Her friend frowned at the word. “Forgive me, I know you enjoy what you do, but I’ve always gotten the sense you were merely passing time at the theater, waiting for something better to come along. Maybe this is your something better.
It would be better if she could walk away from this conversation. Brontë must enjoy this moment of payback, turning the tables in retribution for the unsolicited advice Aila had forced upon her friend when she struggled with her growing feelings for Tris. Being the voice of reason was far preferable.
“Argue all ye like. In the end, I have to ken I can still be me. I cannae lose who I am. I’m no’ sure that’s possible there. Simple as that.”
“I would argue there’s a chance you might find yourself instead.”
Exasperation pursed Aila’s lips. “This isnae a game ofwhat ifs, Brontë.”
“I’m not trying to make light of your worries. I’m trying to give you a chance for love. Happiness. If it turned out you didn’t like it there, there are options. Tris and I have found a balance that works for us both,” her friend suggested. “Maybe something like that could work for you.”
“It’s no’ only Finn I have to think about.” Others she had the potential to hurt. “He has bairns, a family. They cannae be jumping back and forth like ye.”
“Maybe they could come here to stay?”
Aila stared out the window and pictured Finn in her time. He’d hate floundering in the unknown, hate being helpless in a modern world. “He’d never do it. Finn is a man who likes to control his own destiny.”
“So you’d rather not even try?” Brontë asked softly. “When you love some—”
“Ye think I’m in love with him?” Aila cringed away as if it were catching. She retraced her steps to the sideboard and refilled her glass. “Och, nay! That’s no’ it at all.”
“Isn’t it? You were always trying to set me up. Swipe right, swipe right. What a nag you were.” Brontë laughed again. “You wanted me to find love, yet always told me I was mental for chasing it. More to the point you wanted me to find what you hadn’t been able to. Well, my friend, your white knight has literally come into your life. Are you really going to sit there and deny it when you practically cried simply speaking his name? What are you afraid of?”
Aila returned to her chair and sat, staring into the full glass. “I’m no’ afraid. Maybe it’s as simple as the fact I dinnae love him enough to give up my life for him.”
When her friend spoke again, her voice was low. “You say you can always tell when I’m lying. That street goes both ways.” Brontë took the untouched glass from her and took a sip, grimaced and set it aside. “You want to know what I think?”
She shook her head. “Nay, I dinnae. No’ a bit.”
“I’m going to tell you anyway. You’re afraid of admitting you love him because you see it as a sign of weakness.”
The words hit so hard, Aila flinched. By God, Brontë had her spot on, didn’t she?
“You don’t want to be wrong.” Brontë jabbed a finger in her direction. “You don’t want to be vulnerable. Andyoudon’t want to be the one who’s hurt in the end.”
Aila ran her hands over her face. Gah, Brontë was right. Truth of the matter, she’d hadn’t fled from the past because of some overinflated fear of life in a sexist world. Her flight had been fueled by fear of her own feelings, the uncertainty of how Finn might use them against her.
Love was vulnerability. Vulnerability was weakness. It allowed a person’s emotions to be weaponized against them. She’d seen it happen to her mother time and again. Her mother would throw her tattered heart at the feet of every man who came and went through the revolving door of their lives and let them trample it. It had gained her nothing beyond a life of emotional servitude and a slow painful death without one of those bastards at her side to comfort her.
Aila had no intention of ever putting herself in such a position. She wasn’t going to change who she was for a man. She wasn’t going to give who she was completely over to one as if she had no value. If it turned out that Finn expected her to be something she wasn’t and never would be, it would break her heart. That’s what it boiled down to, didn’t it? Even worse, what if she let this thing between them become a relationship, and then decided she couldn’t live in a world with those same expectations?
She couldn’t bear the thought of causing Finn a moment’s pain.
Ifshe permitted it to become a relationship.
And she wouldn’t…couldn’t take that chance. For herself. Especially forhim.
Brontë scoffed as if she could read Aila’s thoughts. “You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever known. As much as I love you, you have this whole love thing wrong. It won’t kill you.”
“Ye cannae ken that,” she argued. “Love nearly killed my mother before the cancer got to her. It hit her in the face, kicked her in the ribs, and broke her arm when she dinnae do something right. I swore I’d never be like her, giving everything I had for nothing.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be nothing. Maybe in that crusty cookie layer is a man worthy of your trust and faith.” Brontë popped the rest of the candy into her mouth. “Are you truly going to let your future happiness hang in the balance because you’re too afraid to try? You don’tknowthat he would want you to change. You don’tknowthat he wouldn’t love you as you are.”
“That’s precisely the problem,” Aila retorted, ready to curl into a ball against the barrage of arrows her friend slung at her. “I dinnae ken. No’ a single thing.”
“Then go find out.” Her friend wedged herself into the chair with Aila and hugged her close. “As Tris said a little while ago, perhaps the treasure Donell wanted you to find was a different sort than the one you expected.”
Aila hugged her back. “Gah, I hate ye.”
