by Emily Henry
She shrugs and toys with her hair. It’s like watching a Twilight Zone version of tennis in which hereditary mannerisms are being volleyed back and forth. “I just don’t.”
“Coco, you’ve worked so hard for this,” Mom says. “A performing arts school—”
“You let Natalie quit dance,” Coco says, and now even Dad looks up.
“You want to quit altogether?” he says.
“No . . . I just don’t want it to be my whole life, is all.”
Jack officially checks out of the conversation when he starts dropping linguine noodles under the table for Gus, who’s always on top of our feet while we eat. Mom sighs and runs her hands through her hair before addressing Coco again. “Well, your father and I will have to talk.”
Per usual, Mom’s fighting for a serene expression, though it’s obvious that internally she’s sobbing and wondering what anti-dance god has cursed her family.
At the end of dinner, Jack ambles off to play video games, and Coco goes to pack for a sleepover at Abby’s, leaving me to help Mom and Dad carry the dishes into the kitchen. When the dishwasher’s loaded, I lean against the island, send a prayer to Grandmother, and force out the words “Can I talk to you guys for a second?”
“Sure, honey,” Mom says. They must think it’s bad because Mom leads the way to their bedroom. The rest of the house is clean and quaint, carefully designed to look homey without being cluttered, warm without being stifling, and country without being hick, but Mom and Dad never bothered giving their own room the same attention. It’s clean but not neat, the dresser covered in mail and the plaid chairs beyond the bed loaded with clean laundry. The walls are the same eggshell color they were when Mom and Dad bought the house, and the bedding, curtains, side tables, and lamps are so unintentionally mismatched that the aesthetic can’t even be called “eclectic.” When Mom picks up new pieces from estate sales and antique stores, the furniture being replaced typically comes up here to die. If Pier 1 Imports sponsored a production of The Lion King, this is where the hyenas would live.
As I follow Mom and Dad around the bed, I think about Beau’s credenza, the singular bright spot in a room I know I’d find depressing if not for the person who lives in it. Unlike Mom, I’ve never happy-cried over pretty furniture, but seeing something Beau made with his hands—that wouldn’t exist without him—turned me into goop. I think right then he could’ve told me he was the one who spread out the stars and I would have been neither surprised nor any more impressed than I already was. Thinking about that night makes my insides feel warm and mushy and a little achy all over again. It’s not why this conversation’s so important, but it is helping me go through with it. I want those three extra weeks. I want them so badly.
Mom perches on the edge of the bed and pats the blankets beside her. I sit down, and Dad eases into one of the chairs across from me.
“I’ve been seeing a counselor,” I say.
“You have?” Mom says. “Dr. Langdon?”
“No, not Dr. Langdon. She works at NKU. I found her online, and she specializes in . . . my issues, I guess.”
“How are you paying for it?” Dad says.
“It’s free. I mean, it’s helping Al—Dr. Chan with her research, so it’s sort of a trade.”
“Oh.” Mom nods encouragingly. “That’s great, honey. Isn’t that great, Patrick?”
“It’s great,” Dad confirms, but his eyes are discerning, and I know he senses there’s more to it than what I’ve said.
“We’ve been making real progress,” I go on, “but we’re not finished, and . . .” I gather my courage and push forward. “And I want to keep seeing her for as long as I can.”
“Would she be open to that?” Mom says. “Long-distance sessions? Maybe video chat or something?”
“No,” I say.
“Maybe she could recommend someone near Providence then.”
I sigh and crack my knuckles. “Actually, I had another idea.”
When I’ve spit it all out, at least the parts that leave out eerie warnings and alternate realities, Mom and Dad just stare blankly at me. To my surprise, Dad speaks first. “Well, sugar, sounds like you’ve made up your mind.”
Mom looks up at him, her face frozen in something that resembles terror. She swallows audibly and tries to compose herself. “Honey, I thought you loved this trip.”
“I do,” I hurry to say before Mom’s spirit can wilt. “And I’ll be really, really sad to miss it. But this is really, really important to me. If I’m going to go to Brown, I feel like I need it.”
“If?” Mom’s voice cracks. “What do you mean, if ?”
Dad clears his throat again. “You’re going to Brown, Natalie. It’s settled. We didn’t take out a small fortune of loans for nothing.”
“That’s not what I meant. I just . . . There are things I need to resolve before I go. Please just trust me.”
“Honey, we do trust you,” Mom says, running her fingers frantically through her hair. “We let you go to parties, you don’t have a curfew, we do our best not to pry even though it kills us not knowing where you are every second of the day because we know you’re a good kid and you’re smart and if you make mistakes, you’ll come to us. This isn’t about trusting you. It’s about our family, and this trip’s important to us.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s important for me too, and I hope I’ll never have to miss another one. But I’m going through some things right now—”
“You can talk to us,” Mom says, shaking her head.
“I can’t,” I say, and Mom looks utterly crestfallen. Her eyes gloss over at the same instant they dart toward Dad’s. He’s just staring at me, reading me like I’m a horse, as he probably has been all summer. “It’s not you guys. It’s me. I’m not ready to talk to you about some things, and I need that to be okay.”
Mom wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand, and Dad comes to sit beside her, pulling her against his side. “That part is okay, sugar,” he says. “Just give us some time to think about it.” Mom nods along, and I lean against her side.
“I do love the trip.”
“Except the board games,” Dad says. “You hate those.”
“I never said that,” I argue.
“You didn’t have to. You’re our kid. We’ve got your number.”
Mom and Dad give me the okay at dinner on Monday, four days before the trip.
“Under one condition,” Mom says.
“Anything.”
“You have to stay with someone,” Dad says. “Adults. We don’t want you here all alone while we’re across the country.”
“We talked to Megan’s parents,” Mom adds. “The Phillipses are happy to have you.”
“Megan’s not even home,” I remind them.
“Not the point,” Dad says. “You need some semblance of supervision.”
I don’t point out that Megan’s parents are the definition of “hands-off.” Megan’s been joking that they probably haven’t even noticed she’s gone yet. “Okay,” I quickly agree. “I’ll stay with the Phillipses. That’s perfect.”
“Good. We’ll be back on the twenty-first,” Mom says. “We’ll have to make the most of our last week together.”
I get up and throw my arms around them both. “Thank you so much.”
“We’re just happy you’re taking care of yourself, honey,” Mom says. “If three weeks apart can make a difference, then so be it.”
“I promise you it will,” I say. Three more weeks to work, three more weeks with Beau. As sad and strange as it will be to miss the trip, this is the best parting gift my parents could have given me. I’m going to find a way to make these three weeks stretch and last, use every second to make a memory I can hold on to. “Thank you.”
Dad stands behind Mom’s chair and squeezes her shoulders. “It’ll be good practice for us, for
while you’re at Brown. Where you will be going. No matter what.”
Beau comes to pick me up that night, same as always, but this time he’s still covered in grease from work and his eyes are bloodshot.
“Hey,” I say, climbing in beside him.
“Hey.”
“You look tired.”
“You look beautiful.”
I turn my smile down toward my lap. “I have news.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“I’m skipping out on family vacation,” I answer, meeting his eyes. “I have a few more weeks here.”
“Really?” The barest hint of smile climbs up the side of his mouth, and I want to do whatever it takes to make it stay. “We gotta celebrate.”
“Oh, we do?”
He nods. “However you want. It’s your night.”
“Anything?”
He nods. “Name it.”
I glance out the window, considering asking for the moon or the stars, but tonight the small things Beau can give me are bigger and brighter than the lights in the sky. “Cereal,” I announce, and Beau laughs and pushes my chin down with his thumb.
His voice lowers, softens, filling the car with heat. “You wanna come over for cereal, Natalie Cleary?”
“I do, Beau Wilkes.”
We drive in silence, and when we get to Beau’s house, we see his brother’s Buick parked outside, headlights on and glowing across the unkempt, weed-ridden lawn. Beau leads me inside, the screen door whining, and the man I saw fall-down drunk a couple of weeks ago sits up on the dull brown couch, lifting a beer bottle into the air in greeting. “Who’s this?” he says.
“Mason, this is Natalie,” Beau says. “Natalie, this is my brother.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
Mason furrows his brow over his already squinty eyes. “Natalie.” He nods sharply. “Why don’t you go get a beer out of the fridge and come tell me what a girl like you is doing hangin’ out with my brother?”
“I lost a bet,” I say, following Beau straight through the living room.
“No doubt,” Mason calls after us. “When you get sick of him, I’ll be here.”
“Left your headlights on,” Beau calls back.
We don’t go to the kitchen, and instead head down the unlit hall toward Beau’s bedroom. He crouches in the corner between his bed and the Holy Credenza, twisting on the lamp sitting on the floor. I stand in the doorway, chest heavy, as I watch the sharp lines of muscle shift across Beau’s back under his shirt. He sits back on the bed and says, “You gonna come in?”
I close the door behind me and sit beside him, staring into the browns and greens and golds of his eyes before my gaze travels down over his neck and shoulders, his chest and stomach, his legs. I look back up and he leans forward over me, his hair falling against my face, his mouth hovering over mine. Slowly, he brings his hand to my cheek. “Hey.”
I cover his hand with mine. “Hey.”
Beau shifts closer to me and gently tips my chin up so we’re breathing into one another, our chests expanding to press against each other with each inhalation. I close my eyes, and his mouth trails down to the hollow of my throat, his tongue brushing my skin. “Beau,” I barely whisper.
He lays me back against the bed and lies over me, his hand skimming down to my hip. “Beau,” I say again into his mouth. His bottom lip catches my top for an instant, making him smile.
“Natalie,” he whispers back.
I lift my fingers up to his neck, and he shudders under my touch. He turns his mouth into my palm and kisses it gently, and my hand slips down to curl around the collar of his T-shirt as he lowers himself until our bodies are aligned, warm against one another, our mouths barely touching. Every space between us aches. Every part of him feels warm and magnetic over me.
We’re both breathing heavily, and I run my lips over his, parting them and leaving another space between our open mouths. “Say my name again,” he says, faintly smiling.
“Beau.” He kisses me. Deeply, softly, warmly. My hands slide up his back as I lift myself closer to him.
“You feel so good,” he says against my ear. I pull his belt loops closer to me, and he groans. I can’t think clearly, and I’m fighting an urge to whisper that I love him. The words replay in my mind as he kisses me more fiercely, and I don’t know if it’s a habit from making out with Matt or if I really do love Beau Wilkes already, but I know I don’t want to run. I know when I’m with him, I want to hold back all the darkness for him, like I feel he does for me.
“Natalie,” Beau murmurs into my hair, his mouth moving down to burrow into my collarbone. “I want you.”
A door slams shut somewhere in the house, and I sit bolt upright, my head colliding with Beau’s. He swears and clutches his head.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I say, clamping a hand over his. He shakes his head and looks over his shoulder to his door, through which we can hear voices. “Who is it?”
Apart from the stern lines between his eyebrows, his expression is wiped clean. “I think it’s my mom.”
He stands up, pulling his rumpled shirt back down over his stomach before running his hands through his hair and smoothing out his face.
“Beau!” a shrill voice calls from down the hall.
He looks over at me apologetically.
“It’s fine,” I say, standing and smoothing my tank top and hair. The corner of his mouth tweaks up, and he crosses toward me, pulling my hips against his. He kisses me on the mouth and then the forehead before leading me into the hallway. We step into the living room, and the woman on the far side of the couch squeals.
“Hey, baby,” she says with a sloppy grin, holding her arms out for a hug. She’s thin with bleached-blond curls and leathery, overly tan skin, dressed in jeans, cowgirl boots, and a tight denim jacket.
Beau looks between her and the burly, bald man standing behind her. “What’re you doin’ here?” he says to his mom.
She glances at Mason on the couch then back to Beau. “That any way to talk to your mama?”
“What’s he doin’ here?” Beau tips his head toward the man, who snakes an arm around Beau’s mom’s waist.
“Tell him, Darlene.”
She holds her left hand up in front of her chest and brandishes a diamond ring. “Bill and I got back together, and—well, baby, we’re married!”
Beau stares at her blankly, and Mason takes a long sip of beer, eyes fixed on the coffee table he has his feet up on. This is when Darlene notices me, leaning around Beau to get a good look at me, her lips pursed. “Hi there,” she says to me, then turns to Beau. “Beau, baby, why don’t you be a gentlemen and take your friend home. It’s time we celebrate, as a family.”
Beau stalks right past her to the front door without a word, and I hurry after him, turning back to say, hastily, “Nice to meet you all,” before chasing him down the steps and to the edge of the moonlit cornfield. He has both hands twisted through his hair, and he’s breathing heavily.
I touch his shoulder and he spins around. “That guy’s scum,” he spits. “What the hell is she thinking, gettin’ back with him?”
“I’m sorry,” I say helplessly.
He drags his hands down his face. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
When we get back to the top of my cul-de-sac, Beau’s still fuming silently. I wonder what happened between him and his mom, or him and Bill, to make him this upset. “Are you going to be okay going back there?” I say softly.
“I’m not goin’ back there.”
“Where are you going?”
He shrugs. “I’ll sleep in my truck.”
I pull his face toward me, and he nestles against the space between my neck and shoulder. “Come inside,” I say. “We can sleep in my closet.”
He tightens his arms around my middle. “I won�
�t sleep if I’m layin’ next to you, Natalie.”
Heat spreads all through me, and my insides start vibrating again. “Then I’ll stay in my room,” I say. “We’ll have a door between us.”
“You think I’ll sleep better layin’ ten feet from you than I will in my truck?”
“Don’t you?”
He laughs, and drags me onto his lap, his hands soft on my hips. “How tired do you feel right now?”
“Like I haven’t slept for four days, and someone just stabbed a shot of adrenaline into my heart.”
“That’s how I feel when I’m at home, miles away, and I think about you.” He brushes a few stray hairs away from my lips and kisses me. “Goodnight, Natalie.”
25
“Why are you glowing?” Alice says flatly when I come into her office.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “Maybe because my parents agreed to let me stay until the end of the summer?”
Alice eyes me skeptically. “You’re screwing the guy from the other world.”
“I am not.”
She holds her hands up in front of her. “Whatever, making love, I don’t care. Just don’t let it get in the way of everything else.”
“I’m not, and it won’t.” I will my blush to fade as I plop down across from her.
“I wonder what would happen if you got pregnant,” she says, eyes growing distant with thought.
“Alice, I’m not having sex with Beau.”
“I’m just saying, do you think the baby would disappear after your Closing? Do you think it would be like you two? Which world would it belong in? It’s actually not a bad idea . . . are you open to getting pregnant?”
“Are you open to me leaving and never coming back?”
She waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t get all bent out of shape. It was just a thought. Anyway, good job buying us time. But three weeks is still not much.”
“It’s not,” I agree. “Maybe we should get to work.”
“How’s the dancing going?”
I shrug. “It feels great. Sometimes we seem to travel forward or backward in time, but I haven’t seen any clues that there’s a third world.”