The Beau & The Belle

by Grey, R. S.

  “Can I come in?” she asks, pressing onto her tiptoes to look over my shoulder.

  What is she looking for?

  I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Lauren.”

  Her face falls and her gaze meets the ground, as if she’s embarrassed that I’d feel the need to condescend to her about obvious boundaries.

  “Just for a quick talk,” she insists, pushing against the door with both hands. “It’s kind of an emergency.”

  What kind of game is she playing? Oh, that’s right, the get-Beau-evicted game.

  Her face lights up when I don’t put up a resistance, and she doesn’t give me time to change my mind. She scurries into my apartment and I whip the door closed fast, my heart racing as if I’ve already done something wrong. Haven’t I?

  When I turn, she’s standing in the center of my apartment, spinning in a circle on her bare feet.

  “Huh, I thought you would decorate it or something,” she says, inspecting the space.

  “I did,” I quip, pointing to the stack of textbooks on the coffee table.

  She laughs and shakes her head. “That’s not what I mean. Where are your photos and stuff?”

  I have a stack of photos sitting in a box in my closet, snapshots of my dad and me when I was little. They’re private. Precious. I keep them put away for a reason.

  I brush my hand across the stubble dotting my chin. “Why’d you come over here, Lauren? What’s your so-called emergency?”

  It sure as shit wasn’t the need to discuss my décor.

  She turns to face me and her hazel eyes catch mine.

  “I wanted to apologize.”

  Her words are the last thing I was expecting.

  She takes a step toward me, and her eyes fall to my bare feet. Her tongue wets her lips, and I wonder if she realizes what she’s doing or if it’s a subconscious response to being in my apartment, alone with me.

  “Apologize for what?”

  My voice sounds gruff, filled with something I’d rather not name.

  “At dinner…Preston—well, he was acting like a real jerk and I didn’t want you to think that I hang out with people like that…that I’m like that.”

  “He wasn’t so bad,” I assure her. “He was just throwing a tantrum.”

  She scoffs in disbelief. “Yeah, but he crossed a line.”

  “Well if you think he’s so rude,” I continue, “why do you hang out with him? Why do you want to impress him?”

  She turns away. “I don’t know. I think I keep hoping he’ll turn into something he’s not.” There’s a long pause and then she continues without looking at me, “Someone like you.”

  I’m in uncertain waters, so I revert to lawyer mode and continue asking questions. “And what am I, exactly?”

  “I don’t know how to put it…someone genuine, someone who tries—a hero.”

  I can’t help but smile at her assessment. “I’m not a hero, Lauren.”

  “You look like one.”

  I swallow and try to keep my gaze away from her bare legs, the smooth skin that runs from her delicate ankle up the length of her calf…higher. She is not a little girl.

  But she’s not yet a woman, either, I remind myself.

  “Beau?” she asks.

  My eyes flick up and I realize she’s turned and caught me staring at her legs.

  My heart pounds in my chest and I fist my hands by my sides. Suddenly, I regret holing myself up in this apartment and focusing so much on school. I should be dating, fucking women my own age. I wouldn’t be having this reaction to a goddamn McGehee girl if I hadn’t abstained for the last few months.

  “Do you want me to go?” she asks breathily. She knows she’s in over her head.

  “Yes, and don’t tell your—” I start, before remembering that I haven’t done anything untoward. “You shouldn’t have come in the first place.”

  But she doesn’t leave, and I don’t kick her out. We stand there with half an apartment’s worth of distance between us and—against the guidance of the angel on my shoulder—I’m imagining what that thigh would feel like under my palm, like smooth butter or spun silk.

  “The other day when I asked you if you would have appreciated a girl who knew how to lead, you said you would. You said you’d want a girl who was confident and bold.”

  I see what’s about to happen as if half of my brain is processing the next few seconds through an alternate timeline. I see her working up the confidence to cross the room toward me, to tip up all the way up on her toes and plant a kiss—probably her first kiss—on my mouth. She’d tremble in my arms, give me anything I wanted. I could take and take and take even though she’d have no clue what she was giving.

  Back in reality, she steps toward me and I hold up my hand.

  “Lauren.”

  Her name comes out sharply, like a heavy door slamming shut. It’s a warning, a bucket of cold water. This isn’t going to happen like it does in the movies she’s seen. She is too innocent, too pure.

  24 hours ago, she would have given anything to go to the movies with Preston, to hold hands with Preston, to…I don’t know, share a fucking banana split with Preston. Now here she is, making clumsy moves on a man she hardly knows. If anything can remind me of her glaring youth, it’s her capacity for caprice.

  “You need to go,” I say, moving back to my door and whipping it open.

  She pauses as she steps past me, reaching out for my fist, but I move it away before she can touch me. That way, when I see Mr. LeBlanc tomorrow, I can still look him in the eye, man to man.

  “No one is a hero, Lauren—not me, and definitely not Preston,” I say, tone rough and clear. Her brows furrow as I continue, “Guard your heart and focus on school—that’s what’s important.”

  She doesn’t look as upset as she did earlier when I shot her down on my doorstep, and that concerns me. I need to snuff out her hope, prove that her actions tonight were a mistake. This will not be the first night of many.

  I DON’T TELL anyone about the night I snuck over to Beau’s apartment, not even Rose—especially not Rose. I tried to talk to her about Beau the night of the pool party when we were up in my room and I was hovering by the window, trying to sneak a peek into his apartment. He was still in there with the brunette girl, studying—or so I hoped.

  “Will you give it up already? You’re not going to be able to see them having sex.”

  I whip around to where she’s sprawled out on my bed, flipping through TV channels. “What are you talking about?”

  “Isn’t that what you’re doing? Trying to spy on that guy?”

  “His name is Beau.”

  She laughs. “Bo-bo, right—whatever. I don’t know why you bother swooning over him.”

  “I’m not swooning over him. I’m into Preston.”

  She smirks and shakes her head. “Maybe you have a crush on Preston, but you talk about Beau nonstop.”

  “No I don’t!”

  She arches a dark brow. “Earlier, I had to listen as you described his smile in excruciating detail.”

  “There’s a dimple, that’s all. You can’t deny that he’s hot.”

  “Uh huh. He’s not going to date a high school girl though. You might as well just forget about him.”

  I stiffen. “I don’t want him to date me…but, still…why wouldn’t he?”

  “Uhh, because you’re jailbait? Because he’s like seven years older than you? Because he’s currently boning that pretty brunette? Need I go on?”

  Her observations leave me with a weight in the pit of my stomach.

  “My dad is older than my mom,” I point out.

  “Okay, but I bet they didn’t start dating when your mom was still in high school.”

  No, they met in college.

  “He doesn’t treat me like I’m in high school.”

  That doesn’t convince her of much.

  “And besides, I’m not trying to date him.”

  I’m not. I’ve j
ust fully come to terms with the fact that I have an all-consuming crush on him. I volley back and forth between Beau and Preston, though something feels off, like they don’t even belong in the same category. That’s the problem—Beau isn’t easy to categorize. He isn’t my peer, and he isn’t a parent. He’s a man, an island unto himself. Powerful, older, intimidating. I blush thinking about him because deep down, I know he doesn’t even belong in my thoughts. I shouldn’t be running through our encounters, dissecting our every move. The prospect of being with Preston is fun, silly—he might make me a little dizzy, like the teacup ride in a kiddie park. Beau, on the other hand, is the Tower of Terror, the ride that makes my palms sweat and my heart race.

  For so long, my focus has been on Preston, on my silly crush and my predictable feelings. He elicits just the right amount of toe curling, without all the messy feelings and drama that come with deep desire. But then I met Beau. I know he doesn’t belong in my world and I don’t belong in his, but here we are, sharing our little Garden District realm. I don’t want to profess my love or run off to Mexico with him, I just want more time to toe this line between us, in the gray area that shouldn’t exist. I don’t expect that he’ll ever notice me, but I can’t help hoping he does.

  It’s been almost two months since he first moved in and in that time, I’ve become strangely attached to him. I yearn for the sight of him walking to and from his apartment. The other day, we arrived home at the same time and he held the gate open for me. I chanced a quick look at his face as I passed his outstretched body, my world nearly bottoming out when the sun caught his sooty black lashes and guarded blue eyes. I wanted to run inside, steal my mom’s watercolors, and immortalize his face on canvas. I didn’t, because I know my artistic limits—I think I’m just about the only person in history that Bob Ross would give up on. Instead, I flopped back on my bed, squeezed my pillow to my chest, and daydreamed about him for the rest of the afternoon. It wasn’t such a smart move. I ended up accidently falling asleep, which allowed my conscious dreams to morph into sleepy fantasies.

  We have less day-to-day interaction than I would have predicted. Apparently, law school keeps you busy. My mom routinely invites him over for dinner, but he rarely accepts her invitations. Now, after my ill-advised midnight visit to his apartment, his appearance in our dining room has dropped off altogether. I suppose he’s purposely avoiding me, and I wonder why. First of all, neither of us is guilty of doing anything wrong. Even if we were to do something “wrong”—the thought awakens butterflies in my stomach—it wouldn’t even be illegal. I looked it up, and the age of consent in Louisiana is 17.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. More than anything, I’d just love to hear his unfiltered thoughts about me. He’s an adult man, but he’s not so far removed from being in high school. With that kind of perspective, I’d at least like to know what he thinks of me, if he finds me attractive at all.

  “You need to go.”

  The memory of his strained words reignites my imagination. In my reveries, he’s burning with the restrained urge to kiss me, to sneak up to my room late at night when my parents are asleep. I flush thinking of how many times I’ve gone over this particular scenario. There have even been a few desperate moments when the floorboards in the hallway creak and I bolt up in my bed, anticipating that he’s about to gently knock. Sometimes in my fantasies, there is no knock—he doesn’t bother asking if he’s allowed to come in, too caught up in his need. Those fantasies are darker and I hold them close to my heart. I’m scared that I shouldn’t be thinking such things. I should probably stop reading the romance books Rose gives me.

  Rose says half the girls in our grade have already had sex, but I can’t believe it. I’ve never even been kissed, but Rose has. She tells me everything she does with the boys she dates, and I take it in with hungry ears. It all sounds scandalous and wrong. I swallow all the questions on the tip of my tongue. How does it feel? Aren’t you nervous when he touches you there? Aren’t you scared that you’ll get caught?

  I can hardly imagine letting Beau touch me beneath my underwear, let alone kiss me there. Rose says it feels good, that some guys treat it like an art form, but I don’t believe her. I can’t imagine ever being able to relax enough to let it feel good. Sometimes in the shower, I close my eyes and let my hand trail down my body. I skim along the groove of my thigh, getting closer to brushing across the sensitive skin between my legs, but I always chicken out, too prudish, too scared I won’t like it—or worse, that I will.

  Maybe I’ll be more inclined to experiment now that I have more…specific inspiration, but what if I find that my hand isn’t enough, or that the brush of my fingers will always leave me wanting more? What happens when I find that Beau’s touch is the only thing that will sate me? What then?

  SHUT UP! I urge my brain. It doesn’t matter. It’s a stupid crush on the first older guy to ever give you the time of day. You don’t need to turn into a masturbation philosopher over it.

  Guard your heart, Beau said.

  Okay, but how?

  And from what, exactly?

  THE SATURDAY I’M due to tour the LSU campus, I’m sitting at our kitchen island, scarfing down my cereal as quickly as possible. The day has been fully planned for weeks. I’m heading up to Baton Rouge with Rose and her parents. We’re going to tour the campus, tailgate before the LSU home game, and then stay the night in a hotel near the stadium.

  They’re due to arrive any minute.

  Even though my parents are still pushing me toward the Ivies up north, they agree that I should consider all my options. If I attended LSU, I would get in-state tuition (something my parents should care about) and I’d only be an hour away from home (yet another thing they should care about), but my mom insists that she doesn’t want to hold me back just to keep me close. She went to school up north, away from her parents, and she says it was one of the most important things she did for herself. It gave her room to grow and cultivate her passion for art.

  My mom’s voice carries into the kitchen before she appears in the doorway, concern written across her features. Her hazel eyes meet mine and she frowns. “No, of course, Catherine. Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure it out. I hope Michael heals up quick. Okay. Yes. I’ll tell her. Speak soon. Bye.”

  “Was that Mrs. Delacroix?” I ask.

  She walks over to the island and grimaces like she’s about to give me bad news. “Apparently Rose’s little brother took a little spill on his bike this morning. They’re taking him in now for x-rays to make sure nothing is broken.”

  “Oh no!”

  “She doesn’t think it’s too serious, but they’d rather be safe than sorry.”

  “I hope he’s okay.”

  She nods in agreement, and then she broaches the next subject. “Unfortunately, that means they won’t be taking you and Rose to tour LSU today. Apparently Rose is with them at the hospital right now.”

  Crap.

  Of course.

  I furrow my brows. “There’s no way you or Dad could take me?”

  “We have that charity luncheon. I’d skip it, hon, but I’m one of the co-chairs.”

  It shouldn’t be a big deal. There are a hundred other weekends I could go for the tour, but still, my heart sinks. I glance back down at my cereal, wondering if it’s worth even asking if I could drive myself. I have my license and I’m an okay driver, but my parents have already said they aren’t comfortable with me taking a road trip that far by myself. I think they’re being overprotective, but I’m not going to go down that road right now. They aren’t going to budge.

  She sets her phone down on the counter and taps her finger beside it for a few seconds before her eyes widen and she whips around. “You know what? Beau is headed toward Baton Rouge to visit his mom today, so let me ask if he’s up for dropping you off.”

  “Mom—”

  I don’t even have the chance to intervene before she’s headed out the back door, coordinating my transportation like I’m a c
hild. I want to tell her not to bother since there’s no way he’s going to say yes.

  Except he does.

  Apparently, it took all of five minutes for my mom to convince him and concoct a game plan. I’ll be going with Beau to visit his mom and after, he’ll drop me off at the rally point for the LSU tour. After the charity luncheon, my parents will meet me in Baton Rouge and we’ll still attend the LSU football game and stay the night. I’m getting everything I wanted; I should be happy. I should be, but I’m too nervous to think about happiness at the moment.

  I’m sitting in the cab of Beau’s truck as far from him as the bench seat will allow. We’re heading down I-10, a few minutes outside of New Orleans, and he hasn’t said a word to me since I hopped in back at my parents’ house.

  It’s clear that he’s less than enthused to have me with him. I don’t know why he bothered saying yes, unless my mother somehow bribed him. I remember the lawn care-rent arrangement, and the thought makes me cross my arms a little tighter over my chest. What if she paid him?!

  “Are you cold?” he asks, glancing over at my cutoff jean shorts before reaching for the air conditioning.

  “Oh! No, I’m okay.”

  He nods and lets his hand fall back to the steering wheel.

  Another few minutes pass and I sneak peeks over at Beau as often as possible. Like a grade-A creepazoid, I’ve found that I can covertly stare at his faint reflection in the glass of the windshield, and it just appears as if I’m supremely interested in the passing scenery. He’s wearing a Tulane Law t-shirt and my favorite—pardon me, his favorite—pair of jeans. The dark denim hugs his muscled thigh every time he presses down on the clutch to shift gears.

  “Ever driven stick before?” he asks once when he catches me looking.

  He thinks I’m thinking about his transmission. I chuckle under my breath.

  “Never.”

  “You should learn. You never know when it might come in handy.”

  I bite down on my lip to hide my smile. “Are you offering to teach me?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve taught a few people before. Maybe if we have time out at my mom’s place.”