He smiles, and I see beneath his relief is a real glow of joy. “Thanks. Thanks for everything.” He shakes his head in amused disbelief. “If you would have told me a year ago I’d be moving to Oklahoma to chase after a girl, I’d have laughed in your face.”
I laugh now because it’s so true.
And if you would have told me a year ago that a French teacher from Lafayette, Louisiana would break my heart, I would have…
I would have…
I would have hopped on a plane and flown straight there. Because I’d never had anyone close enough to my heart to break it. And Beau was so worth it.
My eyes brim with tears, and I’m ashamed to admit that they aren't tears of joy for my two best friends, so I try to dash them away.
“Oh, Iris,” Ramon purrs. “Come here.” He hugs me over the center console, and I sob against his chest. Yet again.
Two weeks later, Laird, my new PA/personal trainer/nutritionist/bodyguard, Mica, and I drop Ramon off at LAX.
Yes, his name is Laird.
Yes, he’s Scottish, as in from outside Inverness.
Yes, he’s as hot as a Scottish personal trainer could be.
And, yes, he’s totally gay.
I adore him already. But after we watch Ramon move through the airport’s glass doors with a backward glance, a wide smile, and a loving wave, I don’t dissolve in tears against this chest. I mean, it might make me feel better, but I barely know him.
Instead, when I sniffle and blubber, he hands me a tissue and reaches into the cooler next to Mica in the backseat—the one he insists on keeping stocked with healthy snacks and drinks—and offers me a bottle of water.
“Th-th-thank you,” I squeak.
“Naw worrth mentionin’, Irris,” Laird says in his lovely Scottish accent, and I swear, listening to it is almost enough to cheer me up and make me forget about how much my life has changed.
I mean, yeah, by almost every measure, it’s a better life. I’m free. Sure, Moira is suing me for wrongful termination and breach of contract, but Ela, my attorney, says she has no case and that if she keeps at it, I can counter-sue her for harassment. I mostly try to let Ela handle that. I’d rather not think about it if I don’t have to. And since I took Ela’s advice and got a restraining order, Moira hasn’t tried anything else. But I’m not letting my guard down. I know my mother. She’s not going to fade quietly into the shadows. The woman has staying power. Sometimes, I can still hear her voice in my head, but I’m working on telling that voice to go get a Brazillian wax.
Because I have a job that I enjoy and a home that actually feels like a home. And I get to eat real food, and no one tells me my stomach looks like I’m trying to hide an unplanned pregnancy.
But even with all that, I move through every day with this ache in my chest. And I’ll catch myself wondering where Beau is and what he’s doing at least thirty times a day.
Every night, when I go to bed around ten-thirty, I know it’s after midnight in Beau’s time zone, and he’s probably been asleep for hours. But I wonder. Is he in his tiny house? It should be all fixed by now. Is he there? Or has he moved on and found someone else’s bed to share?
God, that thought makes my chest threaten to cave in on itself.
Every morning, when I wake up, I know he’s already at school, in his classroom, but I don’t know what that looks like, so I can’t picture him there. And I never met his mom, so I can’t picture him visiting her, which I know he does several times a week.
I wish I knew how he was doing. If he’s okay. If he’s happy.
The only place I can clearly envision him is in the dance studio, giving lessons.
A thought hits me, and as soon as we get back to my new place, which is still littered with packing boxes, I head to my room with Mica at my heels and shut the door.
My heart is racing, and I know it shouldn’t be. I know he won’t mind me calling.
I tap his contact and blow out a breath while the phone rings. It’s just after eleven a.m. here, so it’s mid-morning there. Not too early.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Mr. Hebert’s voice rumbles over the line. I smile at the same time my eyes sting.
I laugh a shaky hello. “It’s good to hear your voice,” I admit, trying to keep my own strong and unbroken.
“Yours, too, darlin’. How’s L.A. treatin’ ya?”
I inhale through my nose and feel a little sturdier. “Good. I’m working on something new. It’s fun.”
“Oh? Anything you can tell me about?”
I chuckle. “Not yet.” Nothing’s been shared with the media yet about Couch Surfing. I’m only allowed to say that I have a new project.
“Already signed an NDA, if you recall.”
My smile is wide. “Different studio. Different set of lawyers and all that.”
“I’m just teasin’,” he says gently. “Besides, I have a feeling you’re not calling to tell me about your new part.”
My throat tightens. I have to swallow twice before I can squeak out. “How is he?” There’s no hiding the ache in my voice.
“You tried asking him yourself?” Mr. Hebert asks, surprise tinging his question.
I blush. My voice comes out low and ashamed. “H-he won’t take my calls.”
“That idiot,” he growls. Beau’s uncle sighs over the line. “He’s doing no better than you sound, I can promise you that.”
My breath leaves me. No better than me? Then why the hell wouldn’t he take my calls? I have actually made myself stop calling him. The day Ramon told me he was leaving, I made myself stop reaching out. I figured if it took Ramon—Ramon, the man who wouldn’t have known what commitment was if the definition were tattooed on his forehead—six weeks to realize he couldn’t live without Sally, then the average man would probably only need three. Which could only mean one thing: Beau was just fine living without me.
But maybe I’ve been wrong about that.
“What do you mean?” I ask, not knowing what I want Mr. Hebert to say. “Is he okay?”
He scoffs a bitter laugh. “No, he’s not okay. He’s a moron.”
“He is not,” I say, the last word ending higher.
“Oh? You defendin’ him? Letting you go not only makes him a moron, it makes him a miserable moron.”
“He’s miserable?” Again, I don’t know how to feel. I’m glad that he’s miserable. Glad I’m not the only one. Glad to hear that he might still feel the same about me.
But he’s Beau. I don’t want him to be miserable. Not ever.
Mr. Hebert chuckles. “As miserable as a shucked oyster who’s survived the shucking.”
Yeah, that doesn’t sound too fun. It also sounds a lot like how I feel.
“Then why won’t he talk to me?” I just barely keep from whining the question, but my exasperation is clear.
“Oh, Lord,” Mr. Hebert groans. “Because as miserable as he is, Beau is stubborn, and his love is a stubborn, unrelenting love. And, darlin’, that’s what he’s got for you.”
“A lot of good that does me,” I complain, pissed off at the man I love. “What if I just showed up on his doorstep, or better yet, his classroom?”
He sniffs a laugh. “Now, that he would hate. I sure as heck don’t think drama and histrionics will make him open up and come to his senses.”
Hope and the fight in me both deflate like week-old balloons.
“Iris, my dear, I’m afraid my nephew is going to have to figure his way out of this one,” he says glumly. “I just hope he does that sooner rather than later. It would be just like him to realize he’d made a mistake years too late to do anything about it.”
Years?
The last of my hope drops to the ground.
I’d wait years for Beau if I thought it would make a difference. If I thought he really wanted me and just needed time. I’d wait if he asked me to.
But he hasn’t. The last words he said to me were I’m sorry, Iris and this is over. None of that sounded remotely like Ple
ase wait for me or I need time.
I can’t fool myself into thinking he’ll want me back years from now. I spent years waiting for Moira’s approval. Moira’s affection.
It never came.
I waited for years for my father to come back. To reach out. He never did. Not once.
I can’t do that to myself again.
If I’m to have any peace in my life, I need to put my faith in what I can count on. My work. My friends. Myself. And I just have to accept that, like he said, Beau may be mine to love, but he isn’t mine to keep.
Chapter Thirty
BEAU
I am such a loser.
The dismissal bell rings, and as I do every day, I walk to my bus duty post and check my phone. My Instagram app, to be specific. Because Iris posts almost every day around noon—her time.
But she hasn’t posted a selfie all week. It’s just been pictures of her new house. Yesterday, it was a picture of Mica on her new couch. No Iris. And I crave a new picture of her.
I’m like an addict jonesing for my next bump. And, really, an addict would be less creepy because every time she posts a picture, I snap a screenshot for keeps. I memorize every detail.
The day she posted a video of her making waffles in her workout clothes, I thought I’d have a heart attack. Seeing her move, hearing her voice, watching her laugh lit me up inside. But then I caught the male voice of the guy holding the camera, and I almost came out of my skin.
It wasn’t Ramon.
I’m sure because Ramon has an accent, but it isn’t Scottish.
Is she seeing some Scottish guy? Is she sleeping with some Scottish guy?
Those questions kept me up for two nights. And the only thought I kept coming back to was that she hadn’t texted or called in weeks. No comfort there.
My only consolation is I know she’s doing well. A couple of weeks ago, Iris hinted to her fans about something new she’s working on, calling it a dream come true. That has to be a comedic role. I’d bet everything I own on it. And just the thought makes me so damn proud.
And even though she hasn’t posted a picture of the front of it—smart, I don’t want anyone else stalking her but me—I know she’s moved out of her cold, modern condo into a house that reminds me a lot of the one she lived in on Cherry Street. I know that makes her happy.
If she’s happy, then I’m happy.
Right?
Except I’m not happy. I miss her like mad.
I dream about being with her, making love to her, lying with her in my arms. I wake up to an empty bed, and I want to wail.
I thought that when school started, my old routine and the never-ending grading would be enough to take the sting out of missing her. Out of loving her. But every day hurts as much as the day I walked away from her.
And even my old school routine has changed. Paula tried, but I don’t have the period before lunch off anymore to go see Mom. I have first hour off, which is from 7:15 a.m. to 8:05. Mom isn’t even up and dressed at that time.
So on the days I visit, I join her for dinner instead. It sucks because she’s better earlier in the day.
I’ve been working in my classroom in the hours between the end of the school day and heading to Camelia Court, but after the last bus pulls away, I walk the drab halls back to my room and stop in the doorway.
It’s a grim sight. Two of the rectangular foam ceiling tiles are missing. The fluorescent light above my desk is flickering in a dim-bright-dim-dim pattern that’s gnawed at my sanity all day. And today, for whatever reason, the room smells like seaweed.
I pack my bag and head over to Nonc’s. At least there, I can sit on his porch swing and grade in relative peace.
But as soon as I open his screen door to say a quick hello, he opens the main door and crowds the entrance.
“You’re an idiot.”
I rear back. So much for relative peace.
“‘Excuse me?”
“No.” He scowls down at me. “I will not excuse you. There’s no excuse other than your own stubborn stupidity.”
Oh. Great. This again.
Nonc has been busting my balls ever since I made the mistake of telling him how things ended between Iris and me. At first he thought she’d broken it off, and he was all quiet comfort and support.
I should’ve just let him keep his misconceptions.
Because as soon as I told him that it was me who turned down her invitation to go with her, refused her offer to stay, and then broke things off so she’d get on with her life, he let me know he disagreed with those choices a hundred percent.
But his criticisms had eased up lately. Just a little.
“I thought we’d moved past this.”
He grunts. “That was before Iris called me.”
My breath halts. Iris called him? Why would she call him? Is she okay?
“What’s wrong?” The instinct to fight whatever threatens her has my teeth clenching. “Is she alright?”
“She’s alright, no thanks to you.”
I shut my eyes, gratitude washing over me.
My eyes fly open. “Why was she calling?”
Nonc crosses his arms over his chest and glares down at me. He’s framed in the doorway, and I’m reminded of just how big he is.
“She wanted to know how you were. But she can’t ask you because you won’t answer your damn phone.”
I wince. Yeah, this part I’ve kept from him.
“Idiot.”
“She hasn’t tried calling me in weeks.”
He snorts. “And why would she if you just ignore and humiliate her.”
Humiliate her?
A slimy, cold ball forms in the pit of my stomach.
“She said she was humiliated?”
“SHE DIDN’T HAVE TO!” he bellows.
I’m not afraid of my uncle. I never have been. But the fact that he’s taking up for the woman I love sends a river of unease through my veins. Because he shouldn’t be the one looking out for her.
That’s my job.
But I’m not wrong about this. I am looking out for her. I shake off the feeling and meet Nonc square in the eye.
“She’s doing what she wants, living the life she wants,” I defend. “She’s happy—”
“She’s brokenhearted. Just like you. And it’s all your fault.”
Each sentence lands like a punch in my gut, and I have to brace to keep from doubling over. It’s true. Everything he said is true.
“You’re right,” I admit, guilt burning like bile in my throat. “But you—better than anyone—know that I can’t do anything about that.”
“Bullshit.”
My brows shoot up along with my spine. He may be pissed at me, but my patience is gone. I know all of this is my fault, but I also know it’s what I have to live with.
“I made the right decision, Nonc. I can’t leave Mom, and I refuse to let Iris walk away from her career,” I growl. “I won’t be that man.”
Nonc’s smug grin makes me want to deck him. “You’re afraid of turning into Grant? Of makin’ his mistakes? Beau, you couldn’t be him if you tried. No way you’re makin’ his mistakes. You’re too busy makin’ a shit ton of your own.”
I glare at him. “Just what, exactly, do you expect me to do?”
“GO TO HER!” he bellows again.
My laugh is derisive. If only it were that simple. “Don’t you think I want to? Don’t you think I’m dying to be with her?”
Nonc throws up his hands and shakes his snowy white head. “You’re not acting like it. Acting like it would look like selling that box on wheels you call a home, buying a plane ticket, and gettin’ the hell out of here.”
I shake my head, jaw locked tight. “I won’t leave Mom,” I swear. “I can’t do that to her.”
My uncle’s eyes bug like he’s deranged. “You think she’d choose this for you? Loneliness and heartbreak? You think she’d want you to give up someone like Iris?”
I remember the look on Mom’s face when
I first told her about Iris. And her smile later when I showed her a few pictures.
She’d been happy for me.
I can’t deny that, but it doesn’t mean that leaving her would be the right choice.
“If things were different—”
“That’s not how life works. Trust me on this one, Beau.” His eyes pierce me. “I let the woman I love—the only one I’ve ever loved—get away from me too many times. Do you know how many years I wasted thinking if only things were different?”
I scoff. I love Aunt Lorraine. Truly. But she and my uncle have always run hot and cold. It’s hard to take him seriously.
“You think I should take relationship advice from you?”
Again, that deranged glare returns. “Yes! I’m your cautionary tale,” he booms.
I roll my eyes.
“Don’t do what I did, Beau. You look at Iris the same way I look at Lorraine. Don’t waste years denying what you feel,” he warns. “I let years get in between us, being stubborn and not yielding over stupid shit. Yield, for God’s sake. Figure out now that you can’t have everything, so you gotta choose the most important things.”
I scowl at him. “And you’re saying family isn’t the most important thing?”
“I’m saying you don’t have to choose family over your one and only.” Nonc shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me. “You know what makes family worth havin’?”
I cock a sarcastic brow at him. “What’s that? Please enlighten me.”
He narrows his eyes at my sass. “If you weren’t too big to put over my knee, I swear...” he mutters. “Family means you don’t have to do it all by yourself. Family means you don’t have to give up what matters most just to fulfill some filial duty. It means you have people who can help you. Just let us.”
I blink at him. “What do you mean?”
If exasperation were steam, it’d be coming out of his ears right about now. “I mean I can look after Gina. Lorraine and I both can,” he says, almost pleading. “We can take her to lunch on Sundays. I can go see her twice a week, and Lorraine can go see her twice a week. She won’t lack for company.”
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