8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Adrian
T here’s no way for me to know—or be willing to admit—how many times I’ve stared at Beau’s name in my phone, my thumb hovering helplessly above it without daring to touch. For all the good it does me now, something in me had been resigned to spending time with him at Trailhead, and I don’t understand what to do with this chance to leave it behind. Perhaps I'd convinced myself that I could be forgiven my bad behavior as long as I stayed in the same haunted place, absolution granted by a beautiful young ghost I only sort of believed was real.
I’m not exactly the first to seek forgiveness from something like it.
But maybe I want to be furious with Beau for taking that place away from me now, trapped here because I’m the only one who can initiate another conversation when he hadn’t asked for my number and I hadn’t offered it. At the same time, I’m almost certain it’s the way it has to be, even if I won’t think hard enough about why.
It's been over a week though, and I’ve been up the coast and back again, taking pictures and booking a few spontaneous photoshoots along the way. I needed that—if I’m going to spend time away from Trailhead, spending time away from the Greater Los Angeles Area had felt like a perfectly reckless start—but I’ve been home for a while and my phone isn’t going to get any lighter in my hand. After a few deep breaths have accomplished nothing beyond wasting several seconds I won’t get back, I set my phone down, pick it up again, and think it’s late enough notice for Beau to have a very easy way out of whatever trouble I’m about to start.
Hey it’s Adrian. From trailhead
Beau responds within a few minutes. I don’t know whether that’s fast or far too slow, and I’m not about to figure it out while I’m pretending I haven’t watched the clock at all.
Hey Adrian from trailhead. Glad I can distinguish you from all the other Adrians I give my number to
I’m sure you could come up with a nickname for me if you think it will be easier
I’m sure I could come up with several
Jesus. I blush in the privacy of my living room. And hate it. Am I interrupting anything?
Nope. Got home from work. Showered. Thinking about nicknames for you now
Jesus again. Fuck, even. Sorry it took me so long to text
Don’t remember putting a deadline on this thing
Okay but still.
Nothing to apologize for
I sigh. Do you want to meet me for dinner tonight?
Yes
Is it really that easy
To get me to eat dinner? Yeah usually
You’re not busy with all the other Adrians?
Not tonight. There’s a pause as I consider backing out of an offer I’ve only barely extended, every response from Beau giving me too much room to relax, and my tension so much safer than that. But then he goes on. You still a married man?
I tug on my hair and swallow hard because it’s exactly what I needed and it stings anyway, and I stare down at my hand like there’s a chance I’m going to tell Beau anything but the truth.
Yes. don’t know how to be anything else these days. Does that change your answer? About wanting to have dinner with me tonight
Do you want it to change anything?
No
Okay then. Where do you want to go?
Shit. I hadn’t actually thought that far ahead, worried about all the parts that came before an actual plan, and it’s only now that I realize I’m still not all that familiar with anything outside my own neighborhood, the beach, and a single gay bar.
You’re gonna laugh at me but I haven’t really been anywhere interesting. I don’t know where to go
Not laughing. You okay with driving a little further than usual ?
Sure
There’s a nice Italian place at the grove if you wanna meet there
Huh. You weren’t kidding about getting away from the sawdust. Italian at the grove?
I contain multitudes but it was an offer not a demand
Shut up. what time should I meet you and your multitudes?
It only takes another minute or two to work out the details—and another minute or two after that for me to look up the place and study the menu—then I have to face my reflection in my bedroom mirror and force my way through another several steps. We’ll be eating at a nice restaurant, but The Grove itself is still an outdoor shopping center, so I shouldn’t need to wear anything all that fancy. I throw on a black mock turtleneck sweater and gray pants I know fit me well, and I don’t worry about why I care. I probably need a haircut, but can’t deal with that now, and I’m relieved to leave my godforsaken cowboy boots in my closet, even when I never had to wear them to Trailhead at all. When I’m mostly ready, I only pause for a moment in front of my dresser, acknowledging the ache in my chest before I walk away without leaving my wedding band behind.
The wedding band behind. Whatever.
Beau won’t ask me about dancing tonight. He won’t ask me about fucking him either. But I’m still not convinced this is how our friendship is supposed to start, and I’m not strong enough to let it be any other way.
I struggle through typical L.A. bullshit on my way to The Grove, traffic a thing even on a Sunday night, but I still get there without any worry about being late, and my anxiety doesn’t have the chance to ride shotgun for long. Once I’ve parked among a hundred other cars and escaped the echo of the garage, I step into the open air and am greeted by a chill several degrees above whatever New York must be facing. I’d allowed myself to forget that the holiday season is upon us, but The Grove has made it impossible to see much of anything else, brightly lit displays bringing something cheerful to the dark, and I scowl in response.
I’m pissed off.
Lonely.
Maybe this was a mistake.
Begrudgingly, I check out one of the directories and follow signs until I see the restaurant, and then I scan the crowd for Beau, my phone in my hand mostly for the occasional excuse to look down and remember to breathe. And though I arrived a little early, and the walk from my car wasn’t a long one, somehow it’s no surprise that Beau has reached the restaurant first, standing near the front door until he closes the distance between us and offers an unusually timid wave, any shyness wholly unnecessary when he looks the way he does.
Fuck, I can’t worry about Christmas or crowds or how to be friends with someone I wasn’t supposed to like when I bite my lip and stare along with at least a dozen other people walking by. Beau is wearing dark jeans and a chocolate brown shirt mostly covered by a green suede jacket the color of the trees I left in the Pacific Northwest a few days ago, and there’s no time to miss any of the flannels I’m already sure I’ll see again someday. His beard is predictably perfect, but I hadn’t even thought about the fact that Beau wouldn’t be wearing his cowboy hat, and my eyes get caught on its absence. I’d been in another world the morning he’d showed up at my front door with no hat and a lost ID in his hand, so there’d been no time to appreciate much of anything then. Now, I look at his hair—nothing particularly special about it except for the way it feels like some kind of secret—and my hands curl into careful fists at my sides.
“Have to admit, I thought there was at least a 50% chance you wouldn’t show,” Beau says.
“I’m the one who invited you.”
“Still figured you had plenty of time to regret that decision,” Beau smiles. “Everything was a lot easier when all I had to do was follow you to the bar.”
It’s too honest and we both know it, and I’m too slow about responding with something dry enough to carry us past it. Beau gestures toward the restaurant, and we have a few moments to ourselves before the bored hostess seats us on the patio under a heat lamp that shouldn’t be romantic and still feels too much like it. Sitting opposite each other helps when I realize there’s no danger of being pressed against Beau’s shoulder, except then we meet each other’s eyes, and it will be so much more difficult to dodge that knowing gaze all night. Our menus are a welcome distraction, and we settle into our seats with enough time to shake things up just a bit when we order a Jack and Coke and a draft beer, agreeing too easily on the calamari appetizer like this is a thing we’ve done before.
When our server returns with our drinks, we place our orders and give up the menu, then pick up our glasses at the same time.
“To not hating you after tonight?” I ask, holding my drink over the table.
“Hey, now. You stopped hating me before you took my number,” Beau argues, meeting me there. “How about ‘to maybe sorta kinda starting to like me just a little after tonight’?”
“Fine.”
I roll my eyes and take a sip, but somehow Beau’s done first, and his head tips sideways. “How’s work goin’? Everyone must want family pictures done for the holidays, so I’d guess you’ve been busy.”
“Ah, well, I was mostly busy forgetting what month it is, so I definitely didn’t do any of the planning I should’ve to get those shoots booked. I might be able to pick up a few last-minute things, but I probably screwed up most of my chances for this year.”
Beau taps his fingers against his glass and then sits back when the server delivers the calamari. “Do you usually lose track of time, or is that a Levi grief thing?”
“He didn’t even celebrate Christmas.” I sigh while Beau takes a bite, and then I shake my head. “I mean, he did with me and my family, but it wasn’t—he was Jewish, if he was anything at all, but he was so enamored by New York during the holidays. We spent years doing all the ridiculous tourist shit—the tree lighting and ice skating and window shopping—until I could finally talk him into just staying home in our pajamas so we could drink hot cocoa and watch Christmas movies.”
“What was his favorite Christmas movie?”
“ Love Actually . Which—whatever. But then I’d always put Miracle on 34 th Street on after that.”
“With Natalie Wood?”
“Yeah, the classic,” I confirm.
Beau’s mouth opens and closes, and whatever gets caught there is something I think must be important. I want to ask about it, but I don’t let myself say anything when I’d give too much of myself away before I could learn anything about the man across the table. Of course, where he lands on his own isn’t much better.
“Are you goin’ back to New York this year?”
“This is really good,” I say, gesturing to the plate between us before I pop another piece into my mouth.
“So, that’s a no.”
“That’s a no.”
“And not for a shortage of invitations.”
“No. Are you going to Texas?”
There’s a quick smile from him, an acknowledgement that I will always fight back. “Nah, haven’t bothered in a while. And most of ‘em have stopped asking.”
“Have you been back to Trailhead?”
Beau looks far too relieved when our server interrupts us for me to think there’s not some kind of secret being kept, something like guilt coloring his cheeks even if I can’t see a damn thing. But a plate of pasta pomodoro lands in front of me, and he makes room for his chicken marsala, and a second round of drinks is ordered, Beau helping himself to more calamari as if I won’t wait as long as it takes to get an answer.
Eventually, he picks up his fork and surrenders. “Not really.”
“Both the time it took you to respond, and your cute little modifier, would suggest there’s a story you’re not telling.” I kick Beau’s foot as I give him shit, but I don’t quite manage to move away again, the innocent pressure grounding me in a reality I’m getting to know. “I’m not your sponsor or anything—if you couldn’t stay away from him, it’s okay with me.”
“No, it’s not—it’s more that it’s not my story to tell. And I wasn’t lying either. I went to Trailhead to pick Darren up so we could talk about something, but I wasn’t there for more than a couple of minutes.”
I nod, and it’s enough. We eat and we talk, and Beau never pulls his foot away. The food is incredible, and the drinks go down smoothly, and I think we turn dessert down only because it feels like the kind of thing you might share on a date, and this is definitely not that. Whether I contradict myself when I insist on paying for dinner—I was the one who extended the invitation, so it feels like the right thing to do—Beau thanks me and doesn’t make the moment bigger than it needs to be.
It makes me want a few more of them before I have to go home alone again.
“I think I might walk around for a while,” I say when we take our first steps away from the restaurant. “It’s my first time here, and it’s a nicer night than I thought it would be. ”
Beau grins. “Is that an assessment of the weather or the hour or so you’ve spent with me?”
“Both.”
“So, you won’t be mad if I walk around with you?”
“If there’s any chance we’ll be friends, walking around with each other feels inevitable,” I shrug. “Might as well get our first time out of the way.”
I earn a side-eye for that, but it feels almost fond, and I think I should try to be meaner to him next time. I’m not sure where I’m going, and I despise how slowly I’m going to get there, my east coast pace forced to match the leisurely stroll of the man next to me because making Beau hurry seems unfathomable. But then he nudges us to the left, and it leaves the backs of our hands brushing together, and I realize maybe there’s plenty he despises too, because he shoves his fists into his pockets and nothing fond is left while silence stretches on.
The shopping center is more or less what I had expected, stores and snacks and too many people for a Sunday night. Christmas music is piped in through speakers I can’t see, and the string lights make something deep inside me ache, but paying penance isn’t new and I settle in. At some point, I slow in front of a bookstore, thinking about presents I’m not going to buy, and Beau stops beside me.
“The bar is in some financial trouble.”
“What?”
Beau seems as surprised by his voice as I am, and he shakes his head. “You can’t—I still don’t know all the details, but you can’t tell anyone about this.”
“In case you missed it among all the wildly exciting things I’ve had to say about my life, I don’t actually have anyone to tell. Dead boyfriend. Egocentric family. Loner job. Pretty sure your secret is safe with me.”
Our reflections meet in the mirror and I remind myself not to flinch when I see us together like that, the glass distorting reality until it looks like Beau’s heartbeat might be pressed to my shoulder. Then I watch in slow motion as Beau reaches for my arm to pull me away from whatever isn’t there, a silent reminder that we’re supposed to be taking a walk.
Talking maybe. Thinking as little as possible.
“V—Valerie—the owner of Trailhead,” Beau starts clumsily. “You’ve probably seen her behind the bar. We all love her. She loves at least a few of us. She’s put up with as much of my shit as anyone.”
“A saint, then.”
“If saints can swear like sailors, yeah.”
I duck my head to hide the beginning of a smile. “So, what happened?”
“She hired the wrong bookkeeper,” Beau says. “Apparently, the guy’s been messin’ with her numbers for years now. Taxes and licenses and whatever else are all fucked up. She owes a bunch of late fees and fines. And of course, he’s been helping himself to money along the way, so she can’t just dig in and pull from a big pile of cash.”
“Okay, but he’s been caught now, right? She can press charges and go after what he stole?”
“Sure, but that’s a hell of a process and I assume the IRS will laugh in her face if she says, ‘please excuse the thief I had working for me—he’ll pay you back soon,’ so she’s still pretty screwed until all of that gets figured out. And I don’t know enough about who else she owes. Just that she does.”
We fall quiet for a moment, and I don’t miss the way Beau’s eyes light up as we near a sign inviting us to try something sweet. It’s not usually a thing I’d stop for unless someone with stupidly big brown eyes makes a plea, but I can’t wait for that tonight because I don’t need either of us to know how quickly I’d give in.
“If you want a cupcake, we can get a cupcake,” I say with the best smirk I can muster.
If Beau notes it at all, he doesn’t seem to mind, and we stand at the end of a long line while Beau decides we’ll get two different flavors so we can share if we want. I don’t want, but I also can’t find the words to say so, and I pick out something with cinnamon on top of cinnamon before being utterly unsurprised by Beau’s choice of red velvet with cream cheese frosting.
Shuffling forward as we wait our turn, Beau knocks his elbow into my side. “Thank you.”
Dodging something sincere, I drag us back to the topic of V’s trouble. “And you got all this from Darren, but it’s a secret—nobody else there knows yet?”
“Nope. V hasn’t even told Noah yet.”
“Noah?”
“Ah, I don’t think he was ever there when you were, or at least not close enough for an introduction,” Beau says. “Noah is V’s son. Kind. Funny. Smart. Gorgeous. Tragically straight, though at least a couple of us have tried to convince him otherwise. And some kind of numbers guy who probably could’ve helped V avoid this problem entirely, except that she didn’t want to mix business with family.”
I rub a hand over my face, and we move a few more steps closer to the counter. “Okay, so step one will be telling Noah, and he can assess the situation.”
“And step two will be accepting that Darren will work without his hourly pay for a while,” Beau adds. “Pretty sure he’s the only one who’s got the savings to back a decision like that, and his tips are exactly as good as you think they are, so he’ll still bring something home.”
“Then step three is when we figure out how to help her make some extra money.”
The we is far too loud, and Beau doesn’t miss it, but the gangly teenager working the register pushes his glasses up his nose and asks us what we want. Beau answers because I can’t.
By the time we step back outside, the night seems even darker, and clutching a cupcake suddenly feels safe. We wind our way past a dozen other shoppers, and when we find some space to stop and eat, I realize Beau isn’t going to talk about Trailhead anymore. Instead, each of us takes a bite, then we nod and trade, and if the low sound he makes is any indication, he likes my cupcake as much as his own. It’s easy then, to wave a hand and let Beau indulge in both while I watch, and when I should put some distance between us, I stay exactly where I am.
“These were really good,” he mumbles around the last of my cinnamon spice.
It’s probably mostly true, I’m sure, except that when Beau drops his hand from his mouth, there’s a streak of frosting across his bottom lip and into his beard, and I—
I act long before I think.
My free hand reaches up to cradle Beau’s jaw, and while it doesn’t register for me for a long time, he doesn’t flinch at the contact, his steady gaze giving nothing away while he waits for what’s next. The pad of my thumb brushes over his mouth, collecting as much of the frosting as I can with that one motion, and then I bring it to my own mouth, my lips wrapped around my thumb as I suck it clean and finally have to look away.
“Sorry, I—that was stupid.”
“For someone who hates me, sure,” Beau agrees. “But at least a handful of my friends could get away with it, so it probably doesn’t mean anything.”
He winks before moving past me to throw the cupcake wrappers in the trash, and he doesn’t turn around again, waiting for me to catch up so we can finish our walk before one of us needs to say goodbye.
“I’m a dick, huh?”
Beau snorts. “Not as often as you want to be. And barely tonight.”
We dodge a toddler out past her bedtime and a group of loud teenagers, and I think I welcome the distractions they offer. I’m more sure of it when a little too much quiet in the aftermath brings us close to the fountain, and I frown at the way the water plays off the Christmas lights like it might compel someone to fall in love.
“Why are we here?”
“You were hungry, and I suggested Italian,” Beau says.
I resist the urge to shove him into the water—resist the urge to touch him at all, actually—and wonder how long it will take me to be bothered by the mist the wind pushes my way.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
“Wanna narrow that down?”
“This friendship thing,” I clarify. “It’s been a while since I’ve had to bullshit my way through something this normal, but it feels suspiciously like something else.”
Beau’s eyes linger on me long enough that I turn to meet him there, wondering at first whether maybe he doesn’t know what I meant by that, then just as quickly afraid he might’ve been a step ahead.
“Can’t be something else. I don’t date married men.”
“And you wouldn’t want to date me anyway.”
“Probably not,” Beau says.
“And you’re definitely not going to walk me to my car if I tell you I’m about to say goodnight.”
“You’ll be lucky if I don’t leave before you can.”
I take a couple of steps backward to test him, but Beau’s hands are back in his jacket pockets, and he gives nothing away.
“Goodnight, Beau. Thanks for meeting me for dinner. ”
“’Night, Adrian. Thanks for letting me have your cupcake.”
I’m barely thinking about Beau by the time I get home. Don’t have to think about him in the morning when I remember heat lamps or reflections or cinnamon. Can mostly ignore him over the next couple of weeks when he texts to tell me that V told Noah and that Darren told Riley, and when he spams me with eight stupid cowboy memes in a row, or when he sends a video of himself cooking chicken marsala because it was so fucking good the other night .
I forget about him, really, friendship or not. And this is something I know how to do.
But then it’s Christmas morning, and I couldn’t be in a worse mood if I tried, and I can’t even think about how much I don’t think about Beau at all because it’s too goddamn early when I hear the knock at my door, and I shuffle my way there without sparing a guess for who might be on the other side.
It’s too goddamn early for the memory of a cupcake to make my mouth water.
It’s too goddamn early for me to worry that it’s not about a cupcake at all.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Beau smiles, sleepy enough about it that I almost forgive him. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”