10. Beau
10
BEAU
The sun still blazes high in the sky by the time I pull up to my parents’ house. It’s a grand, two-story colonial, with a wraparound porch and a lush, green lawn that stretches out like a carpet.
Ma’s flower garden is in full bloom, a riot of colors spilling across the yard. Vibrant purple irises stand tall and regal near the front walkway. Clusters of pink and white peonies huddle together, their large blooms bowing under the breeze.
Their house looks like it belongs on a postcard.
My siblings and I gifted Ma so many of these plants over the years, it became a kind of game. Who could find the most random niche nursery in the country and special order something? And most importantly, will it survive?
Ma's got a special talent with plants. A genuine green thumb that seems to bring anything she touches to life. Some of my favorite memories are spending long afternoons by her side in the dirt, weeding and caring for her garden. The hours would slip by unnoticed as we tended to the plants, the sun warming our backs and the rich, loamy scent of soil surrounding us.
Ma would hum quietly to herself as she worked, her hands gently coaxing stubborn weeds from the earth and pruning back overgrown branches with a practiced ease.
It was in those quiet moments, with dirt under my fingernails and sweat beading on my forehead, that Ma would share little pieces of wisdom. Nothing profound or earth-shattering, but the kind of simple truths that stick with you.
There was something soothing about working with my hands, feeling the cool dampness of the soil, the delicate petals of a flower, the rough bark of a tree. Digging in the dirt grounded me, connected me in a way I didn’t understand that I desperately needed.
If I didn’t love fast cars so much, I’d follow in Ma’s footsteps for sure.
Coming back home always feels like stepping into a time warp, old memories and feelings rising to the surface like bubbles in the quarry.
I love my family, but being around them is a stark reminder of the life they think I live isn’t the one I’m living. Maybe that’s too harsh.
My family believes I’m a financial advisor, managing investment portfolios and wealth for the residents of Avalon Falls. And in a way, they’re not entirely wrong. I handle large sums of money and advise on financial matters. It’s just not for the clientele they imagine.
Though they might recognize some faces at the Alley. Gambling is one of those things that brings people from all over together.
The Alley is so much more than a reclaimed abandoned race track. It serves as the hub for all the things in the underground racing community that thrums beneath the surface of our small town. I handle the buy-ins, the bets, the payouts. I make sure the money flows smoothly, greasing the right palms to keep our operation running without interference.
I park my truck next to my business partner and brother’s beat-up Chevy and hop out, taking the front steps two at a time. I don’t bother knocking, letting myself in through the front door. The familiar scent of vanilla greets me, nostalgia falling over me like a gentle rain.
“Ma? Dad? Anyone home?”
“In here, Beau,” Dad calls.
I follow the sounds of baseball blaring from the TV and find Dad and Graham sitting on the couch, gazes glued to the game. Both of them are leaning forward, elbows to knees and chin in hand.
“Good game?” I shove my hands into my pockets and stare at the TV too.
“Tenth inning, bases loaded, and down by two. If they don’t get their shit together, they’re dead to me,” Dad grumbles, never taking his eyes off the game.
“Five minutes, boys. Coraline’s going to be here any second, and then we’re eating,” Ma says, peeking her head into the living room. Her eyes brighten when they land on me. “Oh, there you are! I was starting to worry that you forgot about Sunday dinner.”
I cross the room and pull her into a hug. “I never miss Sunday dinner, Ma. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“It’s a mother’s job to worry, you know.” She pulls back far enough so her gaze can search mine. “I’ll never stop worrying about my boys.” Ma pats my cheek softly before releasing me from her embrace. “I hope you’re hungry. I made lasagna tonight.”
My stomach growls at the thought of my mother’s cooking. Which is at least half of the reason I show up every Sunday here. My sister, Cora, is one hell of a baker. But Ma? She can cook .
“Sounds delicious. Let me set the table for you.”
She pats my shoulder, flashing me a soft smile. “Thank you, Beau. You always take such good care of us. I’ve got to check on something in my greenhouse, so I’ll be right back.”
She drifts out of the room, and a second later, I hear the two-note beeping noise that means an exterior door was opened.
Dad and Graham groan, tossing their faces into their hands in unison. A glance at the score tells me their team must’ve lost. Good. Then he can come help me set the table.
I reach over the back of the couch and shove his shoulder. “Help me set the table.”
He glares at me from underneath furrowed brows. “You expect me to eat when they just blew maybe the most important game of the year?”
I arch a brow. “Yeah, so get your ass off the couch. Ma’s not trying to wait for you to get over yourself, bro.”
Graham looks toward Dad as he stands, tossing his arm out in my direction. “You hear this shit, Dad? What kind of kid of yours doesn’t like baseball?” He looks at me, a smirk pulling his mouth into a slash of a smile. “A Carter that doesn’t live, laugh, love baseball? You must be adopted.”
I force my face to lift into a smirk, but it feels brittle and tight. It’s a throwaway line, something we used to tease each other—and both our sisters—about when we were little.
Can’t run as fast as us? Must be adopted.
Don’t like scary movies? Definitely adopted.
Hate spicy food? Adopted.
It’s become a running joke now, something the four of us tease one another about over the stupidest reasons. Even so, I can’t stop the visceral reaction inside of me. My heart clenches, seizing up before it flops uselessly against my ribcage.
Dad drapes his arm over my shoulders, despite the fact that I’ve got three inches on him. “Have you seen this face? Only a Carter is this good-looking,” he says, smirking at my brother.
It’s a joke for more than one reason. Dad’s not even a Carter by name.
My great-great grandma, Ruby Faye Carter, gave the system a big fuck you when she decided not to take her husband’s last name and keep her own. Gave her kids the Carter last name too. And ever since then, generations of Carter women have kept their maiden names and given them to their kids.
It’s become kind of lore here in Rosewood, where generations of Carters have lived. Even though Avalon Falls is next door, the Carter name still holds some weight. Something about small towns and founding families and long-lasting traditions.
I let out a forced laugh and play up the part, just like I’ve done for the last few years since I found out the truth.
I may not be adopted, but Lucas Turner isn’t my biological father.