22. Beau
22
BEAU
It’s late, and I’ve got insomnia. Which is the fucking worst. It doesn’t happen nearly as often as it used to, and I’ve tried just about everything to fix it. But nothing is working. I worked out, meditated, and took a hot lavender shower. I even tried that app that’s supposed to ease insomnia for people, and still, here I am at two a.m., walking around my house like I’m trying to hit a step-count goal before sunrise.
My phone buzzes in my athletic shorts, and I pull it out. My brows arch toward my hairline with surprise.
Why the fuck is Mason video calling me in the middle of the night?
I answer on the second ring. “Hey, man.”
The sounds of a wailing baby fill my apartment, loud enough that I wince. A second later, Mason appears on the screen—red-eyed, cheeks flushed, his mouth pinched in a look that’s part exhaustion, part desperation.
“Beau.” It’s a plea if I’ve ever heard one.
“Shit, what’s wrong? Is the baby okay?”
Mason’s my childhood best friend. He recently moved back to Avalon Falls, and a few months ago, he got a call from his mom that some woman had dropped off a newborn at her house, claiming it was his. He’s been dealing with it solo since then, trying to figure out how to care for a baby he never even knew about.
“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know. He won’t stop crying, and I…”
“I’ll be right there.” I’m already moving around my house, grabbing my keys and jacket. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, man.”
“Thank you.” He ends the call before I can say anything else, and I don’t take it personally.
I tug a hoodie on and slide my feet into sneakers. I’m out the door in two minutes, sprinting to my car on the street. My adrenaline spikes like I’m about to run another race—not head over to help my friend with a baby.
I offered to help him with whatever he needed, whenever he needed it, but he hadn’t taken me up on it. Until now. I haven’t held a baby since my little sisters were born, but what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t try to help him now?
I pull up my phone and do a quick search for how to soothe a crying baby, but the results are overwhelming. After skimming the highlights of two articles, I tuck my phone back in my pocket and jump in my truck.
As I speed through the empty streets of Avalon Falls, I pull out my phone and call my youngest sister, Abby. She keeps the weirdest hours with her job, and it’s not uncommon for her to be getting home from an event around now.
Six-and-a-half years younger than me, I didn’t keep up with her as much as I should have. But I’m pretty sure she nannied throughout high school and even into college. If anyone can give me a ten-minute rundown on what to do, it’s her.
The phone rings once, twice, three times. I'm about to hang up when her groggy voice comes through the speaker.
“Beau? What’s wrong? It’s like . . . the middle of the night.”
I wince. “Shit, sorry, Abs. I need your help.”
“What . . . what’s going on?” A yawn cuts off the last word, and guilt swamps me.
“Sorry to wake you. You used to babysit a lot, right? You remember any of that stuff?”
“Yeah, why? What’s going on?” She laughs, the sound tinged with confusion.
“I don’t know if Ma told you, but Mason’s back?—”
“He is?” Her voice gets high, and I hear fabric rustling in the background, like she’s sitting up.
“Yeah, and he’s got a kid now?—”
“He what ?”
I take a right, only a few minutes from his house now. “Look, I know I woke you up in the middle of the night, but I need you to save your questions until later.”
She exhales. “Okay, sorry. What’s up?”
“Mason just called me in a panic. He can’t get his son to stop crying.”
“Shit. It must be bad if he’s calling you for backup. No offense,” she mutters, blowing out another breath. “Okay, let me think for a second. How old is his son?”
I drum my fingers along the steering wheel and try to do the math in my head. “I don’t know exactly. Maybe four months? Six? Fuck, I don’t know. I haven’t seen Mason much since the baby showed up on his doorstep?—”
“On his fucking doorstep?” she whisper-hisses, shock making her words fast.
“Later, remember? What should I tell him to do?” Urgency sharpens my tongue, and I force myself to take a breath.
“Right, right. Okay, so it depends on a few things. First thing, check if he has a fever. If he doesn’t, then: When’s the last time he ate? Does he have gas pains? If he only cries when Mason puts him down, then it might be acid reflux, which is a whole other thing. Is he swaddled correctly? Some babies like their arms in and some don’t.”
“Fuck, that’s a lot to remember.” I turn onto Mason’s street.
“I’ll text you a short list.”
“Text Mason instead. He’s the one who really needs it. I’m just pinch hitting tonight.”
“What? No,” she sputters. “I’m not just going to text Mason Calloway.”
I’m too distracted to unpack what’s going on here. “Okay, we’ll I’m here. Thanks for your help, and I’m sorry again for waking you.”
“It’s fine, Beau. I had to get up soon for work anyway,” she says.
“You work too hard, Abs.”
Abby chuckles softly on the other end of the line. “Yeah, maybe, but we all do what we gotta do, right? Let me know how it goes.”
“Will do. Later, sis.”
“Talk later,” she says before hanging up.
I pull into Mason’s driveway and jump out of the truck. The baby’s cries are audible even from outside. I jog up the walkway and let myself in with the spare key he keeps leaving under a terracotta flower pot on his front porch.
Inside, the cries are louder, echoing off the walls. I follow the sound to the living room, where I find Mason pacing back and forth, bouncing the red-faced infant in his arms. He looks up when I enter, his eyes wild and desperate.
“Thank fuck.” His voice is hoarse, like he’s been trying to soothe the baby for hours. Knowing him, he has been.
“What do you need me to do?”
“I don’t know, man. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.” Mason bounces Theo in his arms, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, like he’s running on fumes and instinct alone.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and it’s a text from Abby about all the things we talked about. It buzzes in my hand and three links to videos on swaddling techniques come in.
“Alright, let’s check his temperature first. Where’s your thermometer?”
Mason gestures vaguely toward the kitchen with his free hand. “In the drawer by the sink. But I already checked. He doesn’t have a fever.”
I nod, quickly scanning the rest of Abby’s text. “Okay, when’s the last time he ate?”
“About an hour ago. I just fed him.” Mason’s voice is strained, his words punctuated by the baby’s persistent wails.
“And you burped him after?” I ask, recalling another bullet point from my sister’s impromptu baby advice.
Mason pauses mid-pace, his brows furrowing. “Yeah, I think so. But maybe not enough? I don’t know, man. I’m still figuring this shit out.”
I nod, stepping closer. “Okay, want me to try?” I hold out my arms, and after a moment’s hesitation, Mason carefully transfers the squalling infant to me.
The baby feels so small and fragile in my arms, his little face scrunched up and red as he cries. I adjust my hold, trying to remember how I used to hold my sisters when they were this size.
I cradle Theo against my chest, his head resting on my shoulder. With one hand supporting his bottom, I pat his back gently but firmly, pacing the living room as I do.
“C’mon, little man,” I murmur, my voice low and soothing. “Let’s see if you’ve got anything in the tank, yeah?”
I keep patting, walking slow circles around the room. And then, like a pint-sized miracle, Theo lets out a burp against my shoulder.
His tiny body seems to deflate, all the tension and discomfort leaving him in that one small expulsion. He nestles into my chest, his cries tapering off into exhausted whimpers.
I keep rubbing his back, gentler now, and slowly his breathing evens out. The silence that settles over the room feels almost holy, a reprieve after the storm of his cries.
“Dude, what the actual fuck?” Mason whisper-hisses.
I turn, keeping my same pace and face him. “What?”
“Are you like a baby whisperer or something? No offense, but seriously, what the fuck?” His eyes are wide, disbelief etched into his exhausted expression.
I flash him a smirk and continue to rub small circles on Theo’s back. “ No offense ,” I mock. “But you look like shit. Go take a shower and a nap.”
Mason shakes his head. “Absolutely not. In fact”—he pats his shorts pockets and pulls out his phone—“I need to document this. No one would believe me if I didn’t have proof. The great Beau Carter is a goddamn baby whisperer.”
I breathe out a quiet laugh. “Fine. If you don’t want to sleep, then at least go take a shower. You’ve got a little something on your shirt.”
He arches a brow and deadpans. “Yeah, man. So do you.”
“Damn.” I thought I felt something wet earlier.
“Seriously, Mase. I’ve got him for ten minutes while you take a shower.”
He stretches his arms over his head, grimacing. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be quick though. And just holler if he wakes up.”
I continue my same pace around the living room, cradling Theo to my chest. “We’ll be fine.”
The shower turns on down the hall as I keep walking slow circles around Mason’s living room, Theo dozing peacefully against my chest. His tiny breaths puff warm and rhythmic on my neck, his little hands curled into loose fists.
There’s something surreal about this moment, holding my best friend’s son in the quiet stillness of the night. It feels like a glimpse into a life I never imagined for myself. The domesticity, the responsibility, the bone-deep exhaustion that comes with babies.
But there’s a rightness to it too, an unexpected warmth that blooms in my chest as I hold him. It’s a foreign feeling, this protective instinct that swells in my chest, but not an unwelcome one.
My thoughts drift unbidden to a pair of amber eyes, to the feel of silky peach strands slipping through my fingers.
The sound of her laughter, bright and unrestrained.
My Eloise.
I wonder what she would think, seeing me like this. If she would smile that secret smile, the one that feels like it belongs only to me. If she would step close and run a gentle hand over my shoulder, over the baby’s back. If she would press a soft kiss to my stubbled jaw, her eyes warm with affection.
I shake my head, dispelling the fantasy before it can take root. It’s dangerous to let my mind wander down that path, to imagine a future with a woman who I’m not even fucking dating.
But still, the longing persists, an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with the infant sleeping on it. I want more than stolen moments under the cover of night. I want lazy mornings and inside jokes, shared secrets and slow dances in the kitchen.
Goddamn.
I shake my head as realization bowls me over.
For the first time in my life, I want a relationship.
And I want it with Eloise Hawthorne.