Chapter 21 #3
“We decided to surprise Beau,” his mom says. “It was so nice to have him home for Jackson’s wedding, we decided we needed to see more of him.”
I look at Jackson, silently wondering why she didn’t mention that she was coming to Aspen, and she shrugs. “I didn’t think I’d be able to come so close to the opening of the hotel, but Nate insisted he had it well under control and somehow it all worked out.”
So that seat isn’t for Nate, which means it’s probably for Beau and I just intruded on some sort of family reunion. I’m trying to figure out how I can back away gracefully, maybe make them forget they ever saw me here, when Rory asks, “So, what are you doing here?”
I could lie and say I’m here for work. I don’t normally cover social media for snowboarding, but they’d probably believe me. Jackson would know, though.
“I came to see Beau. I also thought I’d surprise him. I didn’t realize he’d have a whole cheering section.”
“So the roommate situation worked out, then?” Catarina asks, her voice warm and friendly, trying to smooth over whatever tensions she’s sensing from her daughter. Beside me, Jackson stiffens.
“Beau’s been a great roommate. Coming here to support him was the least I could do.” There we go, that sounds believable enough without sounding like I was having the most amazing sex of my life with her son.
“I really hope he deserves your support,” Jackson says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The words are out of my mouth before I can think better of it. I want to pull them back in immediately, but it’s too late. The hostile tone and the question are both already out there.
“It means that I’m not sure what spell he’s cast on you, but you’re too good of a person to get sucked into caring for someone so wholly self-centered.”
His parents’ eyebrows both shoot up as they look at each other, then back to us.
“Maybe you just don’t know him that well,” I tell Jackson, turning to face her.
“Or maybe he has you totally fooled. He’s an aimless wanderer and will always be. Ask him about Helen sometime if you don’t believe me.” She looks at me with pleading eyes. “Please don’t set yourself up to get hurt by him.”
Some of her assertions may be based on facts I don’t know, but they feel stale and irrelevant. I know who Beau is now, and I have to wonder how long it’s been since she’s really known her brother. Before I can stop myself, I’m defending Beau like it’s my job.
“Beau doesn’t go around hurting people, Jackson.
But he does retreat when he’s been hurt.
Have you ever wondered why he doesn’t come home anymore?
” I glance from her to Rory, then back to her again.
“And he isn’t aimlessly wandering, he’s actively building a business that both allows and requires him to travel.
Look,” I say as I reach into my pocket for my phone and pull up his photography social media account.
“He’s an amazing photographer, and he’s making it into a career. ”
Jackson looks from my phone where I’ve held it out, up to my face. Her eyes are wide and her voice is quiet when she says, “I love that account. I’ve followed it for years.”
“And he’s not undependable, either. He’s been there for me when I needed him these past couple weeks. I wish you could see how much he cares about and helps other people.”
“Maybe when he’s getting something out of it,” Jackson says, and her mom lays a hand on her arm like she’s trying to calm her down. “If he was actually dependable, he’d have come home when Mom was going through chemo.”
I look over at Catarina, who looks surprised by Jackson’s statement.
Then I notice that Rory, who is sitting across from me, is looking up above my head and his expression is unreadable.
That’s when I glance over my shoulder and Beau is standing there, a hardened look I’ve never seen frozen on his face.
He looks down at me. “Sierra, a word?” With his chin, he gestures toward the doors, then turns and walks outside.
I glance back at the table, at the stunned faces of his family. “I . . . I’ll be right back,” I say as I stand, throw my hat and mittens back on, and rush outside to find him.
He’s standing with his back against a railing, his sunglasses covering his eyes so I can’t tell what he’s feeling.
He looks so good and it feels like I haven’t touched him in forever.
My body wants to rush up and wrap itself around him, but the hard line of his lips and his arms folded over his chest feel like a protective shield holding me at a distance.
“What was that all about?” he asks the second I’m close enough for conversation. And then before I can respond he continues, “If you thought for one second that talking to my family about me—telling them my secrets—was going to be okay, then you don’t know me as well as I thought you did.”
“Beau, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break a confidence. But Jackson just started saying stuff and I couldn’t not defend you. Why don’t you just tell them the truth?”
“And what is the truth, Sierra?”
“That you’re not a total fuckup.” I throw my hands in the air because how does he not get this?
By keeping them in the dark about how he spends his time and what’s important to him, he’s allowing them to believe a lot of things that aren’t true.
Maybe he even believes those things about himself.
“That you don’t just travel around the world like a nomad because you’re too immature to settle down.
That you don’t sleep with every girl you come across, then leave her heartbroken, just because you can.
That you do have a purpose and a plan for your future.
That you are capable of being a responsible adult. ”
He slides his sunglasses up into his hair and levels me with a glare so flat and void of emotion it’s like I’m looking at a sculpture of him in a wax museum, not the living, breathing Beau that I’ve come to love.
Wait . . . love? The realization dawns on me like a sunrise—so gradual you hardly notice how light it’s getting until boom, you’re blinded by the white hot glow of a sun that wasn’t there moments before.
Except, that look on his face reflects the storm clouds rolling in—big, black, angry ones—and they’re chasing my sunlight away.
I fold my arms across my chest. Why is he not saying anything? I lift my eyebrow, but still there’s no response from him. “Do you not have anything to say?”
“I’m—” he fumbles and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear his thoughts. “I’m still absorbing how eloquently you’ve let me know what my family thinks of me and, by extension, what you think of me.”
“That’s not what I think of you,” I say. “I feel like I’ve gotten to know the real you, and it frustrates me that you let your family believe you’re this asshole with Peter Pan syndrome.”
“Jeez, Sierra, don’t hold back.” He says it like I’m telling him something he didn’t already know.