Chapter 20 – Alise #2
I shake my head, but the fight’s gone out of me. “I’m so tired of being brave, of holding it together and pretending I don’t want more.”
“I know, baby,” she murmurs, her thumb stroking slowly, grounding circles across my shoulder. “But you deserve more than being someone’s safe place when the world goes to hell. You deserve to be loved fully, loudly, and without fear.”
And just like that, something inside me cracks wide open, and I break.
Right there on the couch, with a blanket slipping off my shoulders and the tea having gone cold on the table.
My heart splits open under the weight of grief and longing and all the places I’ve tried to shrink myself small enough to be kept.
And Momma holds me like she did when I was small—no fixing, no rushing, no “you’ll be okay.
” Just her usual soothing presence, and I cry.
Because for the first time, I don’t know if keeping my distance from him is a strength or just one more way I’ve learned to disappear before anyone else can make me vanish.
She holds me until my tears dry up and my breathing evens out.
Until the silence between us feels less like suffocation and more like safety, but neither of us says much after that.
I’m not sure how long we sit there, but at some point, she kisses my forehead and tells me she’ll be in her room if I need anything, then disappears down the hall.
I don’t move to go to my room, although I know I should, but I stay curled on the couch, mug abandoned, and grief still blooming quietly beneath my ribs.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have, because when I blink my eyes open again, mid-morning light floods the room.
The TV is playing some baking show, not the same one I remember from last night, and my phone is still face down on the coffee table like even the possibility of a message from him would crack me open.
A heavy knock rattles the front door, and I jolt upright, heart lodged in my throat.
They are three slow, solid thumps with no urgency to them.
It’s more than likely not an emergency based on the knocks, but no one just shows up unannounced at my house.
I grab my phone, checking for any missed calls or messages, but find none.
My body refuses to move, one hand clamped around the throw blanket like it’s armor, and then I hear it.
“Alise.” Beau’s voice is aching and full of something I’ve tried so hard not to need.
Why is he here? He can’t be here. Not now. I’m not ready to see him. My pulse quickens, and it feels like someone threw me into open water, making my stomach lurch. My fingers tremble as I peel the blanket away from my lap and push myself to my feet.
I could not open the door and let him say what he wants through the door, but a part of me knows he won’t just leave. He’ll stand out there until someone forces him off our porch, so I stand and cross the room. My steps are slow and uncertain, each one a battle between longing and fear.
I look through the peephole, bracing myself for seeing him for the first time since everything happened, and I gasp.
Beau is standing there in all his glory.
Same backward baseball cap, same hood, but his eyes look tired.
Full of the same quiet heartbreak that seems to be etched into every line of his body.
He’s standing there as if he’s waiting for a sign. For a breath. For me.
Don’t do this, I tell myself. Don’t open it. Don’t let him in. Don’t let yourself hope.
But I do. I pull the door open a crack, and the second our eyes meet, I feel my panic rising fast, burning through my chest like wildfire.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, but it barely escapes. I’m not sure my vocal cords are working properly.
“Didn’t want you to think I forgot the promise.”
“What promise?” I blink hard, disoriented.
“Gummy bears,” he says, lips twitching like he wants to smile but can’t quite pull it off. “I promised you something other than red ones at that birthday party, and I never followed through.”
And just like that, I’m ten years old again.
Hiding behind the equipment cart, hands over my ears, too overwhelmed to move.
Too ashamed to speak, until I open my eyes and see him on his knees, sitting with me, like silence was enough.
It’s one of the first times I remember not having to explain the chaos inside me.
“I told you I’d always be your friend,” he says, voice rough like gravel smoothed by rain. “That I wasn’t going anywhere.”
“You said that when we were kids.” I squeeze the edge of the door until my knuckles ache.
“I meant it then.” He steps a little closer, not enough to cross the threshold, but enough that I feel his presence like a current in the air. “I still do.”
“Beau, don’t.” The words burst out of me like a wound breaking open.
I shake my head and move to shut the door in order to preserve what’s left of me, but he stops it gently with the toe of his shoe.
“I just needed you to know,” he says, steady despite the way his jaw ticks like he’s holding something back.
“I can’t—I can’t do this right now. I don’t know how to let you in without completely falling apart.”
“Then fall apart, and I’ll be here when you do.”
“No.” I take a shaky step back, pressing my hand to my chest like I can keep my ribs from cracking open. “I’ve always been that someone you come to when you’re broken. I don’t just want to be a soft place to land when the world’s too heavy. I want to be more than that. I need to be more than that.”
His gaze stays locked on mine. Unshaken. Like nothing I say could scare him away.
“I want you to want me,” I say, my voice splintering under the weight of the words. “Not because I make it easier. Not because I calm you down or let you breathe. I want to be wanted when you’re okay. When you’re whole. When you could choose anyone and you still chose me.”
“I do.” He swallows hard, chest rising.
“Don’t say that just to make me feel better—”
“I’m not,” he says. “I want every version of you, especially the one who doesn’t believe she’s worth it.”
“I don’t trust that. I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust that I won’t screw it up and say something that is too much, or need too much, or break you without even meaning to.”
Hot, angry tears spill down my cheeks, but he doesn’t turn away. Instead, he reaches forward, his hand cupping my cheeks as his thumb brushes away the tears. I can barely resist the urge to close my eyes and nuzzle into his palm, but I manage.
He pulls his hand back and smiles, shoving it back into his pocket. “You won’t.”
“You can’t know that,” I whisper, my voice barely holding. “I want this. I want you, but I’m terrified, because the last time I believed I was worth loving, they left. I haven’t let anyone that close since. Not really.”
Beau doesn’t flinch or try to fill the silence with easy words or half promises. He just nods, like he understands the ache under my skin better than anyone ever has.
“I’m not ready,” I say, and the truth tastes bitter. Like failure. Like loss.
“Okay.” His shoulders drop slightly, but he doesn’t push.
“I don’t know if I ever will be.”
“I’ll wait as long as it takes,” he responds, his voice soft but full of conviction.
Something in me wants to believe that, but the rest of me—the bruised, broken, still-healing parts—can’t.
We stand there, quiet. My fingers still curled around the edge of the door, his hands tucked into his pockets as if he moves too much, he’ll shatter the fragile thread between us.
And then he does something I don’t expect.
He takes a slow step back and then another. Pain flickers across his face as he moves—real, unhidden—but he straightens as best he can.
“You don’t have to fall apart for me,” he says, voice like a secret between us. “But if you ever do, I’ll still be the one who wants to put you back together.”
Then he turns and walks down the steps. There’s no screaming or slammed doors, just his quiet footsteps fading into dusk.
I open my mouth to ask him if he is okay.
To apologize or at least say something else so I can see his easy smile again, but I don’t.
I can’t. Instead, I close the door softly and slide down the inside like every bone in my body gave up all at once.
My back hits the wood, and I curl forward, pressing my hands to my face to muffle the sob that rips out of me.
I’m not okay, but for the first time in days, the silence doesn’t feel like punishment.
It feels like a promise. It feels like he is still choosing me, even when I can’t choose myself.