Chapter 21 – Beau #2
I reach for my phone in the cup holder, screen dimmed, fingers hovering like maybe I’ll try again.
I’m still searching for the right words when the screen lights up with Cole’s name.
For a second, I consider ignoring it. I don’t have the bandwidth for anyone right now, but I answer against my better judgment.
“Yeah?”
Too much silence and not enough sleep has made my voice raw. It scrapes out of me like gravel, low and hoarse and a little lost. There’s a pause on the other end, like he wasn’t expecting me to pick up, just soft, even breathing that speaks volumes.
“Damn, you sound like shit.”
“Thanks.” I huff out something that might be a laugh, but it dies halfway up my throat.
“Seriously. You good?”
I let the question sit there as I stare out the windshield like the answer is hiding in the porch light still burning against the morning light. I press the heel of my palm into my eye until I see stars, anything to push back the burn before answering.
“Define good.”
There’s another pause, longer this time, like he’s waiting for me to elaborate.
Cole and I have been talking to each other about everything since he came home to Redwood Falls, and even more so since he started counseling.
I’ve missed my baby brother and his calming presence that doesn’t feel the need to do something or fix what’s wrong through actions like Cooper.
Cole will just sit next to you in silence until you’re ready to tell him what’s eating away at you.
“You still with the pint-size terror?”
“You know she fucking hates you calling her that, right?”
“Yes, I do. Hence, the reason I keep doing it. If she didn’t completely lose it every time I said it, it would cease to amuse me. Then I’d have to find something else to call her to push her buttons.” Cole chuckles softly. “Nice attempt to change the subject, by the way. Are you there or not?”
“Why do you think I’m at Alise’s house?” My whole body goes still, hand tightening around the phone.
“A little birdie may have hinted at it.”
“Ramona or Cooper?” I exhale sharply through my nose.
The line goes quiet again, and I can practically hear the gears grinding in his head, trying to assemble a halfway decent lie out of duct tape and hope. Then, finally, with a sigh that says Don’t make me say it, he mutters, “Does it matter?”
“Cole.”
“You know how it goes, man. One person saw your truck, and someone else saw you at practice, looking like you haven’t slept in a week and got ghosted by your own soul. Michele asked Cooper what was going on after practice. Ramona put all the pieces together. I might’ve… gotten a group text.”
My eyes close as bitter amusement curls in my chest like smoke.
Growing up, the Hendrix household ran on sarcasm, shoulder punches, and unspoken loyalty you don’t question yet bleed for.
We could keep secrets locked down tighter than Fort Knox from the outside—steel-trap mouths and don’t-ask-don’t-tell energy.
We could go months pretending we were fine, brushing pain under the rug with grunts and game stats, but the second one of us cracked?
It was a full broadcast. No filter. No delay.
One person hears, and then suddenly it’s a group chat, complete with emotional damage updates, unsolicited advice, and a barrage of emojis.
“A group text,” I echo flatly.
“With emojis,” Cole deadpans in confirmation. “Broken heart, ghost, dumpster fire, cowboy hat. The cowboy was Cooper, I think.”
Of course, there were emojis. I let out a ragged exhale, and the side of my head presses against the cold glass of the window. I huff a sound that might’ve once been a laugh but barely makes it past my lips before dissolving.
“It’s nice to know my personal crisis is meme-worthy.”
“Everyone cares, Beau.”
I don’t answer. There’s too much lodged in my throat. Words I never said, regrets I can’t take back, the sting of her voice in my ears telling me to go.
“You looked like hell at practice,” Cole adds, quieter now. “You barely spoke after talking to Cooper. You just sat on the bench, watching the ice like your life ended without it.”
“I told you.” My voice is rough, cracked open with emotion. “I can’t play. I’m stuck. And the only thing that made it make sense was—” I stop, swallowing hard, the words backing up behind my teeth like a dam that won’t break.
“You still there?” he asks gently.
“Yeah. Still here.”
“You mean in the truck, or in general?” Cole chuckles as I glance at the porch light again, its glow lingering even in the daylight.
“In the truck, parked out front. I haven’t moved.”
“Okay, so what happened?” Cole asks, teasingly, like he already knows the answer.
“She opened the door.”
“Oh, no.”
“She talked to me, and then she closed it again.”
“Oof.”
The sound that escapes me isn’t really a laugh, just something hollow cracking out of my chest. I drag a hand down my face like I can rub the failure off me, attempting to wake myself up from this aching version of reality where I said too much too late. “Yeah.”
“You left the gummy bears?”
“Yeah.”
“You sit dramatically on the porch like a sad little love-struck Victorian heroine?”
“Yep.”
“Damn. Hate to say it, but that sounds like an epic fail.”
“Thanks, Cole. Super helpful.”
“I’m just saying. You made a move, and it got shut down. That’s tough.”
I don’t answer, and the silence between us stretches thin, trembling on the edge of breaking.
It feels like the entire world can hear the crack in my voice that doesn’t exist yet or the jagged thing in my chest I keep swallowing down.
Instead of making another jab or joke about what happened, Cole’s response surprises me.
“For what it’s worth? I think she’s scared.”
“She is scared.” My voice tears out of me like it has to claw its way past my ribs to be heard.
“And she loves you.”
I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the headrest. The word love is a bruise that won’t heal. Every time I touch it, it pulses, sharp and unrelenting. My chest tightens around it, ribs curling inward like they’re trying to protect something I already lost.
“That’s not the problem.”
“No,” he agrees, quieter now. “It’s that she thinks loving you will make your life harder.”
“It probably will.”
“Yeah, but so does loving me, Cooper, or literally anyone who’s ever had the misfortune of being in our orbit. You still do it anyway.”
I let out a mangled, helpless sound. Something between a half laugh and a half sob, I’m too stubborn to give in. I press the heel of my hand into my sternum like I can hold myself together with pressure alone.
“You’re not helping.”
“I know, but that’s why Cooper and I left our ladies in the city to come home and invite you to do something even stupider. We’re playing Mario Kart in the basement. Get your ass over here. You can be the sad one who keeps falling off Rainbow Road.”
I exhale slowly, my grip tightening on the steering wheel.
They came home. Cooper and Cole packed up and left the city—not for a holiday, not for a game, but for me.
Left Ramona and Michele behind because they knew.
They always know. Even when I don’t say the words, and I’m still pretending that I’ve got everything under control.
It cracks something open in my chest I’d been holding closed for too long.
They’re down there right now in the basement we grew up in.
Probably sitting on the old couch, controllers in hand, yelling about banana peels and fake rules.
They’re waiting for me like it’s any other night when we were young, stupid, and invincible. But I’m not that kid anymore.
I’m not the same thirteen-year-old who couldn’t stop the worst day of our lives from happening.
The one who stood in the parking lot, covered in dirt and guilt, watching my mom fall apart as she begged the paramedics to bring our father back.
Watching Cooper take control. Watching Cole break.
I never figured out what I was supposed to do at that moment.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.
Ghosts haunt every corner of our childhood home.
Momma humming softly in the kitchen while making dinner.
Cooper’s footsteps creaking across the floor at 2:00 a.m. when he couldn’t sleep after a loss.
Cole’s music too loud—always too loud. Kyle’s voice cracking as he shouted at a video game in the living room, desperate to keep up with us.
And me somewhere in the middle, trying to be enough for all of them.
I’m so fucking tired of being the one who’s always fine.
The one pretending my body doesn’t ache in places I can’t name.
Being the anchor in the storm for everyone else and acting like this thing with Alise isn’t carving me hollow.
Of being strong enough to play through pain but too scared to let anyone see the parts of me that are breaking.
I know they’d understand if I walked through that door and fell apart, but I don’t want them to see me like this. If I go down there and see them waiting—the love in their eyes, the worry, and the stubborn Hendrix loyalty—I’ll break. And I don’t know if I’ll be able to put myself back together.
“Not today.”
I press my knuckles to my mouth and breathe through the pressure. It matters that they’re here. It matters more than I can say, but I can’t just run home to be with my brothers. Not now. I can’t pretend I’m okay. Not even for Mario Kart and the dumb-ass jokes they’d use to prop me up.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“All right,” he responds gently, letting me know they’ll be there waiting, just in case. “But if you sit in your truck long enough to develop a back injury, I’m not letting Michele within five inches of you. That’s my girl, and the only person she is massaging is me.”
“Come on, Cole. Sharing is caring.” A laugh scratches at the back of my throat.
“No. Sharing is for losers, especially when it concerns my girl’s hands being anywhere near your body. You’re on a sad-boy timeout. Text one of us when you’re on your way home.”
There’s a beat of quiet between us, long enough to exhale before he speaks again. “You waiting for her to open the door?”
I don’t answer right away, and my eyes flick to the porch again.
The glow of that light is burning steady like it always does.
My parents always kept the porch light on overnight when we were kids.
Dad used to say he kept it on in case any of us ever lost our way.
It’s funny how something so small can still feel like a lifeline. Even now. Especially now.
“No.” The word barely makes it out. “I’m waiting so she knows I didn’t run.”
He’s quiet for a long time, probably because he might be the only person to understand why I’m doing it. Cole knows what it means to wait for someone who’s scared. To love someone who’s been through too much and still can’t believe you’ll stay.
“You want me to come sit with you?”
My throat tightens at the memories flooding my mind.
My throat tightens. Alise used to always do that, offering me quiet companionship like it was nothing and everything at the same time.
She’d sit beside me on the bench outside the rink after a tough game, passing me a granola bar and not saying a word.
Just being there for me. She’s always been there for me, even when I didn’t deserve her.
“Nah,” I say, voice low and wrecked. “Thanks, though.”
“I can bring you coffee, a pair of gloves because it’s fucking cold, or one of those sad little burritos from the gas station you pretend to hate because you probably haven’t eaten today.”
“You’ve got a gift for pep talks.”
I almost smile. The ache in my chest doesn’t leave, but it lessens just a little.
“I try.”
The quiet stretches between us again, not uncomfortable, just real.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says eventually.
“I know.”
But I have to do this alone because this thing with Alise is mine and always has been.
I remember the first time I realized it.
I was sixteen, and she had a notebook in her lap, a Sharpie stain on her fingers, and was curled up on the porch swing like she belonged there.
I sat beside her and asked what she was writing.
She said, “Just stuff I don’t want to forget.
” She didn’t know she was already becoming one of those things to me.
Something etched into me so deeply that no amount of time or distance could erase it.
There’s the time I saw her cry, and she swore she was fine, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie like it was a shield.
The way her laugh cracks open something warm in my chest. The quiet moment last Christmas when her fingers brushed mine as we passed the mashed potatoes, and she looked at me like she wanted to say something, but didn’t.
Every memory feels louder now. If everything is falling apart around me, if she’s slipping away, I want to be the one who stays long enough to feel every piece break.
I want the ache. I want the sting. Because she’s worth it.
“Thanks, Cole.”
“Anytime,” he says. “Call me if you need anything or if the light goes out.”
I glance at the porch and grin. The light is still glowing faint against the morning light, steady just like her. Even when she’s quiet and hurting, Alise never stops burning.
“Yeah, I will,” I murmur before hanging up, the silence wrapping back around me like a second skin. It settles into the truck with me, makes itself at home in my ribs as I pull up her name on my phone, my thumb hovering over it.
Tiny Terror
I’m still here.
Delete.
I meant every word.
Delete.
You don’t have to be scared alone.
Delete.
I remember her smile at the rink the other night and how it made my knees weak. The way she always hides her yawn behind the back of her hand, like it's something secret. The sound of her breath hitching minutes before I kissed her.
I set the phone down on the passenger seat, too tired to hold on to hope and too wrecked to let it go.
Then I lean forward, press my forehead to the steering wheel, and whisper her name into the stillness.
She won’t hear me, but maybe the light will.
Maybe it always has, and that’s why I can’t make myself leave.
Because the only thing worse than losing her…
is walking away before she knows I stayed.