Chapter 27 – Alise
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Alise
Idon’t run to Ramona and Cooper’s place; I power walk like a woman on a mission.
I completely bypass the elevator like it insulted my mother and take the stairs two at a time.
Apparently, I’ve entered my “flight mode” era, and there’s no pause button.
I’m not the girl who just casually wraps her legs around a man in the middle of his living room while our pseudo-nephew walks in, but here we are.
Or, more accurately, there I was, with Beau Hendrix’s hands on my waist, my heart in my throat, and my soul halfway laid bare. And now, I’m spiraling.
I can still feel his hands, gentle but certain, caressing my skin.
His touch doesn’t just linger on my skin, but I can feel it deep in my bones.
Still taste the kiss we shouldn’t have shared, hear him say he felt the same thing I did and didn’t regret it, and he meant every damn syllable.
And God help me, I want to believe him. I really, really do because Beau has been showing up, just like he promised when I was unraveling, when I needed someone to see me and stay anyway.
He’s brought me my favorite sandwich from the Pit Stop and sweet snacks for lunch, fixed the busted heater in the skate room, and has occasionally left my favorite drink on my desk when he’s known I’ve had a rough day.
He’s even kept his distance, which somehow feels more intimate than touching, like he actually listened when I said I needed space.
Well, except for a few minutes ago. But that was on me. I let him get close. Let myself lean into his warmth, the safety I keep pretending I don’t crave. He was standing too close, all soft eyes and warm hands and that damn little smile he gets when he’s trying to pretend everything’s fine.
Nope. We are not going there again. He is not mine.
That moment meant nothing. Except it did, and that’s the part that terrifies me the most because I want to go there again.
I want to believe that the way he looks at me means something.
I want to believe the way he touches me—like I’m something precious and breakable but worth holding anyway—is real.
I want to believe that someone like Beau Hendrix could see all of me and choose to stay.
But something has been off.
I don’t know exactly when it started. It’s just been a hunch or feeling every time I look at him.
Something has shifted, and not just whatever this thing is between us, but something else.
There’s a distance in his eyes even when he’s right in front of me.
It’s like he’s smiling with only part of his mouth and none of his heart, locking a part of himself away and hoping I won’t notice the missing piece.
But I’ve noticed.
There’s a shadow behind his grin. A tightness in his shoulders he can’t quite hide.
A heaviness in his silences that means so much more than anyone thinks.
I know that kind of hiding. I’ve lived it for most of my life.
I grew up with a father who promised to love me and then vanished the second I needed too much or asked the wrong question.
When I just existed in a way that made him uncomfortable.
He was the first person I trusted, the one who should’ve stayed, and when he didn’t, it carved a lesson so deep I’ve never been able to unlearn it.
Since then, I’ve been closed off, always afraid that if I let someone close enough to see me—really see me—they’ll decide I’m too much and walk away, too.
Sure, I had Auntie Naomi, Auntie Mel, and their whole beautiful, chaotic tribe, but outside of them?
I learned early that people don’t always stay, especially when you’re the weird kid with too many feelings and a sensory system that short-circuits at the drop of a hat.
I was too jumpy and sensitive. Too loud and too quiet all at once. I was basically too much all the time.
People say that my quirks don’t bother them.
They always say that in the beginning, but eventually, they all reach their limit.
And when they do, they don’t walk away gently.
They leave like I was a mistake they don’t want to own.
So, I learned to expect it, built walls around my heart, and called it self-respect.
I tell myself I’m fine being alone and solitude is safer than disappointment.
But Beau makes me want to crack the door open again, and that might be the scariest thing of all, because what if what he’s hiding breaks me?
So no, I don’t run to Ramona’s because I want comfort.
I go because I need to reset. I need to shove my heart back into its box and slap the mask back on before someone notices the cracks.
Before someone sees that I’m already in love with a man I might not trust wants me for me and not as a safety net.
By the time I get to their floor, I’ve triple-checked my texts for any proof that Darius was a petty menace and alerted the entire Hendrix family about me and Beau “making out like hormonal teenagers.” No messages yet, but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen.
I shove open the stairwell door like I’ve just come back from a war and make a beeline for their apartment. The door’s open, because of course, it is, and I walk straight into the scent of cinnamon rolls and pure emotional danger.
Because if Ramona asks me one question with that knowing little smirk of hers, I might actually implode.
“If you’re here to confess your sins, I require the full details and a pastry.” Ramona’s voice slices through the kitchen like a guillotine, and I freeze mid-step, still clinging to the hope that I could sneak in unnoticed.
“You heard.”
“Oh, I didn’t have to,” she calls, far too gleefully. “Darius texted Cole, Don’t come over unless you want to see your brother’s bare behind on the couch. Which I assume isn’t an exaggeration.”
He swore he’d keep it quiet, and here he is, tossing me under the bus before I’ve even had caffeine.
“It is!” I drop my bag by the door and fling myself face-first onto her couch. “We had all our clothes on.”
“For now,” Ramona mutters, appearing over me with a mug in hand. “You want tea or tequila?”
“Surprise me.” I groan, rolling over onto my back so she can press it into my palms.
“Tea it is.” She snorts and takes a sip from her own mug. “So…you and Beau finally tested the structural integrity of his couch cushions?”
“Please stop. I’m just going to lie here and die peacefully.”
“Okay, okay.” She sinks beside me like she’s about to binge-watch a disaster unfold in real time. “But you’re glowing and twitching. Either you had the best make-out session of your life, or you’re seconds away from an emotional breakdown.”
“Can it be both?” I admit, the words muffled by the fabric.
“Go on.” She lifts a brow, motioning with her hand for me to continue speaking.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I mumble, staring into the mug like answers will rise from the steam. “In his apartment, he kissed me like I was something sacred. I can still feel it—his hands, his mouth, everything. And I want—God, I want to believe him.”
“But?”
“But it’s Beau. He’s being so perfect, and I want to trust it, I do, but something feels wrong.”
“Wrong how?” Ramona studies me with that look that always makes me want to hide under a blanket.
“He’s hiding something. I can feel it. There’s a weight behind his smile like he’s holding the door closed on something big, messy, and painful. And I get it. We’ve all got our shit, but he won’t let me see it. And I’m scared if I get too close, I’ll fall for someone who isn’t really there.”
She says nothing, just lays her hand on my knee and gives it a small squeeze. I keep talking, the words spilling from my lips like I can’t hold them in anymore.
“I know what it looks like when people say, I’m not going anywhere and still leave. I’ve lived it. I’ve watched people disappear because I was too much or too weird or too me. I know how to spot someone with one foot already out the door.”
“Alise…”
“And he’s been showing up,” I rush out. “Really showing up. Fixing the door at the rink, bringing snacks, leaving gummy bears when I’ve had a crap day, and it’s killing me.
I want to let him in so badly it physically hurts, but I can’t stop thinking about all the what-ifs.
What if this is just his version of a soft exit?
What if he’s only giving me part of himself so it hurts less when he leaves? ”
Ramona’s expression softens as she reaches over and flicks me right between the eyes.
“Bitch, that hurt!” I screech, rubbing the sore skin. “What was that for?”
“You’re lucky I didn’t just smack you upside the head.” She clucks her tongue before taking another sip from her mug. “That man looks at you like you hung the moon. I’d bet my last crouton he’d catch you if you fell.”
“You don’t even like croutons.” I sniff, trying to play it off with a half-hearted smirk.
“I don’t,” Ramona says softly, like she’s handing me something fragile. “But I love you, and I like Beau most of the time. Even if he’s got secrets and a tendency to brood like a CW character.”
“I just—” My voice catches hard in my throat as I press the heel of my hand to my chest like that’ll keep it from cracking open. “I don’t want to be another girl who believed someone when they said they wouldn’t leave. I don’t think I can survive being wrong again.”
Ramona doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She just reaches over and threads her pinky through mine. But before she can say whatever soft thing is forming in her throat, the front door creaks open again, and in walks chaos in joggers.
Michele stops in the middle of the entryway like a storm cloud sniffing for lightning, her eyes sweeping the room before landing on me—crumpled posture, too-bright eyes, mug clutched like a lifeline.
“You made the group chat,” she says.
“I what?” I question as she turns her phone toward me, letting me see the latest message.
Darius