Chapter 40 – Beau #2
The tension doesn’t break all at once, unravelling one small thread at a time.
Michele disappears into the kitchen and starts pulling out containers from her grocery bag, clucking her tongue about the state of my fridge.
Ramona joins her, the two of them moving in a rhythm that feels practiced, like they’ve already decided I don’t get a say in whether I’m fed.
Darius fires up the console without asking, tossing me a controller with a grin. “Come on, man. Let’s see if you’re as bad at video games as you are at communicating.”
Cole and Cooper sink into the couch with our usual sibling competitiveness that turns even Mario Kart into a contact sport.
For a while, it’s just button-mashing and the sharp, sarcastic bite of trash talk.
It’s not normal, not really, but it’s the closest I’ve been to it in weeks.
By the time we call it quits, the coffee table is littered with empty plates, crumpled napkins, and one last cinnamon roll that Darius keeps threatening to eat just to spite Cole.
Cole swats at him half-heartedly, muttering about saving it for later, but Darius is faster.
He snatches it up with a wicked grin and shoves nearly half of it into his mouth in one bite.
“Are you kidding me?” Cole groans, glaring at him like he’s just committed a crime. “That was mine.”
Darius chews obnoxiously slow, eyes glittering with mischief. He swallows and licks the sugar off his thumb like he’s savoring victory.
“So… the letter?” Michele wipes her hands on a towel, giving me a look that feels like it sees too much.
“You’re not gonna let that go, are you?” I groan, letting my head fall back against the couch.
“Nope,” Michele says, her smile all sugar and steel. “You need to write it.”
“Yeah, consider it rehab for your feelings. You’ve been skipping leg day and emotional day. It shows.” Darius leans back in the recliner, grinning around the last bite of his stolen cinnamon roll.
Cooper leans forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze steady. “Do it tonight, Beau. While it’s still in your head. Don’t give yourself time to talk yourself out of it.”
They don’t push after that. Michele and Ramona fuss over cleaning my kitchen, while the boys and I fire up another round of Mario Kart and burn a couple of hours in the noise and chaos of trash talk.
For a while, I almost forgot the letter hanging over me like a storm cloud.
When they finally start packing up, Darius grabs his empty root beer bottles and points a finger at me like he’s giving last orders.
“Hey, when you write the letter, don’t go full Hallmark Channel. Keep it real. She’s not falling for the pretty words; she’s falling for you. Sappy idiot and all.”
The door shuts behind them, and the apartment goes still. Only now, the silence feels different. I stay on the couch for a while, staring at the spot where Cooper was standing, replaying every word they threw at me tonight. Darius’s last jab hangs in the air like smoke.
It would be easier to ignore it, to let the weight settle back in and bury me.
Instead, I stand. My legs feel heavy as I cross to the kitchen and drag a chair out with a scrape that echoes in the quiet.
I dig out a pen and a clean sheet of paper from the drawer.
The overhead light hums, spilling pale yellow across the table.
The blank page stares back at me, unmarked and merciless.
My fingers twitch around the pen, the metal clip digging into the side of my thumb.
I set the tip to the paper, and my hand cramps halfway through the first line.
My handwriting is a mess, slanted and jagged like my thoughts, but I keep going.
Lisey,
I don’t know where to start. I’ve been trying to figure it out for weeks, and everything sounds wrong. But here’s the only thing that matters: I didn’t tell you because I thought it would scare you away, but losing you hurt worse.
I won’t dress it up or pretend I handled it well. I didn’t. I was a coward. I let my fear decide for me, and I hate myself for it.
I wanted to believe I could protect you from the worst parts of me. I didn’t realize that in doing that, I was shutting you out of the best parts, too.
You said you can’t fight me into trusting you. You were right. Trust has to be given, not earned through battles. So, this is me, handing it over, no shields and no excuses.
I’m still scared, but I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.
—Beau
I stare at the ink until the lines waver, the words bleeding at the edges as my eyes burn.
My hand shakes when I fold the paper, the sound of the crease loud and final.
The envelope waits, open, like it’s calling my bluff.
I slide the letter inside before I can stop myself, sealing it with the press of a thumb that still trembles.
It’s not poetic. It’s not pretty. It’s raw, messy, and jagged, and maybe it’s the only thing I have left to give her.
It sits on the table for what feels like hours, the weight pulling at me every time I glance in its direction.
I think about delivering it myself. I even grab my keys once, but my legs won’t move past the door, and the thought of her face when she opens it makes my chest cinch until I can’t breathe.
I can already picture the hesitation in her eyes, the way she might glance past me like she’s looking for a way out.
That image alone is enough to pin me in place.
This isn’t brave. It’s not a noble act of giving her space. It’s cowardice, pure and simple, and I don’t care. Not if it means she’ll actually read it. Not if it means she might, even for a second, understand.
By morning, I know I won’t do it. I tell myself it’s cleaner, easier this way, but the truth tastes like failure because I’m letting fear win again. I pick up my phone before I can talk myself out of it and scroll to Ramona’s name. She answers on the second ring, her voice already suspicious.
“Please tell me you’re not calling to back out of Sunday dinner. Cooper’s been bragging about his lasagna all week.”
“It’s not about dinner,” I mutter, dragging a hand over my face. My thumb taps against the envelope on the table, the paper’s edge digging into my skin. “I need you to come by and grab something for me.”
There’s a pause. I can practically hear her leaning forward. “What kind of something?”
“A letter.” The word catches in my throat. “For Alise.”
My stomach twists before she even responds. Part of me hopes she’ll refuse and tell me to grow a spine and do it myself so I can shove this whole thing back into a drawer and pretend it never existed.
Instead, her voice sharpens. “Why am I delivering it? You have legs, functioning vocal cords, and a perfectly good working vehicle.”
“Because I can’t,” I say, the words scraping on the way out. “If I see her, I’ll screw it up. She deserves the choice to read this without me standing there, breathing down her neck, waiting for a reaction. Just… take it to her.”
There’s another pause, heavier this time. “You know this isn’t exactly heroic, right?”
“Ramona, I’m a chicken. I know. But as long as she gets it, I’ll… I’ll pray she reads it. And maybe she will come back.”
“Fine.” Ramona exhales, the sound halfway between exasperation and something softer. “I’ll do it. But only because I like the idea of you sweating it out while you wait for her answer.”
A shaky laugh escapes before I can stop it. “You’re evil.”
“Efficient,” she corrects. “And Beau? I want you to know I’m rooting for this. Hard. Mostly because if I have to walk down the aisle at my wedding without you two sitting together, I will personally haunt you in the afterlife.”
“Good to know.”
When the call ends, I sit there staring at the envelope, my chest tight and my pulse thrumming in my ears. For the first time since Alise walked out of that hospital room, I feel it—faint, unsteady, and terrifying. Hope.
I’m not sure I’m ready for it, but I’m more afraid of losing it.