Chapter 6 #2
I peel away from Lani and Arthur to follow Beau to the backyard.
I step onto the covered lanai as he closes the glass sliders behind us.
I catch a glimpse of his tree house, although it’s shrouded by the overgrown branches of the giant oak tree.
The sight of it makes my chest ache with nostalgia. We got up to so much trouble out there.
“Remember when I forced you to kiss me in the tree house that summer before high school?” I release a soft chuckle. We’ve never talked about it, and I don’t know what possessed me to mention it now.
“I didn’t think you remembered that.” Beau swallows hard and looks toward the structure. “But you didn’t force me.”
“I totally did. I had to drag you into it, like everything else. Just like when you were too nervous to climb those rocks in Joshua Tree, or too worried about getting caught to sample my dad’s scotch at that holiday party, or too anxious about sharks to learn to surf.
” As a kid, Beau wouldn’t try anything unless I dragged him out of his super-size comfort zone.
“Not true.” Beau clears his throat, folds his arms over his chest, and leans against the column. “I just didn’t want my first kiss to be like that.”
My body heats in humiliation. Why did I bring this up? My ego can’t afford any more hits. But it was a good kiss. I would bet the last measly dollars in my bank account on it. “You didn’t want it to be like what?”
“Like practicing for sport.” Beau flips his focus to me, and I see Beau the boy—and all that vulnerability—underneath the confidence his adulthood has borne.
“It wasn’t like that,” I say, disagreeing with him on instinct.
He scoffs. “Yes. It was. You said you wanted to practice. But you didn’t tell me it was because you had a crush on Matty Jones. And a week later, we started high school, and guess who was on the arm of that meathead?”
Okay. Maybe he has a point. Maybe I studied Cosmo ’s “Complete Kissing Guide” as Beau reread Great Expectations three times for his Summer Honor’s English assignment.
And maybe I was bored as he highlighted passages until his fingertips were stained yellow.
Maybe I didn’t want to embarrass myself during my first real kiss and thought Beau and I couldn’t possibly screw up our friendship. Maybe I was wrong about all of it.
Especially when I assumed kissing Beau would feel like kissing my brother. Because it definitely didn’t.
But I wouldn’t dare tell him any of this. Or admit that if Lani hadn’t called us to dinner, I may have kept kissing him. And if he hadn’t acted so weird for weeks afterward, who knows if I would have ever dated Matty at all.
But that’s ancient history.
“I was so nervous,” Beau confesses. The admission startles me, and I look away. “I thought for sure you were going to tease me or rate my performance.”
“You did just fine,” I say before I think better of it.
Our gazes lock, and I can’t discern what he’s thinking—but I’m replaying that first, sweet kiss like it happened yesterday.
He tasted like strawberry Starbursts, smelled like coconut sunblock, and pulled me close like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Beau swallows once, and I feel my pulse rage through my skin—but he looks away first, and I exhale a shaky breath. It’s just nostalgia, I tell myself. Everyone’s pulse races when thinking of their first kiss.
“Why’d you bring me out here?” I ask.
Beau studies me for a heartbeat, and I shiver despite the warm night.
He clears his throat. “I’m not sure how much you’ve looked into it, but I did some research.
” He pauses. “The document you found means child protective services had grounds to terminate your mom’s rights.
It wasn’t a typical custody dispute. A parent can sue for custody in Oregon, but they can’t sue to get the other parent’s rights terminated.
And a parent can’t waive their rights voluntarily unless someone else is stepping in to adopt. ”
“What are you trying to say, Beau?” I don’t like where this is going. It sounds ominous.
“I just want to make sure you’re ready for what you may find.”
“I am,” I say, even though I absolutely am not.
I swallow, the emotions suddenly too big to keep at bay.
I have only a handful of memories of my mother, but they’re like specks of spilled glitter clinging to me years later—a day at the beach, a dance party in the kitchen, baking cupcakes, singing at the top of our lungs with the car windows rolled down.
I don’t understand what happened all those years ago, but I can’t imagine it’s as bad as Beau is implying.
My mom wasn’t abusive. I would have remembered. I would sense it. Right?
“Okay.” Beau exhales and hands me an envelope.
“What’s this?” I glance at him before turning it right side up.
“Some possible leads on your mom. I’ve narrowed the search hits based on the personal details we found.
There are a few addresses for a woman who could be her—a list of places she lived over the last few years and her dates of residency.
” He drops his volume. “You can search for her when, if, you’re ready. ”
“How’d you find these?”
“One of my former grad students is a whiz at archival research. She owed me a favor.”
I peel open the envelope and unfold the paperwork, skimming the words.
There are pages of addresses and personal details on several Mary Johnsons, but Beau has highlighted information about one woman in her late fifties whose footprint is on the West Coast. There’s an address in Oregon and a few in small Northern California towns—Redding and Fort Bragg.
This reality of my mother’s existence delivers another truth bomb on parchment. I shove it back in the envelope.
“Sorry if I overstepped.” He folds his arms. “But I told you I’d help. And I didn’t want to head out without giving you some leads.”
“No. Thank you. This is ... Wow.” He called in a favor for me. It’s overwhelming—as is the information he found. I fan myself with the envelope, suddenly flushed.
“You don’t have to follow up. But if you want to, you’ll have a head start.”
Beau found her trail. Dad could have found her.
My mother could have found me. That grief thing bubbles up again, like a black hole, eating into my soul.
It’s so damn lonely grieving a beloved parent who betrayed you and realizing you wasted a lifetime of grief on a parent who didn’t deserve it.
I should have saved it all up for this moment when I would have to mourn them both: the fiction and the reality.
“Are you going to be okay, Phe?” Beau tries to capture my gaze and stoops to meet me at eye level. But I evade him.
“Yeah. Of course.” I think of returning to Dad’s house tonight, knowing that Beau won’t stop by to help or irritate me.
Or going back to my apartment and working all day without my nightly call from Dad.
It’s just so lonely. “Where did you say you’re going again?
” I ask as an idea develops, filling my empty well with possibility.
“Up the West Coast.”
“Up to Northern California?” I prompt.
“Yeah.” There’s a note of suspicion in his voice.
He should be suspicious. My thoughts are tumbling down this hill like a boulder—untethered and dangerous.
“Take me with you,” I blurt out.
His eyes widen, his lips part into a soft O, and he quirks his head to the side. “I’m sorry?”
“I can be your assistant. Take notes, plan your calendar, that sort of thing.” My words rush out of me without a tether to rational thought.
“Don’t you work?”
“I can work anywhere. I’m a virtual assistant. But I could be your physical assistant.”
His eyebrows disappear into his hairline, and he pushes his glasses up his nose.
“Get your mind out of the gutter. I mean, your actual assistant. In-person, concierge-level research assistant.”
“I haven’t sold this book yet. So, no advance. No money for an assistant.”
“Your last book sold a gazillion copies and got you onto all the cool talk shows. Aren’t readers salivating for another one of your thousand-page tomes?” His books are an essential public service so all the social climbers have something to discuss to make themselves look well read and cultured.
He folds his arms across his chest, his armor locking into place.
“It’s too dissimilar to what I’ve published thus far.
So I’m looking for a new publisher. My agent is shopping around my proposal.
” His tone shifts to the lofty register of a lecturer.
“But I must prove that I, as a historian, can write a compelling book about human behavior. I thought a deeper dive into first-person accounts would allow me to show that history is no more than a loose collection of stories we were told, informed by the perspective and integrity of the teller—”
“You launch into academic lectures faster than a drunk uncle launches into sexist rants at Thanksgiving dinner.”
He sighs, cracking a small smile, and I hold up my hand.
“I don’t want you to pay me. I think the time away could be good for me.
And I can help you.” I have more oxygen by imagining time away from my reality.
Maybe I’ll use it to search for my mom. Maybe I’ll use it to clear my head.
Either way, it’s better than my current option—standing still.
“I work alone,” Beau says.
I laugh. “Okay, Batman. Consider me Robin. I’ll even wear tights if you ask nicely.
” I bat my eyelashes and cock a hip. His gaze skitters over me before darting away, replaced by a weary frown.
“And ... maybe we can take a detour to track down my mom.” The addresses in my hand are calling me like a siren.
It’s probably a terrible idea, but terrible ideas have always been the ones I like best.
He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “You and me. On a road trip? Together?”
“Relax. We’re not taking the kids to the Grand Canyon. I won’t make you play I Spy or Twenty Questions. It’s for research. Your book. My life. Win-win.”
“You’d be willing to take instructions from me?” he asks skeptically.
“I did clarify that ‘physical’ assistant was an unfortunate word choice, right?”
“Ophelia,” he grumbles, and there’s that adorable blush again.
“I will obey your every command, Professor.”
His cheeks go even redder, but he lowers his voice, growing sterner. “And you won’t go off script during the interviews?”
“I’ll be so on script, I’ll be sprawled on top of it.”
“Many interview subjects are fragile,” he says.
“As am I,” I argue.
“You’re fragile like a bomb,” he mutters. “And are you sure you want to find your mom?”
“No,” I admit. I’m sure of almost nothing right now.
“Then why come?”
I shrug. “I’ll have the option,” I say, and then try some vulnerability. “And I won’t be alone if I choose to look.”
He paces away, dragging his hands through his hair, knocking his glasses askew. I watch as he carves a path on the patio. “Fine,” he finally spits out. “But I control the music. You can’t talk the entire time or complain about camping or cheap motels.”
“Camping?” I gasp.
He narrows his eyes, and I lift my hands in surrender. “I love camping. Sleeping on dirt is character building.”
He releases a long, low breath. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” He leans against the post, his head hung in defeat.
I pat his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Professor. Regret is also character building.”