Chapter 13
I want to put us both out of our misery.
Beau doesn’t want me here, and I don’t know the point of this escapade anymore.
I should have listened to him all those years ago, because he was right.
We should have stopped pretending to be friends.
I have to chalk this up to another bad decision.
Perhaps Beau will add it to his running tally.
I’ll catch a train tomorrow—it will take eight hours, but it’s cheap. I have to survive one more night, and if I’m lucky, we’ll check in to our separate rooms as soon as we get to the motel. I can take an Uber to the train station in the morning and never see Beau Augustin again.
Beau plays a podcast during the drive to Paso Robles.
Two hours of Malcolm Gladwell is two hours too many for me in my state.
He turns on the navigation when we take the exit into town, and I exhale.
Our destination is only four minutes away.
He pulls onto a long drive bordered by grapevines in front of a ranch-style home, cutting the engine.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“We’re staying at my friend’s place tonight.”
“What?” I straighten in my seat and reach for the mirror, running a hand through my hair to tame the mess. I smell like sunblock and have a light dusting of sand coating my shins. This house is only a few steps down from Anna Thorne’s place—and we’re staying here?
“Relax. He’s happily married. Flirting will get you nowhere.”
I turn to glare at him. “I thought we were staying at a motel. And now I have to impress some genius friend of yours for the night.”
“He’s not a genius—he’s just a friend.”
“What does he do?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Beau sighs as if I’m the most tiresome person in the world. “It will be fine. They’re good people.”
I wish there were a train leaving tonight. “I’ll catch an Uber to a motel.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps as a bearded man with salt-and-pepper hair steps onto the porch and trots down the stairs. He’s average height with a wiry frame, dressed in board shorts, a faded yellow T-shirt, and flip-flops.
Beau steps out of the car and offers a wide, generous smile that looks like sunlight.
I wither, aware of how little he’s shared it with me.
It’s a beautiful smile. Bright white teeth, a hint of a dimple under his right eye, a warmth that radiates like static.
He hugs his friend in a tight embrace, unmarred by the apologetic bro pat that men often use to neutralize affection.
“It’s so good to see you,” the friend says. I hover near the car door.
“Thanks for having us,” Beau says, without any evidence of his hangover. He’s practically giddy, the bastard.
“What the hell happened to you?” the friend asks, taking in Beau’s fat lip.
“He thought he was a matador,” I say.
“Carlos, this is Ophelia Dahl. Ophelia, this is Carlos Navarro. We went to undergrad together.”
“A Harvard grad,” I say, and attempt to keep my inferiority complex from shitting on the introduction.
“But don’t hold that against me.” Carlos shocks me by pulling me into a hug. “The famous Ophelia. We meet at last.”
I accept his embrace but am perplexed by the greeting. Beau looks away, moving to the trunk to grab our bags.
“You sure it’s okay I crash here?”
Carlos laughs. “Yes. I’ve been dying to get dirt on Beau for years. Do you like wine? I can ply you with alcohol to get the secrets.”
I relax as Carlos links his arm in mine and leads me up the porch steps. I hear Beau trudging behind us. “I do like wine. But I will dish even stone-cold sober.”
“Beau spent the entire night staked out at the window, with a flashlight and a whistle,” I finish. Carlos laughs and pats Beau on the back.
“I was protecting both of us from an alien invasion,” Beau says.
“He never could handle scary,” I say. “He had nightmares after Scooby-Doo .”
Carlos’s wife, Serena, comes into the dining room carrying a round of after-dinner drinks and sets one in front of each of us.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip. I think it’s port. It’s sweet and decadent.
“Be careful, Ophelia,” Beau says, his tone light. “I have way more stories on you than you do about me.”
I’m grateful he has managed to hide his disdain for me in front of his friends.
“But they aren’t interested in those stories, Professor. Your friends, your embarrassment. I don’t make the rules.” I shrug.
Carlos tips his glass to me. “She’s right. We aren’t out to humiliate the newbie.”
I scroll through my phone. “Here.” I hand it to Carlos, cued up to a collection of photos copied from an album I’d found in Dad’s stuff. Beau as Spider-Man, as Cinderella, in a tux for our fifth-grade promotion.
“Ahh, this one is adorable.” Carlos turns the screen toward me.
We’re at the beach, and I have Beau buried up to his neck in the sand as I pose above him in a Wonder Woman bikini.
We’re about six years old, I think. Carlos keeps scrolling before sharing a picture of Beau in braces and headgear, circa ten.
“That’s quite a look, Beau. If only I could have flashed this photo in college when all the pretty girls ignored me for you. ”
“Hey,” Serena says.
“Except you.” Carlos kisses his wife on the cheek when she settles next to him.
“But to be fair, who knows what would have happened had I met Beau first.” Serena winks at Beau, and he gives a slight bow. “We did have that one night. What could have been.”
“Ooh,” I say, “do tell.”
Serena laughs. “I got drunk. Slipped into Beau’s bed by accident.”
“We were roommates in the dorm,” Beau explains. “And nothing happened.” He holds up both hands.
“Nothing below the waist anyway,” Serena amends, and bursts out laughing while Beau pleads his innocence.
“Was Beau the sensible friend in high school?” Serena asks. “He always tried to reason us out of everything fun in undergrad.”
“We didn’t hang out in high school,” Beau says, his tone clipped. “Ophelia dated the quarterback.”
“Beau was valedictorian,” I volley back. He holds my stare like a dare.
“Ophelia was homecoming queen.” He spits it out as if he’s outlining my criminal record.
“Our high school held a pep rally to congratulate Beau on a perfect SAT score.” My dad came to support him. It was humiliating.
“Ophelia was so popular she sparked a trend when she shaved half her head and dyed the rest orange. She had all the poor freshmen running around looking like Beaker the Muppet.”
“Our principal proclaimed March 30 Beau Augustin Day when he was accepted into every Ivy League school.”
“Ophelia forgot I existed because I wasn’t cool enough.” Beau’s voice ascends in the otherwise-silent dining room.
“Beau rejected me because I wasn’t smart enough.” My voice cracks.
Beau breaks eye contact first, and I follow his gaze toward our shocked and silent hosts.
“I’m so sorry,” I mutter. “Excuse me.” I push my chair back, and it skitters against the hardwood floor in a discordant clang.
Beau reaches toward me, but I walk quickly out of the dining room, through the living room, and out the patio doors.
The night is stifling—there’s no breeze to push out the triple-digit daytime heat or dilute my anger or regret.
Carlos and Serena welcomed me as an old friend, and Beau and I just litigated decades of resentment after they cooked us filet mignon.
I step off the patio and into a grove of trees. There’s a porch swing hanging from a towering oak. I sink in, pushing myself back and forth, regretting my juvenile behavior. Why do I let him burrow so far under my skin?
I hear the crunch of feet along the tanbark and turn. I expect Beau, but it’s Carlos.
“May I?” he asks.
“Of course.” I scoot to one side of the swing, and Carlos sits, falling into sync with my rocking. “I’m so sorry. You and Serena have been lovely hosts. I don’t know what came over us.”
He laughs. “It’s fine. We’re married. We’re comfortable with bickering.”
We sit in silence a few beats before he continues.
“I met Beau at freshman orientation. We bonded immediately—two middle-class brown kids among the rich white elite. He talked about you a lot.” Carlos throws a testing glance my way and notices my shock.
“All his crazy stories starred Ophelia Dahl. He had a photo of the two of you as preteens pinned to his bulletin board.”
“Seriously?” I gasp.
“Scout’s honor.” He holds three fingers in the air.
“He told me about that time you got married. And the time you convinced him to jump from your loft onto a bed below, and he broke his arm. He told me about your first kiss.” My mind reels back to that memory, and I blink several times.
“Don’t tell him I told you,” he adds. I hold up three fingers, and he chuckles.
“He also told me you two fell out. And he missed you.”
I try to square this with the version of Beau I know.
The one who disapproved of my friends, mocked my lack of knowledge of “important” things, and severed the final ties of our friendship before he left town.
But it squares with the hurt he shared earlier.
He thinks I ditched him and sacrificed my best friend for popularity.
When really, I made no such conscious choice.
We grew apart, and I let my teenage years happen to me. I’ve let life happen to me.
I didn’t throw Beau away, but I didn’t hold on to him tight enough. And I see now that it’s probably the same thing.
“Beau is one of the best and most loyal guys I’ve ever known. He’s guarded. Doesn’t always know how to express what he feels. But he shows it. You just have to pay attention,” Carlos says.
Carlos pats my leg and stands, walking away before I’ve had a chance to process what he’s said. I watch him slip in through the patio doors as a shadow emerges from inside. But I look away, unable to make eye contact as Beau approaches. I feel the swing rebound when he settles beside me.
“I’m sorry,” we say in unison. We both do a double take before Beau gives me a small smile.