Chapter 16
About thirty minutes later, there’s a decisive knock on the bedroom door. But I wait for verbal confirmation it’s Beau. I’m not interested in another run-in with Bianca.
“Phe, you decent?” Beau asks.
“I’m better than decent, baby.”
He steps through the door as I spin in my little black dress—the only nice thing I packed.
“Holy shit, Ophelia.” Beau seems panic stricken. Maybe I should have listened to the conversation and intervened if he grew distressed. What does friendship protocol dictate?
“What happened?” I step toward him, but he shuffles back.
“Nothing. You’re ...” He trails off, and my self-consciousness creeps in.
“I’m what? Is this too short for Chez Panisse? I could change.”
“No. No.” He exhales, runs his hand through his hair. “You look stunning.”
My stomach warms, and I smooth the front of my dress. “Thanks, Professor.” I think I may be blushing.
“But why ?”
“Ummm. You don’t have to be so shocked.” I should never succumb to flattery with Beau—there’s always a catch. “Not everyone can be naturally beautiful like you. I spent more time on my appearance than usual. I put on a nice dress. Brushed my hair. Applied makeup.”
“Why. Are. You. Dressed. Up?” He enunciates each word like we’re speaking over a bad cell connection.
“Did you forget? You are taking me out tonight.”
“I was trying to get rid of her,” he sighs. “And you can’t just pop into Chez Panisse. Reservations book out months in advance.”
“So take me somewhere else. I’m not picky.” I sweep my hair to the side and turn. “Zip me?”
He’s deathly silent behind me, and I look over my shoulder to make sure he’s still there. “Beau?” I prompt.
He clears his throat and tugs on the zipper. His fingers trail up my spine, and the gentle touch is a pebble dropped in a river—I feel him everywhere. I fight a shiver and hold my breath as he fastens the hook-and-eye closure.
I turn to him. His face is set in a frown, the groove between his brows more pronounced. Our gazes collide, and I worry I might do something stupid like beg him to touch me again to see if I’d survive it.
But he looks away—which is for the best.
An hour later, we’re waiting at the hostess stand at a tapas joint in Beau’s upscale Oakland neighborhood.
Exposed brick walls, concrete tables, oversize bronze pendant lights.
The facade is all glass, framed by black-mullion windows that tilt open to let in the balmy air.
We were able to walk here, which suits me fine, even in my strappy heels better suited for sitting.
The night is perfect—and the weather is a delightful 70 degrees—almost chilly in comparison to the sweltering regions we’ve escaped.
“So,” I say as we wait for our table, “why’d you kiss me?”
He chokes out a cough. “I meant to kiss your cheek. And you turned. But then you kissed me. On purpose.”
“You kissed me first,” I say.
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
A woman glances over from her small table along the window, prompting her date’s attention, who spins in his seat and frowns as if we’ve just yelled in a theater.
“Right this way,” the host says before gesturing to the table adjacent to the disapproving couple. The woman glances up and scoots her chair forward so I can squeeze in.
“I’m sorry,” Beau says once we have our menus in hand. “I panicked. I shouldn’t have invaded your personal space. And I didn’t mean to kiss you.”
“You didn’t mean to kiss me on the lips. But you meant to kiss me,” I challenge. He’s mortified, and I can’t resist messing with him. It’s better than replaying it in my mind.
“Right,” he says. “Look, thank you for playing along. She’s been persistent lately. I thought if she saw I’d moved on, she might, too. But it was stupid and impulsive.”
Stupid seems a stretch too far. It wasn’t that bad of a kiss—maybe a bit brief. But I could do better if he gave me another chance. “All’s fair in love and lies, I suppose. And I’m not an expert on the whole marriage thing, but I think divorce means she legally must move on.”
“We’ve agreed to all the terms, but she won’t sign.”
“Oh.” Something about this information lands like a brick. He said they were divorced, didn’t he? Wait, that was Cherry. He never said anything. He was still holding on to his wedding ring like he was Gollum. I should have asked more questions.
“But I don’t want to talk about it.” He drops his focus to his menu.
I put my elbows on the table and lean forward. “Can we talk about the terms of our arrangement? Are we rekindling a childhood love affair? Are we friends with benefits? Did we have a one-night stand? In case Bianca swings by again, I should know my role. Who is Ophelia in the Beauregard folklore?”
Beau glances up from his menu. “Who is Ophelia in the what now?”
“Can I keep calling you ‘baby’?”
“No.” He pinches his eyes closed. I’m waiting for him to cover his ears. He’s too pure for this world. And if I joke about how ludicrous we’d be together, maybe it will remind my libido of the truth of that.
“Professor, then. I can get behind that kink.” It would not be a stretch for me at this point. #HotForTeacher.
“Ophelia,” he warns as his cheeks turn ruddy, which makes me grin.
“What do I do for a living?” I ask.
He feels my forehead with the back of his palm. “You are a virtual assistant. Do you feel okay? Did you fall and hit your head again?”
“You don’t want me to be an underwear model or astronaut? Perhaps something altruistic like a social worker or foreign-aid worker. I could be some hotshot tech executive. Ooh. A venture capitalist. I’ll even google it and figure out what it is.”
He frowns at me. “You’re ridiculous. I want you to be you.”
“Oh, c’mon, don’t you want to impress her? She’s a doctor. I can’t be me and make her jealous.”
“Welcome.” Our server startles me and pulls my focus from Beau’s stern expression. I smile at the tall, well-groomed man standing beside our table. “What can I get you to drink?”
“I’ll start with a French 75.”
“Four Roses old-fashioned,” Beau says. The server nods and slips away to another table, and Beau turns back to me. “You really think I’m a snob, don’t you.”
“I’m not one to judge your drink choice. An old-fashioned is in vogue right now, but you’re an octogenarian at heart.”
He growls. “Not because of my drink. Because you assume I’d need you to be someone else, something else, for me to ... For you to be credible in front of my ex.”
I don’t want to explore that line of questioning. Of course I’d need to be smarter or more successful to be suitable for Beau, but why have that conversation when it would never happen? Instead, I deflect, hoping for levity. “I thought we clarified she’s not your ex yet.”
He drops his menu on the table and brings a hand to each temple. “What am I going to do with you?”
Oh, he’s too easy. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Kissing is now precedent. What about cuddling? Foreplay?” I drop my voice to a whisper. “Sexual intercourse?”
“Jesus, Ophelia.” He looks around and offers a placating smile to our neighbor over my shoulder, but this finally earns me a real laugh.
He hangs his head, and his shoulders shake in a silent chuckle.
He’s a tough crowd. I had to work for that one.
His cheek dimple winks at me, even as he tries to bite back his smile, and the tips of his ears turn red.
I try not to think about how funny he thinks it would be for us to be together that way.
“There he is.” I tug on his hand. “Being friends again means you have to be amused rather than irritated by me.”
“As my friend, you shouldn’t ask the impossible,” he grumbles, but there’s no heat in it.
“We’ll work up to it, then.”
He shakes his head, and I thread my fingers in his. It’s an innocent-enough gesture, but each touch ignites impure thoughts. I remind myself I’m lucky we’re even friends. “Seriously, though, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” But his voice is flat and humorless.
“You lie. Remember our deal?”
“I will be fine.”
“Why’d she come over?” I press.
He shrugs. “I haven’t been answering her calls. She doesn’t like not having access to me. But I took her key. So she won’t be surprising you in the bath again.”
That’s a relief. I really like that bathtub. And that was expert-level awkward.
“Besides, we leave tomorrow and won’t run into her again. It’ll be fine.”
The server comes back and delivers our drinks.
He and Beau chat about the specials as I scan the menu.
The options blur in front of me—I’m bad at all decisions, even mundane ones.
“Surprise me,” I say to Beau, who proceeds to order a long list of tapas as if he were waiting for me to defer to him all along.
We’re leaving tomorrow—and where we go is up to me.
We could take a detour and try to find my mom.
Or bypass Fort Bragg and drive straight to our next destination.
What if I’m left with even more questions?
What if I do find her and she’s not interested in talking to me?
To add the sting of new rejection to the mystery, I don’t know if I can handle that.
There are so many ways to lose a parent—death, betrayal, disappearance, abandonment—and I’m confronting all of them at once, by both parents.
“What did you tell her?” I ask, to disrupt my internal spiral.
“Huh?”
“What did you tell Bianca? About us? What’s the story? Are we in love? Or are we just fucking?”
Beau’s cheeks bloom along his sharp cheekbones, and my stomach bottoms out. He’s adorable when he’s embarrassed, and it makes me curious about what else would make him blush. “She assumes we’re casual.”
“Oh.” I take a sip of my drink and choke as the bubbles catch me off guard. I don’t know why that answer bothers me. “And you didn’t correct her?”
“Considering we’re neither serious nor casual but barely north of wringing each other’s necks, I thought it’d be fine to leave her assumption intact.”
Ouch. “How did she feel about that?”