Chapter 17 #2
I glance toward the street in the distance—toward the address we came to visit. And I’m suddenly aware that I’m following the tracks of one parent while erasing those of the other.
“I thought you wanted to sell?”
“I have to.” I won’t be able to float the mortgage payments much longer, and I have no business being a landlord.
Living in my childhood home is not an option—not with all the ambivalent emotions it conjures; I’d risk suffocating in the memories.
The happy ones snuck up on me while I was confined there: Dad’s booming laugh, the way his signature knock would resonate against the hollow door of my bedroom—always in a pattern of five, followed by Permission to enter, Princess?
I pace two more lengths of the storefront before stopping abruptly.
“But what if I accept a lowball offer? What if I sell the house to a psychopath who moves in next door to your parents? They could be one of those weird exotic animal collectors who keep tigers or ferrets in the yard. Can I do a background check?”
Beau stands still on the sidewalk while I pace. His focus follows me with every quick lap, and I don’t miss the twitch of a smile that flicks across his mouth. “I presume that might cross some legal boundaries. Privacy, discrimination, and whatnot.”
“This feels like a decision an adult should make.”
He chuckles. “I hate to break it to you, but you are an adult by any legal standard. You’ll be thirty-five in two months.”
I collapse with my hands on my knees. “That’s officially old. Late thirties.” A birthday is coming, without my dad to help me celebrate.
Beau clears his throat. “ Mid -thirties.”
With the same birthday, Beau and I share the same timeline for aging. But who knew he would be sensitive about it? He’s successful and gets hotter the older he gets.
“Everyone knows you round up at five,” I say.
“But why would you round up when your age is already a round number? With that logic, a five-year-old is ten. A fifteen-year-old is twenty.” His voice escalates.
“Please, Beauregard, lecture me on the illogical fear of aging.” I’m grateful to be able to bicker with him to distract myself from all the scary choices ahead.
But he sighs. “I don’t know how you drag me into such absurd arguments. Look, you need to review the paperwork and make some decisions. I’m going to drive us to the motel.” He stops short as I take two slow inhales. “And find you a paper bag to breathe into.”
An hour later, we’ve checked in, grabbed tacos and beer, and are huddled around a firepit at the motel.
We have a postcard view of the ocean—a rugged lava-rock shoreline of shallow bluffs, with cypress trees and lavender ice plants clinging to the cliffs.
This is a millionaire location on a poor man’s budget.
“I’m going to accept the offer,” I say.
“You’re sure?” Beau’s skepticism is ripe.
I eye him over my glass. “We’ve been over this. I’m never sure.” When faced with multiple choices, I eenie-meenie-miney-mo my way through it. Selling my childhood home isn’t what I want. But I also don’t want to keep it. And I don’t really have a choice.
“How do you ever feel good about your decisions?”
I shrug. “I don’t.” Only people with the privilege of multiple good options can feel confident in their decisions.
Beau shakes his head and leans back in the love seat.
His legs are up on the stone surround of the firepit, and the red flames reflect off his lenses and highlight the angles of his face.
He’s thrown on a pair of gray sweats and a soft black T-shirt.
I like casual Beau. It reminds me of my Beau—who was always wound too tight but had a silly streak a mile long to tangle with mine.
The sun is low on the horizon, and the sunset flirts with us with cotton candy clouds and ribbons of sherbet. “You scored on the cheap motel with killer views,” I say.
“I do my best.” He raises his bottle, and we toast.
“Why are you slumming it in all these motels anyway? You have that posh house, two bestsellers, and a cushy professor gig. You could stay at the Ritz.”
Beau barks out a laugh and throws back the rest of his beer. “You’re funny.”
“C’mon, Beau. I saw you on The Today Show . You’re a big deal.”
He continues to chuckle. “A big deal. That’s rich.”
“You don’t need to be self-deprecating with me.”
He turns to face me, his expression sober.
“My first advance and meager royalties helped pay for the down payment on the house. The second advance barely paid for my divorce lawyer. Book two hasn’t earned out.
And now I can’t even sell the third. My job pays okay.
But I live in the Bay Area, so I’m house-poor now that the mortgage is my sole responsibility.
And I’m still drowning in student debt. I’m a bit of a pariah as a historian since I didn’t go the academic publishing route but went commercial.
Oh, and I haven’t published enough peer-reviewed articles, so I’m not likely to make tenure anytime soon. ”
I take it all in—even Beau feels inadequate sometimes.
It’s a strange sense of solidarity after feeling like such a failure in comparison.
“Who knew it could be so hard at the top?” Even behind his lenses, I know he’s rolling his eyes at me.
“It makes me feel more at peace for being such an underachiever.”
The sun sinks, and it looks enormous as it dips into the horizon, blurred by hazy rays that shoot out into the tie-dye sky.
We sit in silence as the chatter of groups on neighboring patios escalates.
A crescendo of laughter dissolves in the twilight when the sky bursts into a kaleidoscope of pastels, and the surf crashes against the untamed rocks.
“So, you’re selling the house. How do you feel about that?”
“Happy I’ll be able to pay off my student loans, buy a new car, and ditch my asshole mechanic.”
“Emotionally,” he prompts.
“Ugh. Emotions.” I grab another beer and hold it out to Beau. He shakes his head. No buzzed Beau tonight. How sad.
“You can’t avoid them forever. Are you going to look for your mom?” he presses.
I shake an imaginary eight ball and stop to look. “The outlook is hazy. Try again later.” I take a long sip. Tomorrow. I’ll think about that decision tomorrow.
“How have you survived adulthood thus far by avoiding difficult decisions?”
“How have you survived adulthood by being so certain?”
“Touché.” Beau sighs and grabs another beer.
Tonight’s outlook is looking up.
Two hours later, the moon is high, and the fire is glowing against the black night.
The only clue that we’re oceanfront is the roar of the waves rising from the bottomless foreground.
A group of guests gave us leftover s’mores ingredients, and I’ve had two—my hands are now sticky and covered in ash after I rescued my last marshmallow from the flames.
Beau refrained, allowing himself only a sliver of dark chocolate.
He didn’t get those abs by accident, I guess.
Beau grabbed a cotton blanket off his bed and draped it over us.
At some point—perhaps after the second beer and before the third—I snuggled up against his side, trying to borrow his natural heat.
Friends do this, right? They cuddle under a blanket around a firepit while listening to the waves lap against the rocks . .. right?
His arm is draped over the back of the rattan love seat, and my head is on his shoulder.
It’s a nice shoulder. I suspected as much from my sneak peek earlier this week.
But the snuggle test confirms it. I’m sober enough to realize I wouldn’t be suctioned to his side like a barnacle if I hadn’t had three drinks, but not sober enough to peel myself away.
The wind picks up, and I burrow closer as he grabs the edge of the blanket and pulls it higher on my shoulder, leaving his hand draped there to keep it from falling again. Cue full-body shiver.
For the last hour, we’ve been updating each other on the lowlights of the last decade.
I know his highlights—his achievements and accolades.
So I demanded the embarrassing moments that didn’t make it into the bio on the back flap of his books.
So far, I learned Beau once tripped down a set of stone steps in front of his freshman seminar students.
He broke his tailbone but laughed it off and hobbled back to his office in agony.
I admitted that I went on a date and forgot to finish my makeup.
I’d done an elaborate smoky eye—“ eye ” being the operative word.
It was the first and only date, understandably.
“Worst client you’ve ever had?” Beau asks. He takes a sip of his beer, and my hair snags on his scruffy chin. He smooths it back, his fingertips brushing against my cheek. I feel the touch long after it’s gone.
“Peter Winthrop. He was this controlling, sleazy tech CEO who hired me to track expenses for a renovation of his gaudy house. He sent me a billion nitpicky changes to a spreadsheet via nineteen voicemails.”
Beau laughs, and his voice vibrates against my ear.
“And each one began, ‘Apologies, I was cut off.’ So I had to rewind each time to figure out where the instructions began.”
Beau’s eyes are glassy, and his grin is wide—and that damn cheek dimple.
“What did you do?” He’s running his palm up and down my arm, a warm pulse along my cool skin.
I try to focus on the conversation, but my brain cells have evacuated to join the party my nerves are throwing at the site of his touch.
I don’t think he’s touched me this way before.
But I’ve complained about being cold, and he’s chivalrous.
And he does get a little friendly after a couple of drinks.
I clear my throat, remembering the question. “I made the changes and sent him nineteen new versions via separate, detailed emails. And didn’t renew the contract.”
Beau chuckles, and his breath tickles the stray hairs against my face.
I’m overwhelmed when I make him laugh, even when it requires a little help from my friend Stella Artois.
Beau’s face straightens as I watch him. I’m acutely aware of how close we are, how his thigh feels pressed against mine, and how solid he is beside me.
The drag of his hand along my skin feels like an invitation, and my body is begging me to accept. Now.
But this is Beau. My old, new, grumpy friend who is irritated at me more often than not. And I’ve forced him to cuddle me and tell me bedtime stories against his will. He’d never be this affectionate without alcohol in his system. I pull away and clear my throat. I’m immediately shivering.
“I better get to bed.”
He removes his arm from over my shoulder. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s late.”
I rise from the love seat to clear our mess, while he turns off the gas to the firepit. When I open the sliding glass door to my motel room, he steps over the short brick divide between our patios.
“Drink a big glass of water,” he commands. “And take some ibuprofen.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, and toss him the blanket. “Thanks for the distraction. You know, from the emotions I don’t want to have about ... all the things.”
He chuckles softly and nods. “Anytime, Phe.”