Chapter 27
“We have to leave in ten minutes.” Beau’s voice pulls me out of my sleep—and the dream he was starring in. But he’s not beside me, whispering into my hair. I squint into the sun, where his silhouette cuts his shape against the car window.
“What?” I mumble, and scoot away from the gear shift wedged in my hip. I wince and sit up, which sends a jolt of pain through my stiff spine. He passes me the motel key through the open window. “You have ten minutes to get ready.”
I stumble into the now-quiet room, rinse off, and dress before returning to the car, where Beau idles at the curb.
Once I climb in, he doesn’t look at me before accelerating out of the lot and onto the highway.
There’s a deep, pained wrinkle on his forehead.
He tilts his head to the side and winces before pushing on his shoulder with the heel of his hand.
A kinked neck. I shift onto my knees and fight the seat belt before drawing my hands over his shoulder.
He pulls away, freezing at my touch. The porcupine has his quills out again.
“Relax. I know trigger points, remember?”
He casts me a wary glance but settles, dropping his right hand from the steering wheel and returning his focus to the road.
I take it as permission and sink my thumbs into the relentless stretch of muscle across his scapula.
I find a stubborn knot, and he rewards me with a sound that reminds me of last night.
Pleasure mixed with pain—primal. I curl my palm around his wrist and draw his arm out into a stretch.
His forearm brushes my breast, and he tenses again before yanking free.
“Don’t play games with me.” His words land like a slap, but I suppose I can understand how he’d read my gesture as a mixed message and not the peace offering it was intended to be.
“I’m not.”
His shoulders are up to his ears, his jaw tense. “I don’t appreciate being treated like an expired Tinder date one minute and then groped the next.”
“Groped?” I stammer. “Expired what now?”
He rubs his forehead. “Maybe you expect me to be cavalier about sex, but ...” He stops short, tapping his finger on the steering wheel impatiently.
“I don’t expect you to be ...” But I don’t know how to complete the sentence because I think he’s jumping to the wrong conclusions, and I don’t have the courage to correct him. I’m feeling so many emotions about last night—but none of them come close to cavalier.
And he’s the one who made me feel like I was his belated teenage conquest.
He laughs, a wry, dismissive sound that signals the end of the conversation. Does he regret last night? Did he feel anything but nostalgia?
Beau is impossible to read—scolding me one moment and smoldering at me the next. Perhaps he wants me, but really doesn’t want to want me. And why would he? I’m a hot mess, and he’s a hot success.
I should ask him how he’s feeling—what he wants—but then I’ll have to face his answers when I am not ready for my own.
My raw heart can’t handle it if he admits he regrets me.
But I’m not sure my insecurities will allow me to believe him if he says he doesn’t.
And what if “finally” means what I hope it means?
Am I capable of living up to his long-held hopes?
When Beau approaches a Starbucks drive-through for my coffee and carb fix, I try to pay, but he bats my hand away. It’s a reminder that I have an empty bank account, a credit card perilously close to its limit, a money pit to off-load, and an income that was just cut in half.
And I just had sex with Beau and ruined our friendship.
And the escape hatch is closed because I can’t afford to fly home.
And I can’t find Mom.
And Dad is dead.
I pick up my phone, scroll to my messages, and hit play.
“Ophelia, love, it’s your dear old dad, checking in ...”
And again, “ Ophelia, love, it’s your dear old dad, checking in ... ”
And again, “ Ophelia, love, it’s your dear old dad, checking in ... ”
The pressure is building in my head, and tears seem to be the only release valve for the brewing panic. I slip on my sunglasses and turn toward the window, resting my forehead against the glass, then hit play and give in to silent tears.
I excuse myself to the restroom when we arrive for our next interview at an upscale brewery in the heart of Bend, Oregon.
I splash water on my face and press a damp, cool paper towel to my eyes.
I hate crying. I’m angry at myself for giving in.
I kept my eyes closed in the car and pretended to sleep, so now my eyes are inflamed, and my skin is covered in blotches.
I’m a mess. I take ten deep breaths and pat the towel on my cheeks before smoothing my hair into a ponytail.
The pink is growing out—and I have dark-blond roots that bleed into bubblegum.
I find Beau on the redwood deck of the brewery, which overlooks the Deschutes River.
The water bends beneath us, bordered by ponderosa pines, aspen trees, and willow bushes.
Paved trails line the river, and joggers and bikers swerve along the path.
Oregon’s high desert is sunny but temperate, and the escape from the summer heat feels like freedom.
It’s not even noon, but the brewery is filling up fast on this Fourth of July.
I’d forgotten about the holiday until we were caught behind a parade of bicyclists in stars and stripes while crawling down the street.
American flags hang from lampposts, and the sidewalks are bustling with families flashing patriotic garb.
But I’m dressed in black—not feeling the hot dog spirit today.
Beau is at a square table tucked into a private corner. He’s drenched in sunlight, staring over the river, one forearm resting on the railing. I stop ten feet away and sneak a photo. He is so handsome it makes my heart hurt. He tilts his chin as I take the photo and scowls at me.
“What are you doing?”
I shrug, swallowing back my whole heart. I need something to remember you by. “I haven’t caught any photos of our trip. And it’s beautiful here.”
He drops his focus to his pad to scribble notes—or avoid me.
It’s hard to tell. I slide in beside him but maintain a sliver of distance, so I don’t trigger him again.
He thinks I’m being cavalier, but I’m just trying to feel some semblance of control over how I feel for him.
I want his hands on me again, and his hands off my heart.
I want to let him have me again, but not let him own me.
But I breathe in his shampoo and the gentle scent of his detergent.
As he taps the table with his fingers, I remember what it felt like when he dragged a fingertip up my spine, when he made me go off with a simple circle of his thumb.
I shiver and pull my focus over the deck, but he turns, and we’re face-to-face.
He looks so conflicted; I’ve seen that look before, but I didn’t understand what it meant.
Maybe it’s not just irritation. Maybe he feels as out of control as I do.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi.” He bites his bottom lip as he scans my face before his eyes land over my shoulder. He stands abruptly, and the bench scoots backward by a few inches.
I turn to see a middle-aged man approaching our table. He has salt-and-pepper hair, a close-cropped beard, and a thin build with slightly hunched shoulders, as if standing upright requires too much effort.
“Beau Augustin?” he asks, his voice low and unsure.
Beau reaches out his hand, pivoting to professor mode. “Alexander?”
Alexander shakes his hand. “Yes. Hi.” He looks at me as I stand.
“Hi, Alexander. I’m Ophelia. What an amazing location. Thanks for suggesting it.”
“It’s new, but I’ve heard good things,” he says, already standing a bit taller.
“They specialize in Belgian-style ales. Maybe it’s early for beer, but I’m going to need one for this.
” He waves down a server with a nod of his head.
He’s handsome under that beard, with downturned hazel eyes, a strong chin, and a paternal, outdoorsy look, as if he might leave here to go kayaking with his grown kids.
“It’s a holiday. It’s never too early,” I say.
As we sink onto the benches, a server approaches in a tight-fitting black baby tee with the brewery logo emblazoned on her chest. “What can I get ya?”
Alexander rattles off a specialty ale and a basket of fries as I peruse the beer list and order an ale called the Trinity and some wings. I don’t want beer, but Alexander looks like he might bolt, and I want to put him at ease. Beau asks for Perrier and a hummus plate.
“This is a beautiful town,” I begin once our server departs.
“You’re both from California, right? Have you ever been here?” Alexander asks.
“I was born in Medford, actually. But raised in San Diego. This is my first time back in Oregon.”
“Welcome home.” Alexander grins, revealing a playful smile with bright white teeth.
Beau clears his throat. “Thank you for meeting us, Alexander. As we discussed over the phone, we are looking to understand how individuals get trapped in untruths—how those untruths affect their families and communities in unexpected ways.” Beau is so stiff, and I note Alexander sobering immediately—trading charm for anxiousness.
“Everyone has a story,” I say. “And we want to tell those stories without bias. After all, if everyone told their truths, there would be far less shame for all of us.”
The server returns, tossing cardboard coasters with images of the Deschutes River before setting two ales and a Perrier on top. “Your food is coming up soon.”
“Thank you,” I say, offering what I hope is a warm smile. Beau’s look is intense. Alexander has grown stiff, and our server scurries away.
Alexander inhales a lungful of air. “My story ...” He lets it out in a gust. “I’m a widower. Lost my wife to cancer two years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, lifting my focus from my notes.
He looks away before taking a long swig of his beer. “Thanks, but I don’t deserve it. It’s my fault.”