Chapter 3 #2
“Ophelia.” His lung capacity must be exceptional, because the exasperated sigh he releases is impressive.
“You think I’m kidding,” I say over my shoulder. He’s right on my heels as I step down the hallway. “Earlier, I found sci-fi erotica on his nightstand.”
Beau groans, and I stifle a giggle. I forgot how much I loved embarrassing him. Maybe I can enjoy myself with Beau, after all.
“There was a stash of weed in his dresser. Vintage Playboy s under his bed. My favorite was ‘TV Broadcasters Bare All.’” Sifting through Dad’s stuff has brought me closer to him in all the wrong ways, and this process might compel me to deep-clean my own apartment to avoid postmortem embarrassment.
Not that I have any family left to sort through my junk.
I notice the tips of Beau’s ears have turned a satisfying pink. “Just tell me what to do.”
“The power.” I rub my hands together until he raises his brows. I swing open the door to the bedroom. It’s mostly empty, and the brown carpet is a shade darker where the furniture once stood.
I point to the closet. It’s the only task left to tackle in here, which I’ve been putting off. It’s the intimacy and finality. Dad will never again wear his favorite Padres jersey or those terrible cargo shorts he insisted were too practical to part with.
Donning my emotional armor, I yank on the brass knobs, fighting with the bifold doors until they collapse and slide wide. Dad’s scent is potent, trapped in the fibers of his wardrobe. I want to bottle it in my lungs to savor when his memory fades.
His clothes hang in disordered rows across two short rods—wrinkled oxfords, vintage jerseys, hoodies, and graphic tees silkscreened with puns or names of places we’d visited together.
Shorts and pajamas are stacked haphazardly on the top shelf, shoved between baseball bobbleheads, a stash of bite-size Snickers, and Target bags full of receipts and trash.
Clearing a lifetime of detritus is equal parts heartbreak and frustration.
Beau assembles a moving box with three efficient flicks of his wrist. I dump the boxers, socks, and threadbare board shorts in one swipe but hesitate as I thumb through the shirts.
The mismatched hangers scratch against the rod in a dissonant peal.
I stop when I find a hunter-green T-shirt he bought during our trip to Yosemite with a sketch of Bridalveil Fall across the chest. I toss it to the corner to keep.
“You live in LA now?” Beau asks as he picks through a bag of receipts. Small talk. That’s something we haven’t tried.
“Yep. And you’re in Berkeley?” I throw a vintage Chargers hoodie into the keep pile, even though the team betrayed my hometown.
“Oakland, technically.”
Of course Beau would correct me. I live in Pasadena, technically, but I didn’t insist on precision.
“My mom said you’re running your own business?”
I think Beau may be checking off a list of conversation starters he prepared in advance. We used to be able to finish each other’s sentences.
“Yeah. I’m a freelance virtual assistant.”
“Oh,” he says, and it’s clipped, dismissive. I’m used to this—people who think “freelance” is code for “unemployed.” “But I thought you finally finished your BA?”
I snort. “I did.” After so many stops, starts, and transfers that my transcript became a treasure map of mediocre academic institutions.
But I run my own business—quite capably, thank you—and there’s so much superiority to unpack in Beau’s implication that personal assisting is so lowly that it shouldn’t require a degree.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply ...” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He shoves a handful of candy wrappers into a garbage bag, and I think I see a flash of guilt on his face.
It’s not new that Beau is more successful than I am, but he’s more successful than 99 percent of the population.
He finished his PhD at twenty-seven, is a professor at UC Berkeley, and wrote two books on obscure historical incidents I know nothing about.
He was a guest on The Daily Show when his second book was published.
I watched while eating ice cream from the carton and drinking merlot from a box.
He’s also married. And a homeowner. Both of which I am not, unless you count inheriting this hoarder’s compound, which I do not.
“How long are you visiting?” I find it strange that he’s stayed in town so long after the funeral. His semester is over, but he has a wife at home.
He shrugs. “Another week or so.”
“Your wife is okay with you being gone this long?” Inquiring minds want to know: Can she survive much longer without her #hotgeek?
“My parents need help with a few repairs.”
It’s not an answer, I notice. I’d assume he’d jump at the chance to talk about his photogenic ER-doctor bride, but he doesn’t take the bait.
Before I can pry, he hoists the box of discarded clothing into his arms. I watch as he carries it into the hallway.
He’s an impressive physical specimen with a span of back muscles flexed from his shoulders to his ass.
I used to be able to pin him while wrestling.
My entire body flushes with the thought of trying that now.
Not that I would. He’s married. And I don’t like him. Much.
When he returns, I’m loading another box of worn jeans and khakis. So many boring khakis. “What’s it like to have your summers off?” I ask.
“I don’t, really. I’m not teaching, but I need to update my dossier for tenure, and I’m taking a research trip for my next book,” Beau says, in case I forgot he’s a genius academic with an important career. He shoves the last receipts into the trash bag.
I don’t know what “dossier” means, but I nod as if I understand what a big deal he is.
“I have a busy summer, too. Lots of exciting client projects—travel itineraries to reserve, dog sitters to book, fights to have with customer service representatives.” I can’t help but sacrifice myself to the altar of his superiority; it’s a self-protection mechanism to poke fun before he does.
Beau casts a wary glance my way as he lifts a Crock-Pot from the top shelf.
He’s either too self-important to understand self-deprecation or wondering why my dad stored a cooking appliance in his bedroom, which is fair.
Beau carries the slow cooker to the hallway and places it beside the other items destined for donation. When he returns, he leans against the doorjamb and clears his throat. “I don’t know if I’ve had a chance to tell you how sorry I am about your dad.”
I turn to him, but I don’t have anything to offer but the same two words I repeated after each compulsory condolence at the funeral. “Thank you.”
I saw Beau only briefly that day when he gave me an awkward hug that neither of us fully committed to. I stumbled into his clavicle before mumbling an excuse and hurrying away.
“I loved Henry, too. And I miss him already.” Beau’s gaze softens. And there’s something familiar in that kind, boyish expression beneath the hardcover textbook of a man. He’s paperback Beau: broken binding, creased cover, dog-eared pages, sepia hued.
It was always clear how Beau felt about my dad. They remained close even after Beau and I fell out. I offer a small smile, but it’s pained and thin. “He loved you right back.”
“Despite this secret, he was a good man, Phe. And he worked so hard to be your everything.”
Beau’s right. My dad was my person. My home. My emergency contact and first phone call. But I can’t give Beau the reaction he’s probably expecting. I have too many emotions simmering below the surface to let any of them boil over.
I nod. “He was. Now, if I get kidnapped by a Tinder date who turns out to be a murderous clown with a soundproof basement, no one will know I’m missing.” I toss a Stone Brewing Company sweatshirt into the keep pile and turn to find Beau blinking at me as if I’ve sprouted a tail—with scales.
“Is that an ongoing concern?”
“Well,” I say, “Dad was the only person with my location access. We shared an app. The clown was just an example.”
“So, like, if you get lost hiking,” he tries, editing me in real time.
I snort. “The clown is definitely more likely than the hiking.”
We both pause at the sound of the doorbell. I should take the battery out of that thing—the familiar toll is a trip wire on my memories and travels from my ears straight to my subconscious. It’s strange how scent and sound can do that in ways the other senses cannot.
“It’s probably my mom or dad,” Beau says. “Checking to make sure we haven’t strangled each other.” He heads out to let them in.
The closet is nearly empty. I flick through the remaining jackets before my ears perk up at a familiar pair of voices.
I dart out of the room and rush to the entryway as Cherry and Simone slip into the house.
They’re speaking over each other as Beau stares straight ahead, his entire posture on alert.
“Beauregard Augustin,” Cherry hums, reaching in for a hug that Beau somehow evades. She plays it off by leaning against the open door as he escapes to the porch. “I loved your book.”
“I’m going to leave you to it, Ophelia. Have a nice night.” Beau sounds like an automaton.
“Thanks for your help,” I call out. The only sign he’s heard me is a stiff nod before he shuts the door.
Beau didn’t need that reminder of another thing he hated about me—my friends. I fear whatever fragile truce we just formed is over.