Chapter 40
Beau could be out celebrating. He should be out celebrating. It’s his birthday, after all.
We’ve surprised people on doorsteps all summer.
It’s only fitting that I have to wait on his porch, and I’m prepared for that.
But as I approach, with the cake in one hand and Adonis’s leash in the other, I see Beau’s car in the driveway and am overcome with homesickness.
Then I spot several others along the curb. A party. Perfect.
Adonis pulls me up the porch steps, and the door swings open before I can knock.
“Ophelia!” I’m wrapped in a hug so tight I almost drop the cake.
“Serena,” I gasp.
She pulls back. “I hear it’s your birthday, too. Did you two used to sing that Beatles song all the time?” She starts to sing in full rocker mode, banging on invisible drums. I wonder how many drinks she’s polished off—she’s a little loopy.
I shake my head and say, deadpan, “No.”
“Oh,” she says, straightening.
“I’m kidding. I sang it to Beau every year. It would irritate the shit out of him.”
She bursts into laughter, leaning on my arm. “He’s going to be so happy you’re here.” She squeals and then drops her voice. “We surprised him to try to cheer him up. But he’s been a grump—messing with his phone most of the day.”
I smile, but the small talk is making me more anxious, and Adonis is whining and wrapping himself around my legs with his leash. I stoop to untangle him when I hear, “Phe?”
Beau’s voice sends goose bumps along my arms. I look up to find him in the doorway, his knuckles white against the doorknob. He steps through, and Serena squeezes my hand before disappearing into the house and closing the door behind her.
Beau hasn’t shaved, and his hair is grown out and messy.
He looks more like a mad professor than the uptight academic I teased mercilessly just weeks ago.
He’s disheveled—in a faded black T-shirt and Levi’s that he’s likely owned for a decade that are worn in all the right places. Thirty-five looks fucking good on him.
We stare at each other for a solid minute before Adonis growls and peeks between my shins. Beau startles.
“Who’s this?”
“Adonis.” I tug on the leash to force him out of hiding.
Beau does a double take, his eyes traveling over the snaggletooth, the patchy, wiry coat, and then he snorts, breaking the tension. “You have a sardonic sense of humor, Ophelia.”
“Whatever do you mean? My baby is beautiful.”
“On the inside, I’m sure.”
Our gazes snag. “Happy birthday, Beau.”
His smile drops to something more contemplative. “You didn’t respond.”
“It’s not safe to text and drive,” I say.
“You drove here?” His dimple appears. “You must have left hours ago.”
“I owed you a carrot cake—and candles. I promise not to blow them out this year.”
I hold the cake aloft, and he laughs, his eyes twinkling in the porch light. Relief is running through my veins with the strength of whiskey.
“Thank you,” he says, and his eyes are warm and grateful.
I curtsy and slide the cake onto the porch swing. “It’s not a list of profound and intimate confessions—but you’ve always been the overachiever between us.”
He steps toward me, so close I feel the warmth of his skin, smell his familiar soap. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“No one teaches you how to handle betrayal—or how to start over with the person you’ve waited a lifetime for.”
“Wait,” I say, and step back. His face falls, but I add, “I came here to tell you something. To be brave and emotional and vulnerable. But you beat me to the grand gesture, so at least let me say it.”
He takes a deep breath, bracing himself. “Of course.”
“I came here to say that I’ve been working on me.
I’m still a work in progress, but my goal is to not let life happen to me, and not doubt myself so much.
I’m trying to figure out what I want and what I choose for myself.
I’ve never really been sure of anything in my life.
I’m not sure of my past or my future. I don’t always know what will make me happy, or where to live, or what my calling is. But I’m sure about you.”
The tension in Beau’s face is replaced by a slight smile.
“I’m sure that you are the person I want by my side as I work my shit out.
I’m sure that you have been my safe place for thirty years—and the person who brings me the most joy.
And I know from the outside we don’t fit.
Because I didn’t know the Oregon Trail was more than a low-fi video game, and I can’t name more than like nine of the original colonies, and I really thought Samuel Adams was just a beer—and you’re an actual history professor. ”
He winces but is still grinning at me. It gives me the courage to go on.
“So, I worried I didn’t deserve you. That you couldn’t possibly want me because of all the things I haven’t figured out—and you’ve known who you are and what you want since we were four years old.”
He reaches out and takes my hand, swiping his thumb across my wrist. I’m rambling and a little unhinged, but he’s listening, even as the sounds of his birthday party filter out of the house. Someone cheers from inside, and then there’s a chorus of laughter. But he never takes his eyes from me.
“Most of all, I worried that you hadn’t chosen me. That maybe you were falling back on me by default. But I forgot to figure out what I wanted. To choose.”
I stop for a moment and take a needed breath. My throat is dry from unleashing all my fears and inadequacies in a single rush. My skin is flushed, as if there are electrical currents fluttering across the surface. I swallow. “And I choose you, Beau. Whether or not you choose me back.”
His face lights up, showing off my favorite smile—with his eyes crinkling at the corners and a deep dimple appearing right below his glasses. He steps closer, until our bodies are inches apart and I crane my neck to see him clearly.
“I’ve been broken for a long time, and you have a fresh, raw break.
And I can’t promise I’ll do everything right, or that I won’t have flashes of inadequacy that I’ll project all over you.
I can’t promise that I won’t irritate the crap out of you most of the time.
But I’m working on not being fine. And I want to not be fine with you. ”
He quirks his head and chuckles. “I’m sorry?”
“I mean, I want to feel things with you. I want to let myself be euphoric, frustrated, joyful, and sad. I want to love you and make you laugh until you cry and fight with you over the music selection and make food that you sigh over. I want to dance with you at country-western bars and entice you to sleep through your workout. I want to complain about your history podcasts while I secretly crush on how adorable you are when you nerd out on some new fact. I want to meet your colleagues and pretend I know as much about the War of 1812 as I do about pop music.”
Beau laughs and closes the remaining distance between us until our bodies are flush and our foreheads are kissing.
He skates his hands along my hips, his fingertips pressed into the bare skin above my jeans, and I slide one hand to the nape of his neck.
It’s such a relief to touch him, to be touched, and we release matched sighs.
Adonis growls and scampers behind my legs.
“Are you done?” Beau asks in a whisper.
I think for a moment. “That last thing I said may not be the romantic finale I was going for, but I’ll own it.”
Beau chuckles before his expression straightens. “I choose you back, Ophelia. In fact, I chose you first.”
My tears begin to fall when he ducks to kiss me. It starts as an exhale, his breath skating across my lips as my inhale draws him in. The kiss is fragile and careful, a nod to our first kiss all those years ago—and hopeful and grateful, a preview of the many that stretch out ahead.