Her death was a shock, to be sure. The pain I felt, dull as the blade of a butter knife, was only from knowing I’d have to tell Clara one day.
“That’s it? You’re going home?” Elliot was still wide-eyed.
I thought of what was waiting for me there. Who was waiting for me there. “I’m going home.”
twenty-two
HANNAH
To continue to torture myself,I waited up for Beau on the nights he was working. And sincethe night—which held a sacred space in my mind and would forevermore—it seemed he was working every night. If he wasn’t working, there were family dinners, events. If I didn’t know any better, Beau was trying his best to ensure that we didn’t have alone time together.
It was probably for the best. That’s what I told myself as I made sure I was with Lori on all of my nights off. She needed me too.
Things were going on with her family and their response to the pregnancy, even more complications with Finn.
I could sense the hurt pulsating from her on both fronts, so I was careful not to push. Nor did she about Beau. It was nice, watching movies, sometimes going out for dinner—though it was mostly too cold for that, and she’d muttered something about Finn having a patrol car following her when she was driving in bad weather.
She was a friend. Fast becoming my best friend. Hanging out with her was not a hardship. It fed the part of me that I didn’t know was starving. The part that needed sisterhood.
It wasn’t like I’d been wholly miserable sincethe night,just supremely sexually frustrated and confused.
Hence me waiting up for Beau. Because a starving woman would accept scraps. I wanted to feast on the relaxing of Beau’s shoulders when he laid eyes on me, the slight twitch in his lips, the heat in his gaze. To savor the feeling of wholeness I got from him when he came home. There would be amiable greetings, him glancing at the book I was reading, asking rudimentary questions. Me asking about the restaurant.
All very civil. Pleasant, even.
If both of us weren’t existing within the shared knowledge that we wanted to rip each other’s clothes off.
Then it was torture. But still, I remained on the sofa, waiting. Because I’d collect whatever small interactions I could. Because an evil part of me hoped for Beau to let his less-than-noble intentions take over.
When the door opened and shut, I dog-eared my book and stared at the doorway, my body buzzing with expectation.
I never failed to marvel at his large frame, taking up the space. At him doing normal things like shrugging off his jacket.
Beau’s eyes touched mine where I was sitting on the couch. His entire body relaxed, softening upon seeing me.
My heart exploded. Since that fateful night, there hadn’t been any more questions about what Beau wanted—me. He wantedme. There also hadn’t been any more cruel remarks. Though there remained a healthy amount of distance.
But this expression was not guarded.
He didn’t take his eyes off me as he hung up his jacket and took off his boots.
I’d gotten good about sensing Beau’s energy. It wasn’t subtle. He wasn’t subtle. To me, at least. Every time he entered a room, the temperature changed for me. Everything changed. The wayI breathed. The way I moved. Talked. Before a few weeks ago, those changes weren’t entirely positive.
Now things had morphed; my body relaxed and my breathing evened, yet my heart rate spiked while running my eyes over him. Though our interactions were no longer laced with his disdain, there were varying undertones of sex within them. Sometimes it was impossible for Beau to tamp down his desire, and I felt it in my very core.
Other times, he was pleasant yet detached enough for me to wonder if I’d somehow hallucinated everything. I knew Beau wasn’t trying to fuck with me. He was trying to navigate a difficult situation.
As was I. The smart thing would’ve been to move out. Get some distance. Lori had already mentioned she had a spare room I could live in once Clara was in school, and I was in my final semester.
But the mere thought of leaving then made me feel vaguely ill. Although doing it early would be the more logical and less masochistic option, the thought alone was unbearable.
I’d stay, torturing myself with what ifs and fantasies while waiting with bated breath for Beau to be a worse man, if only for a night.
“Are you okay?” I asked him, watching as he walked to a cupboard in the kitchen, reaching up for a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
The glug of the whisky was my only answer. Holding the glasses, Beau traveled from the kitchen to the sofa, handing one to me.
“I’ve never had whisky before,” I said as I took the glass. “I’m pretty sure I don’t like it, since I don’t have a beard or chop wood for fun.”
