The door opened and closed. I heard his footsteps enter the living room. Heard them pause as he presumably saw me in the dim light of the kitchen. My head was down as I poured tea, so I looked up, hopefully with a bland and calm look on my face.
“Hi.” I toyed with the string of my tea bag. “I was just making tea then going to bed.”
State the obvious much? I always felt like an awkward teenager around him. Which I’d never really been. I’d had friends. Been sociable, bubbly even. I’d done a lot of work to mask my pain, my lack of self-confidence.
Waylon had seen that. It had attracted him to me at first but was a skin I was supposed to shed as his wife. Once the ring was on my finger, I was supposed to look to him for validation, self-worth. He tore off little pieces of me I thought were fused to bone.
It had taken a long time to regrow into the shape of the woman I’d once been.
And Beau stripped it all back, exposing who I was underneath it all. Small. Uncertain. I hated it. Him showing me I was still a broken little girl beneath it all, one who just wanted to be liked by the older, authoritative man.
Yes, since my father left when I was five, I’d had daddy issues with a capital D.That wasn’t pertinent, I told myself. I wasn’t that predictable.
Beau didn’t say hi. He just stayed in the living room, rooted in place, staring at me. I felt his ire at my daring to be in this shared space when he was home. Apparently, there was an unwritten rule that we do our best not to be around each other when Clara was asleep. The debacle in this very kitchen this morning was great evidence as to why.
“How was the restaurant?” I asked. I was playing with fire here, both loving and hating the thrill from being alone with Beau, feeling the tension in the air.
“Busy.” Beau’s response was clipped.
“That’s good.” I cupped my too-hot mug. “Busy. That’s good.”
Beau didn’t reply. His hands were shoved in his pockets and he looked glued in place, as if my presence prevented him from moving around in his own house.
My palms burned, yet I kept them there because I needed the pain as a distraction from Beau.
His eyes went to the breakfast bar.
“What are those?” he asked flatly.
I stared at him then back to the flowers, unsure if I should state the obvious since I was certain he’d actually seen flowers before. Yes, he wasn’t a man to stop and smell them, but he knew they existed.
Obviously, I took too long to answer because his brows knitted as he leveled an irritated look my way. “You get flowers from your boyfriend, you put them somewhere else. Preferably not in my fucking house.”
I pursed my lips, bracing against the quiet fury in his tone. Which wasn’t uncommon. But this had an unhinged edge to it, one that made my skin prickle and my stomach lurch. I wanted to shrink away, to run, avert my gaze. All well-worn neural pathways.
I’m not doing that anymore, I told myself.
I’m stronger than that.
I jutted my chin up, maintaining eye contact. “They’re not from my boyfriend.” I decided not to correct him by saying that I didn’t have a boyfriend, merely an estranged husband who wouldn’t sign the divorce papers.
“I bought them.” I internally squirmed at how tight my voice sounded. “With Clara. She said they were pretty. And she deserves flowers. Scientific studies show that fresh-cut flowers improve the happiness of those in a home by 25 percent.” I motioned to the flowers. “So those should raise yours to … about 25 percent of that of a regular human.”
My cheeks flushed at the impulsive last sentence. I hadn’t meant to say it. Be confrontational. Poke the bear when Beau didn’t need to be poked in order to roar. My existence alone did that.
I waited. Bracing for a scowl. A mean comment. Or for him to flat out ignore me. He did that often too. Like he couldn’t be bothered with responding to me. Like I wasn’t worth the effort.
Instead, I got a twitch of his lips.
Not a smile. Nowhere near, just a twitch. He was amused.
There was a person, complete with emotions and maybe even a sense of humor, somewhere in there. Underneath that excellent beard, the perpetual scowl, the hardened gaze. I’d known there was the man who smiled at his daughter, of course. But I’d never imagined one existed who might find me a bit amusing.
We stayed there, staring at each other for a handful of seconds. I didn’t breathe the entire time.
“You should go to bed, Hannah.” He eventually broke the silence.
To my surprise, his voice wasn’t cold or mean. No, it was low, throaty, and it sent my skin on fire.
