Although I was not hungover. After Beau had fucked me into oblivion—damn near unconsciousness—he’d brought me water and insisted I drink it all. Then he made me a grilled cheese sandwich I hadn’t known I was craving.
The best grilled cheese sandwich of my life.
The carbs and the creamy cheese, coupled with the satisfied heaviness of my limbs chased away any kind of negative reaction the alcohol might’ve given me.
Beau had taken care of all the dishes, and by the time I’d washed off my makeup and used the bathroom, I damn near fell into bed.
He woke me with kisses to the neck and promises of champagne nights every week with a low chuckle.
Then came Clara. Calliope. Elliot. The chaos of the day that wasn’t chaos at all. It was perfection. Easy.
I didn’t want to ruin it. I wanted to bask in the joy that had settled over me like a warm blanket with the chill in the air biting sharper than ever.
But I couldn’t.
“Your ex-wife,” I said to Beau.
We were sitting on the sofa, reading. Beau drinking tea, me drinking the opulent hot chocolate he now made me every night.
The fire was roaring. Soft music played from the speakers. He leaned over to kiss my neck every five or so minutes.
It might’ve been criminal to interrupt the moment had it not been imperative to get this conversation done with.
Beau ogled me, the slight tightness around his eyes the only sign that the conversation made him tense.
He put down his Kindle then took off his reading glasses. Again, it should’ve been a crime to divest him of those, since he looked so handsome.
I slipped my library card into my book, placing it aside.
“I wondered when this was going to come up,” he sighed.
There was no resentment in his tone, nor irritation. He expected me to bring it up because … well, who wouldn’t?
“She’s dead,” I prompted.
He nodded.
“And you found out the first night we…”
“Had the best sex of our lives?” Beau offered dryly. Though the subject matter was heavy, and he was appropriately serious, I didn’t feel that same underlying strain he’d been carrying around for so long.
I winced at the oxymoron of the two and the tender spot it hit, hearing it out loud.
“And the reason why you decided that was the night for us to…”
“Have the best sex of our lives?” he repeated.
“This is not funny.” I scowled at him, wanting to shrink into myself. It was as though he didn’t understand how delicate, fragile I felt right then.
His mouth immediately flattened, then he pulled me onto his lap. “I don’t think this is funny, Hannah.” He brushed mybottom lip with his thumb. “And I don’t want you to think that I was using you in any way.” He exhaled, long and heavy, resting his forehead against mine.
“I was eventually going to break,” he admitted. “As noble or whatever the fuck as I was trying to be with you, I couldn’t resist you. And when I found out Naomi was dead, I thought of her. Remembered our life together. How she was with Clara.” He winced. Actually, winced, remembering his ex-wife, the mother of his child, now dead.
“I don’t mourn her,” he continued. “As shameful as that is to say. I’ll never forgive her. Not for how she treated me, I couldn’t give a fuck about that. But how could she abandon our daughter?” A cloud of rage covered his features. “And when she came back offering bone marrow, knowing Clara was sick. But not even asking to visit her, not even one question about her…” He trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut.
“I mourned the mother that Clara would never have. I did that a long time ago.” He stroked my face. “Then came you. Even when I was a horrible prick to you, you’d tell me about things Clara did. You’d send me photos. I want you greedily for myself, Hannah. Fuck, do I want you. But I want you for Clara too. Hearing that Naomi was gone … it made it impossible for me to deny it any longer. I don’t know what kind of man that makes me.”
I could feel it then. Beau’s doubt. His shame. In himself. For his lack of grief over his ex-wife, for his lack of willpower when it came to me, or whatever other hundreds of things he could find a way to put on his shoulders.
