Which was better than how it started, him hesitant, terrified that he’d hurt me.
Clara’s nightmares had greatly improved. Some nights she slept in her own bed. Other nights, on bad nights, she didn’t. She didn’t ask to go to the park. We avoided driving past it, and she held on to my hand for dear life when we were in public places. Finn had even escorted us to the first few outings we had.
Elliot, Calliope, and Beau’s father were around constantly. As were the rest of the women in Jupiter, bringing their children to play with Clara. She’d have days where she was reserved, quiet, almost sullen. It hurt my chest more than any bullet ever could. I carried a lot of guilt over that day. For suggesting meeting in the park, for not noticing Waylon sooner. For marrying him in the first place.
Beau’s guilt was a monstrous thing, invisible except for the way he moved, as if one thousand pounds of it were perched on his shoulders.
We were all in therapy. Which was needed not just to address the trauma of the event but my childhood, Beau’s experience with his mother, then Clara’s illness. He hadn’t put up a fightwhen I cautiously suggested it. Then again, Beau did most of the things I asked of him.
It was complicated. Messy. Painful. Just like Calliope said all the best love stories were.
But there was happiness too. A whole lot of it. There was waking up in bed with the two people I loved most in the world. There was stargazing with Clara now that the weather was warming up, the bulbs we planted in the garden blooming. Family dinners. Lori’s brand-new baby.
There was the single solitaire diamond sitting on my left hand.
Clara had told me she and her dad had a surprise for me, requesting that we “dress up together.” I’d dutifully got her into a butterfly tutu with wings, put glitter on her cheeks, then let her drag me into our room to pick out my dress.
The one from her birthday.
I didn’t know if it was her father’s request or hers.
She’d carefully, with immense concentration, dabbed small amounts of glitter high on my cheek.
Her tongue darted out of the side of her mouth as she finished with furrowed brows.
“There,” she had declared, leaning back to look at her handiwork. “Perfect.”
I studied the angles of her face, her button nose, her green-flecked hazel eyes, the rosebud lips.
“I totally agree,” I had whispered, tears in my eyes.
I didn’t know what I was expecting when she took me outside. Maybe some sort of special stargazing. A picnic around the outdoor fireplace Rowan, Beau, and Kip had built the first weekend the weather turned warmer.
Our nights were varied, special, magical. Even before the shooting, we tried to create that for Clara. It had always been effortless, but we now put in a bit more effort. No manufacturedmagic would take away her trauma or memories, but it would make her smile. Laugh. That was more than enough for me.
Thinking her father had designed something with her happiness in mind, I let her lead me out into the garden.
Then my breath left my body.
Beau had been planning something.
Not for Clara, but she was quite obviously involved and gloriously happy about it as she tugged me through the path of candles, trailing to the center of the garden.
Where Beau was.
On one knee.
Eyes on us.
I was thankful for Clara’s small hand in mine, the pressure she was exerting as I didn’t entirely trust my body to carry me.
Beau was holding a ring box. Inside was a simple yet unique diamond. An antique setting, wider band, oval shaped.
“I picked it out,” Clara had announced proudly.
Beau’s eyes danced with the first true joy I’d seen in them since the shooting.
Tears escaped my eyes. “It’s perfect,” I spoke to Clara, too scared to look Beau in the eye. I was worried I’d let out an ugly sob.
