I opened my mouth to argue with him, to tell him I didn’t think it was my fault. That I was an evolved feminist who recognized that the actions of men were not caused by any failings in women. But it would’ve been a lie. Because I did, blame myself. For not being stronger. For forgiving him time after time. For loving him in the first place. For not being financially solvent enough to get a divorce.
And Beau saw that in me.
Shame coated my tongue.
But also, the firmness of his words, the intensity of his look made me almost believe him. Beau wasn’t someone to shower me in false platitudes.
Instead of speaking, I nodded slowly, my nose tingling with the threat of tears.
I took another sip of cocoa to steady myself, but Beau’s eyes didn’t allow me a respite from his attention. Not for a moment. He stared at me the entire time.
“I left him when he, you know…”
“When he hit you,” Beau said flatly.
I didn’t flinch when he spoke, but I sank my teeth into the inside of my lip, the coppery taste of blood chasing away the rich aroma of chocolate.
I hadn’t let myself think about that night, hadn’t let myself say it out loud, even to Cole. I didn’t want to be an abused woman. I didn’t want to be a victim.
“A man hurting you makeshimless of a person, Hannah, not you.” Although his body was nearly shaking with rage, Beau spoke clearly, evenly.
His kindness served only to loosen more tears from the dam I was trying so hard to hold steady. If he was cold, cruel, I might’ve been able to get through the story without so much as a sniffle.
“I know that.” I wiped my eyes.
“You shouldknow that,” Beau corrected. “But you haven’t told yourself that.”
Again, his perception blew me away. I didn’t know why it surprised me so much. Hadn’t I noticed Beau watching me intently? Hadn’t I been doing the same to him? We were like two anthropologists, studying each other’s behavior, trying to write stories about the other’s life.
“You’re not divorced?” Beau guessed.
I shook my head. “Not for lack of trying. It’s been years since I left him, but he hasn’t signed the papers.”
Brackets formed around Beau’s eyes. “Why hasn’t your lawyer pursued it further?” He asked a perfectly sensible question. One aimed at a perfectly sensible grown-up with funds and access to lawyers.
That wasn’t me.
I took my own deep breath. “He cleaned me out. There was only just enough money to start school. I had to choose between educating myself, pursuing my future, or chasing him down. I chose the former.” I thought about my remaining credits, the failure I felt not being able to make enough money to completely finish. But sitting here, knowing Clara, Beau, I couldn’t consider that a failure.
Beau’s expression softened. “It was the right choice.”
My midsection warmed with the approval in his voice, the respect.
“I thought it was.” I placed my empty mug down on the coffee table. “I didn’t think he’d be able to find me, let alone drive ten hours to come here. I’m so sorry?—”
“That’s where we’re gonna stop,” Beau interrupted harshly. “You’re not going to apologize for shit, especially not on behalf ofhim.” At the mention of Waylon, Beau’s mouth curled into a scowl.
I didn’t expect my apology to garner such ire. Then again, it was Beau.
“I know what it is to marry someone thinking you know them.” His muted voice was at odds with his previous expression of anger. “I know what it’s like to be wrong about that.”
I stifled a gasp. I’d known that Beau was divorced—his ex-wife was responsible for Clara’s life-saving bone marrow transplant.
But I’d never met her. She’d never checked on Clara. Not once. I knew she was a horrible mother, a horrible person, so it stood to reason that she was a horrible wife too.
I’d spent time I shouldn’t have thinking about her. About what Beau saw in her. Although Beau wasn’t the most pleasant man in the world, he was noble and an excellent father. He had values. How he could marry someone who could abandon their sick daughter was certainly something I’d pondered.
Beau’s eyes never left mine. I wondered what my expression was saying. I’d always struggled to school it. Always wore my heart on my sleeve. And my anger. That’s what had gotten me into trouble with Waylon so often. I’d looked at him wrong, wearing my frustration, my resentment, and eventually my dislike on my face.
