He may have been self-centered and just plain stupid, but even he was astute enough to discern my expressions. And he punished me for them. That’s why I’d gotten better at hiding my anger. That’s why most women were good at hiding their anger towards men. It kept them employed, unharmed, and alive.
Not that I was angry at that moment. Well, I was. At Waylon. But mostly I was sad, confused, scared. So I didn’t know what Beau read on my face. Whatever he saw was enough to offer me compassion by sharing his own story.
“It’s not our fault for loving people capable of the worst of things,” he murmured quietly. “My mother taught me that love is never something to regret.” His eyes touched the hallway that led to Clara’s room. “And I’ve got no reason to regret my horrible marriage. It gave me Clara.” He paused, driving a hand through his hair. I felt like I could fall into that pause, relishing in the way it wrapped around me with the pleasant pressure of a strong embrace. His gaze was unwavering. “And yours … brought you here. To us.”
If I wore a cocktail of emotions on my face previously, I couldn’t fathom what expression I had after he uttered those words. Maybe just … nothing. Because that’s what it felt like inside my head. Like his words, his expression, had sucked every coherent thought right out, leaving nothing but plain white space, a hushed hum in my ears.
I was a chronic over-analyzer; never in my recorded memory had anyone ever done or said anything to rid me of all thoughts. And people had done and said some pretty horrible things to me.
Don’t overthinkit, I ordered myself once I regained the ability to mentally form complete sentences.
I couldn’t hold on to whatever energy was forming between us right then. It was intangible. It was like smoke. Beau was an alpha male, a protector. Some switch had flipped in his brain. To him, I’d turned into a woman in need of saving. And an ingrained part of him responded to that, maybe it even turned him on. Maybe it made me more desirable. Who knew? All I knew was that it would not be a lasting dynamic. Me being in trouble, bringing an unpredictable, estranged husband into a household that was only just healing was not going to be my legacy with Clara.
I sat up straighter. “I should probably give you my resignation.” The words tasted toxic as I said them.
Beau’s eyebrows didn’t so much as twitch, his face staying still, calm. “No way in fuck you’re doing that.”
I raised my own brows. Beau had been brusque, curt, and straight-up rude to me before, but he hadn’t ever cursed at me as much as he had tonight. Though it didn’t sound harsh or hurtful… not toward me, at least. “Excuse me?”
His expression stayed blank. “You’re not resigning.”
“Beau…” Despite the current situation, uttering his name felt like a thrill. “I can’t predict what Waylon will do. But he knows where you live. And I don’t want him anywhere near Clara.” My stomach roiled at the mere thought. Although it would be indescribably painful to leave Clara, her safety would always trump my selfish wants.
Beau’s expression darkened, a muscle working in his cheek. “He won’t be getting anywhere near Clara. Or you.”
I sighed. Oh, to be a man who could utter such sentences with a surety that wasn’t affected by a lifetime of tiptoeing around the opposite sex. “We can’t know that. The only way to ensureClara doesn’t get wrapped up in this is to take myself out of the equation.” It was realistic, if not heartbreaking.
“Do youwantto resign?” Beau tilted his head to regard me.
If he’d asked me that at the peak of his disdain toward me, my answer might not have been so immediate. But so much had changed. “Of course, I don’t?—”
“Then go to bed,” Beau ordered.
I settled back into the warm cushion of the couch, folding my arms over my chest. “Beau, this conversation isn’t over. You’re a practical man. You know that my resignation is the most sensible option.”
“It’s not,” Beau stated matter-of-factly, as if he were informing me of the weather report. “I’ll take care of it. You go to bed.”
Fire crept up my throat. Slowly building because my nervous system was shot, and I was unsettled by the change in dynamic between Beau and me. But female rage was not to be dulled, especially not when a man was trying to steamroll your life choices, trivializing them.
“It’s not yours to take care of,” I argued tightly, straightening my spine. What I really meant wasI’mnot yours to take care of.
It was difficult not to squirm when Beau gave me a long look, as if he were searching for something on my face. As if he were searching for something to say. “Yes, Hannah, it is,” he eventually uttered. Then he got up. “You’re exhausted. You need to get to bed.”
I wanted to say that he didn’t get to tell me what to do, that he wasn’t allowed to just take care of things for me as if he were someone who had taken care of me in the past. As if he hadn’t treated me poorly for months.
But I was exhausted. And confused. And in need of a rather large sobbing session over all the emotions Waylon had brought with him, reeking of cheap whisky.
I really didn’t want to ugly cry in front of Beau. The next logical option was to do as he’d instructed.
I got off the couch.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, looking up at Beau. “For…” What was I thanking him for? For saving me from Waylon? For making me feel heard and seen? For treating me like a half-decent human being for once?
“For listening,” I finished lamely.
“You don’t have to thank me for that, Hannah,” Beau replied gruffly, leaning down to grab my mug before I could. “Good night,” he said over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen.
“Good night,” I said to his back. Then I went to my room. I had tears to shed.
