Page 103

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Whitley

Tomorrow’s the awards thing.

That’s what I’ve been calling it so I don’t stress out too much about it.

My fancy dress is hanging in my closet and the shoes I got are definitely going to leave blisters by the end of the night. But it’s going to be so worth it because I’m being publicly honored for running my little nonprofit that could.

And Beau’s going to be there with me.

The last few weeks have been…unreal. It’s like I’ve slipped into some alternate dimension where the man I used to specifically provoke a reaction from is now the person I call when something funny happens. The person whose truck I recognize from two blocks away. The person whose hoodie I’m currently wearing.

We haven’t put a label on it. I’ve decided I’m fine with that, and I’m only about sixty percent lying.

The you better not be sleeping with anyone else conversation has been had, though. I was very calm and reasonable about it. I only mentioned castration once. He’d looked me dead in the eye and told me there was no one else like it was the simplest fact in the world. So that parts been handled.

It’s just a word I keep tripping over. The two syllables keep floating into my brain during moments where he pulls me into his lap while I’m mid-rant. Like I’m just supposed to be there.

Boyfriend is such a trivial word for what he feels like to me. But also…I kind of want to say it. Just once. Just to see how it fits.

Not yet, though. For now, we have this relationship where he watches me be my full, unhinged, maximum volume self and doesn’t dim me down or redirect me.

Beau just looks at me like I’m something worth watching. Honestly? That might be better than a label.

So, yeah, tomorrow’s a big day, but the best part won’t be the award. It’ll be the car ride home with him. The way he’ll lace our fingers together. The way his thumb will brush my hand once, twice, and then again because he needs the contact to breathe steady.

And if I’m really lucky? He’ll growl that my dress needs to come off before we’ve even made it to the door.

A girl can dream.

My phone buzzes against the counter while I’m halfway through putting a frozen pizza in the oven. Beau’s supposed to be stopping by, and I wanted to be able to offer him something to eat.

Beau:

Can’t make it tonight. Something came up. I’ll see you tomorrow before the ceremony. I’ll pick you up at 6.

I blink at the screen, rereading it twice, hoping the words might rearrange themselves.

I stare down at the sad pizza. “You were supposed to be romantic and slightly overcooked,” I mutter.

Violet always says I read too much into things, but my gut has been trying to get a word in all day. There was something odd about Beau’s voice the last time we talked. The way he kissed my cheek instead of my mouth when he left last night.

Something’s off.

Not relationship-ending off. Not run-for-the-hills off. Just…Beau-being-Beau off.

I sigh and text back.

Me:

Okay. Tomorrow, then.

I leave it at that because I know this is how he handles pressure. He thinks he’s protecting me. But what he doesn’t know is that I’ve already packed my metaphorical hard hat and steel-toed boots.

Tomorrow, he’ll show up at my door and act like nothing’s wrong. He’ll kiss my cheek and hand me a compliment that sounds like worship, and he’ll mean it. I know he will.

I’ll let him do all of it, but I’ll also be watching and listening. Because I might be sunshine and chaos, but I’m not stupid.