Setting the parts down in the drying rack, he turns to face me, gripping the counter behind him as if he’s bracing for impact. I jump back, sliding my ass onto the counter across from him.
He smiles, and I feel it everywhere, warm and prickly.
“Are we gonna talk about the tears?”
My heart thuds heavily. “What?”
He folds his arms across his chest. “The tears in the laundry room.”
Fucking Atticus. What a tattletale.
“Don’t be mad that Atti told me. Be glad you got a man who loves you so hard that even his friends know they have to report back to him if they think you’re hurting.”
I swallow against the quickly forming knot of nerves in my throat.
“Yeah, we should probably talk.” Then I force myself to meet his eyes.
23
Beau
I’ve never felt as inferior as I do right at this moment, and I fucking hate it.
I’d like to think Jett stirring from his little post-party nap was his attempt to help me out. Maybe he knew his mom was moments away from collapse and we needed a distraction. I bring him back to the kitchen with me after scooping him out of his crib.
Beck kisses his cheek as she peers into the back of his diaper, checking if he’s dry. “Can he play on the ground for a while?” I ask her, but I don’t normally ask her. Not anymore. I’ve gotten to know what Jett can and can’t do. Right now, though, she feels so distant. We feel distant. I hate it.
“Yes,” she says with a nod. She’s analyzing the tile floor like it’s the fucking Mona Lisa.
“Look at me, Beck, because I gotta say, you’re kind of scaring me right now.” Her eyes come to mine, red-rimmed and wet.
“I went to Dustin’s. The day before he came to the house, I went to his house for closure.” She swallows hard, her skin white as a ghost. “I think he came by the next day because of that visit. He was drunk and on drugs when I saw him, and… I don’t know why he came over the next day. I really don’t. But I should have told you I went to see him. I’m sorry.”
My head droops forward as my stomach grows sick. This feels so wrong, and she knows I’m hurt because normally her tears have me closing the space between us to bring her into my arms. I look at Jett, who is studying me like I’m God himself. I grin and wiggle a finger, before returning my gaze to Beck, stoic and broken.
“You went and saw him. Hours before I had my face buried between your legs, you were with him. And you didn’t tell me.” I already knew, but hearing it from her somehow makes it more painful.
She covers her face with her hands and lets loose a cry that sounds like it has been built up inside her forever. Regaining her composure, she sucks in a breath and tilts her chin upwards as she apologizes.
“I’m so sorry, Beau. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I went and saw Dustin. I should have told you. And I swear to you, I went for closure. I went to make sure, for the last time, that he’s okay with his choice. And I didn’t do that for me, Beau. You have to believe me. I went and did that for Jett. But the thing that had me smiling on the drive home wasyou. Knowing how you care for us, how you love us… I got my closure from Dustin, and not because of Dustin, butbecause of you.”
“I already knew,” I admit, and even though it hurts that she took so long to tell me, there’s also some relief there, too. Because these reasons are exactly what I suspected. I never thought she was hung up on Douchebag Dustin and when I saw him at the house I knew she couldn’t be. It was for her son, and as much as it hurts me, I love her more for it in some ways. “He told me after I hit him. He said you came to see him.”
Her jaw hangs open for a second. “He was trying to stir the pot.”
I shrug. “Don’t care. Didn’t work.”
She slides off the counter and steps toward me but she’s tentative and I just made it clear I’m not mad about her seeing Dustin. At least, I’m not going to start a knock-down, drag-out over it. But still, she’s hesitant and it makes me nervous.
“There’s something else.” The quiet tone of her voice shakes my soul. “I texted Dustin this morning.” She produces her phone from the table and, with a trembling hand, holds it for me to read. And I read the singular, unanswered message.
I want so badly to stay calm. To be cool and collected. I don’t want to raise my voice because Graham Burns wouldn’t do that. I shouldn’t do that. But I can’t help but take this text message so fucking personal.
“If you went to get closure before why did you need to contact him again?”
“I wanted to give him one final chance to redeem himself. I wanted him to apologize to you, too.”
I shake my head, my lips pursed angrily, sweat already forming on my upper lip. “This wasn’t about me getting some apology that I don’t need or care about!”