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The gift Larry gave her hangs over her arm, neatly folded. It’s a lady’s fishing vest in purple, her favorite color, sewn with patches of her favorite feminists. Maya Angelou, RBG, Freida Kahlo, Oprah.
Larry even made lures that color coordinate with each patch.
It’s the cutest, weirdest gift ever, and I find myself getting all teary looking at it.
I hope Beau doesn’t bring me anything.
Mom, noticing my distress, holds out her arms. “How about I get Maisie settled into the car?”
“You may have to swing the car seat,” I say. “She doesn’t like being in the car unless we’re moving.”
“I know,” Mom calls over her shoulder. “Take your time.”
I glance out the window again. Still no Beau.
Speaking of weird. He’s never late, and he would never hold me up like this, knowing what a pain Maisie can be when she’s off her schedule.
Whatever. He must’ve gotten held up at the office. He does run a multi-million-dollar resort. And he’s treated Mom and me to a stay that would’ve cost us five figures, easy, if we’d been paying guests.
Least I can do is give him a little extra time.
Only thing is, I don’t have all that much time to give. I planned our departure to coincide with Maisie’s feeding schedule. We have to be back in Charlotte by seven, when I nurse her again. I gave us three hours for a two-hour drive. But the minutes are ticking by quickly, and I’m really going to have to put the pedal to the metal the longer we wait.
I decide to take one last lap around the house. I check the drawers in the bedrooms and grab a hair clip I left in the master bathroom shower.
Otherwise, Mom and I did a solid job cleaning out everything.
I shoot Shannon a text, and we settle on a date and time for coffee next week.
Taking one last look around the cavernous family room, the view of the mountains outside the back windows especially striking this time of day, I’m hit by a wave of emotion. That’s happened a lot recently.
Part of me, the part that’s in love, is tender, achy…nostalgic, almost, for the place I haven’t even left yet.
Another part, the part that’s heartbroken, is hard with hurt.
The dissonance between the two leaves me reeling.
One thing I don’t feel? That sense of overwhelm that haunted me day and night. My meds are working and so is the therapy.
It’s not my hormones that are leaving me flattened.
It’s life.
Love.
I don’t know whether that’s comforting or not. I’m healing in one respect, I guess.
Torn apart in another. I’m being left.
Again.
And the thought of going back to my fucking office—
I squeeze my eyes shut against the sting of tears.I really, really had no clue how hard this would be.
You got this.
Beau’s words float through the space behind my closed lids.
I take a deep breath. The panic in my chest slows its wild stirring.
If I can net river trout, and shoot clays, and show up every day as a mom and a friend even though I’m battling depression and an epic level of exhaustion, then maybe I can do the juggle, too.
I guess only time will tell.
Speaking of time—it’s quarter till.
I hear a car pull up out front, and my heart leaps.
It’s pitiful, the relief and the gratitude I feel.
Barreling through the door, I draw up short when I see Samuel climbing out of his pickup truck.
I only have to look at his face to know Beau isn’t coming.
Samuel wears a defeated expression, his blue eyes, so like his brother’s, full of sympathy.
“Hey, Samuel,” Mom is saying. I hear Maisie cooing, a sound that’s drowned out by the roar in my ears.
Beau isn’t coming to say goodbye.
The realization runs me over. Tears leak out of my eyes left and right, and for several heartbeats, I don’t know what to do.
Samuel raises his arm to my mom. Then he locks eyes with me.
“Hey, Annabel,” he says, voice soft.
“Hey.” I sniff. I glance over his shoulder even though I know the passenger side of his truck cab is empty. “Where’s Beau? Not that I’m, like, not happy to see you. I just—”
Samuel’s massive shoulders rise on an inhale. He claps his hands together, the keys looped around his finger jingling.
“Beau got tied up at the office.” Samuel clears his throat. He’s obviously, horrifically uncomfortable telling me this lie, which only makes the tears come faster. “He wanted me to tell you…uh, he’s sorry to miss you…he’s going to miss you. And. Yeah. He’s busy.”
“What?” I blink. “Then I’ll just go say goo—”
“Annabel,” Samuel says, imploring me with his eyes to understand.
Half a beat later, I get it.
Beau doesn’t want to see me.
He doesn’t want to say goodbye. And I know no amount of fighting on my part is going to change that.
Maybe part of being the fighter I am is knowing when to back down. Knowing when a fight is going to take more out of you than you’ve got to give.
