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Milly looks at me, sympathy written all over her expression.
I hate it. The pity. Makes me feel small.
“All right,” she says softly. “I just want you to understand that I do not agree that this is the right thing. Not one bit.”
“Noted. Should I call her?”
“Yes. Invite her over for a drink. It’s kind, and big of you to do it in person.”
I glance down at my phone. “I’m not sure I trust myself not to blurt it out over the phone.”
“Then text her an invitation. Apologize for that, but, I mean, as long as you make up for it over the drink, I think you’ll be okay.”
“Milly,” I say, tipping back my mug so I don’t have to meet her eyes. “I’m gonna have to tell her. About my diagnosis.”
Milly grips my arm and squeezes. “Now that is the right thing. I’m proud of you, Beau.”
“Seriously?” I scoff. “I made out with my best friend with no intention of taking it any further, even though I knew—I had to have known, because she’s my good friend—even though I knew she wouldn’t want to leave it there. I almost just punched a guy for looking at me the wrong way. I’m keeping secrets. Playing sides. What, exactly, is there to be proud of about me right now?”
Milly just looks at me, a small smile on her lips. “You’re being honest about all that, aren’t you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“There. That’s what I’m proud of. Also, Nate Kingsley is a dick. We both know he’s done more than look at you sideways. If anyone deserves to be punched in the face, it’s him.”
To: Annabel Rhodes ([email protected])
From: John Riley Beauregard ([email protected])
December 30, 2005 1:01 AM EST
Subject: Miss ya
Bel! How was your Christmas? Did you get that power suit you wanted? God I’d love to see you in it. I miss you so damn much. Tell Lizzie I said hi. I know y’all are off to the beach for New Year’s to hang with the extended family. I’m jealous.
Also, I’m really glad to hear Christmas Eve with your dad went well. I know you were kinda dreading it, but sounds like y’all got along. I’m happy for you.
I don’t mean to be, like, Debbie Downer here. But things with my family haven’t been so great. In fact, this has probably been the worst Christmas. Ever. Dad isn’t doing well. His dementia is getting really, really bad. It’s been awful, seeing him like this. He hasn’t been himself for a while. But he’s taken a turn for the worse, and it’s wigging all of us out.
He’s way too young for this to happen.
Mom is struggling to cope. I see the toll it’s taking on her. She says she’s fine. But I went downstairs a little while ago to grab something from the fridge, and I saw her crying.
I promised I would take care of her and Daddy. You know how well my season went this year. My prospects of going pro are looking pretty decent right now.
Still, I’m scared, Bel. I’m trying to put on a strong face for my family. But inside, I feel helpless, and I hate that.
Wow. I’m going from Debbie Downer to Drama Queen. I’ll stop now. But it’s late and I’m thinking about you and I wish you were here. Counting down the days until spring semester starts. Please tell me you’ve watched as much porn as I have over break.
Your favorite pervert,
B
Chapter Ten
Annabel
My phone dings just as I’m reheating my coffee for the twelfth time today. Eight AM, and I already feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
Beau: I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I don’t mean to be an asshole, but like I said, I needed time to clear my head. There are some things I need to tell you. Think you can swing dinner at my place later? I have an insane day but should be free around six. You’re welcome to bring Maisie of course. In the meantime, give her a kiss from Uncle Beau.
Reading it, my heart pops around my chest. My first reaction is concern. What else does Beau need to tell me? I hope everything’s okay. Although I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach that it isn’t.
That Beau isn’t okay. He told me about his depression. What if there’s more to the story?
The thought makes my stomach, already queasy, lurch.
Especially considering what I want to tell him.
Namely, that I’ve had feelings for him pretty much since the day we met, and I’d very much like a repeat of what happened last night.
Is this a bad idea? It’s not like he’s got some magical dick that will suddenly cure me. I know I need to do the hard work of healing on my own, of waiting for things to get better. With help, of course. But I can’t rely on him to do the heavy lifting for me.
