AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Right now, it’s all good.
It’s hard for a type A planner like me to keep my feet firmly planted in the present. I’m always thinking ahead, my brain always roaming for a worry to latch onto. A but or a should or a shit, I fucked that up. The depression only makes this anxiety worse.
But I’m going to work on it. I’m going to try to enjoy this perfect night, rather than ruining it by dwelling on the heartbreak that waits for me on the other side of April.
I glance at Larry. “Ever been to the Beauregards’ for supper?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure, no,” he says, laughing.
The argument has only intensified as we’ve gotten closer. I can hear Milly call someone a “dick weed jerk-off.” Hank is telling someone else to calm down. Beau is laughing, and the sound must make me smile harder because Mom is looking at me funny with a knowing gleam in her eye.
“Never a dull moment in this family, that’s for sure,” she says. “I’ve never been to Sunday supper, but I have been out to dinner with all six of them. And I’m pretty sure the manager told us never to come back to his restaurant.”
My turn to laugh. “I remember that. Parents’ weekend, right? The Italian place on Franklin Street.”
“Yep. I’ll never forget it. I’m not sure I’ve ever laughed so hard. Or saw so much broken glass.”
The arguing dies to a murmur. Before we’re even on the front step, the door swings open. It’s Milly and Mrs. Beauregard, and they’re holding out their arms and hugging us, gasping at Maisie’s “sweet little face” as we move inside. The rest of the family is crowded behind them in the foyer, a knot of smiles and shouts.
It’s overwhelming. In the best way.
“’Bout time y’all showed,” Hank says.
“But we’re early.”
“Not a second too soon. Milly’s madder’n a hornet at Rhett—”
“Rhett’s here?” I stand on my tiptoes.
“Sure am!” he calls, holding up a hand.
I startle. The youngest Beauregard brother is rocking a full mountain-man beard. Like his brothers, he usually wears his short scruff with aplomb. But this is a beard. Add in the hipster flannel and skinny jeans he’s rocking, and he looks like a lumberjack who’s ready to go chop wood, then slam craft beers at a local brewery hotspot.
Rhett grins, running a hand over his epic facial hair. “Super Bowl beard,” he explains. “I’m a superstitious fucker. So much so that I’m keeping it until next season.”
Mrs. Beauregard kisses my cheek as she leans in for a hug. “Excuse my son. He’s only been home for an hour, so he’s yet to shed his heathen bachelor ways. Language included.”
“Sorry, Mama. I’ll put another hundred in the swear jar.”
“Mama’s gonna buy herself a whole new house with all that money we got in there,” Samuel adds.
“Would you look at that cutie,” Mrs. Beauregard says, bending down to get a better look at Maisie. They smile at each other, and I feel a rush of pride. “I’ve had the best time watching her. I promised Beau I wouldn’t steal the baby right away, but—”
“You did promise that. I don’t wanna scare Annabel and her mama and the baby with all y’all up in their faces.” Beau’s head appears above his mom’s. He drapes an arm over her shoulders and smiles a real smile.
It’s a jab to the gut how handsome and happy he is. He’s freshly showered, hair still wet, just a whisper of his cologne in the air.
“I really don’t mind,” I manage, unsnapping the carrier.
My fingers are clumsy. Shaky.
Handing Maisie to Beau’s mom, I feel a familiar ache work its way up my sides.
I’m going to fall apart when this is over.
Only I can’t fall apart, because I’m a mom now.
I blink, willing the thought to disperse. I’m living in the moment, remember? I’m going to enjoy tonight.
Even if this want I feel for Beau ends up killing me.
Will we even be friends anymore? I don’t see how we can go back to being what we were. Too much has happened. Too much has changed. And when he ends up with another girl after I’m gone—just for the fun of it, because he doesn’t do long-term—my heart will break all over again.
See?
See how quickly my mind gets away from me, spinning out into the future? Whipping itself into a frenzy of worry?
For all its miracles, that’s something I don’t think the Zoloft can fix.
Luckily, Beau is undoing the remaining buckles on the carrier, interrupting my thoughts. He guides the straps over my shoulders, fingers lingering a beat too long on my neck, and I’m inundated by a swell of need.
The air between us electrifies, and when he kisses my cheek, I have to try very hard to keep my knees locked. Otherwise, I’m going to go down like a sack of potatoes.
