“Then why won’t he talk to me?” I just barely keep from whining the question, but my exasperation is clear.
“Oh, Lord,” Mr. Hebert groans. “Because as miserable as he is, Beau is stubborn, and his love is a stubborn, unrelenting love. And, darlin’, that’s what he’s got for you.”
“A lot of good that does me,” I complain, pissed off at the man I love. “What if I just showed up on his doorstep, or better yet, his classroom?”
He sniffs a laugh. “Now, that he would hate. I sure as heck don’t think drama and histrionics will make him open up and come to his senses.”
Hope and the fight in me both deflate like week-old balloons.
“Iris, my dear, I’m afraid my nephew is going to have to figure his way out of this one,” he says glumly. “I just hope he does that sooner rather than later. It would be just like him to realize he’d made a mistake years too late to do anything about it.”
Years?
The last of my hope drops to the ground.
I’d wait years for Beau if I thought it would make a difference. If I thought he really wanted me and just needed time. I’d wait if he asked me to.
But he hasn’t. The last words he said to me wereI’m sorry, Irisandthis is over.None of that sounded remotely likePlease wait for meorI need time.
I can’t fool myself into thinking he’ll want me back years from now. I spent years waiting for Moira’s approval. Moira’s affection.
It never came.
I waited for years for my father to come back. To reach out. He never did. Not once.
I can’t do that to myself again.
If I’m to have any peace in my life, I need to put my faith in what I can count on. My work. My friends. Myself. And I just have to accept that, like he said, Beau may be mine to love, but he isn’t mine to keep.
Chapter Thirty
BEAU
I am such a loser.
The dismissal bell rings, and as I do every day, I walk to my bus duty post and check my phone. My Instagram app, to be specific. Because Iris posts almost every day around noon—her time.
But she hasn’t posted a selfie all week. It’s just been pictures of her new house. Yesterday, it was a picture of Mica on her new couch. No Iris. And I crave a new picture of her.
I’m like an addict jonesing for my next bump. And, really, an addict would be less creepy because every time she posts a picture, I snap a screenshot for keeps. I memorize every detail.
The day she posted a video of her making waffles in her workout clothes, I thought I’d have a heart attack. Seeing her move, hearing her voice, watching her laugh lit me up inside. But then I caught the male voice of the guy holding the camera, and I almost came out of my skin.
It wasn’t Ramon.
I’m sure because Ramon has an accent, but it isn’t Scottish.
Is she seeing some Scottish guy? Is shesleepingwith some Scottish guy?
Those questions kept me up for two nights. And the only thought I kept coming back to was that she hadn’t texted or called in weeks. No comfort there.
My only consolation is I know she’s doing well. A couple of weeks ago, Iris hinted to her fans about something new she’s working on, calling it a dream come true. That has to be a comedic role. I’d bet everything I own on it. And just the thought makes me so damn proud.
And even though she hasn’t posted a picture of the front of it—smart, I don’t want anyone else stalking her but me—I know she’s moved out of her cold, modern condo into a house that reminds me a lot of the one she lived in on Cherry Street. I know that makes her happy.
If she’s happy, then I’m happy.
Right?
