Page 27 of Love Felt Like This

I know that voice.

I swivel my eyes to the space between the curtains of the booth, where a tall, slender man towers over us.

“Beau,” I breathe.

Speak of the devil.

I’ve never been to Hell, obviously, but I was once in a play where I puppeteered Satan himself. He was a surprisingly cute, fluffy red monster with a curled mustache and monocle, but that was offset by a stuffy fog machine and hot stage lights. There were no fewer than seven of us smashed together under that set with our hands stuffed up the rear ends of playful devils. We were coated in sticky sweat by the end of it. Being on that stage for more than ten minutes felt like Hell.

This is worse.

A bead of sweat runs down the center of my back. Oh no, it’s already starting.

“Hi,” I answer.

Beau stares, and it holds me in place more than I wish it did. He was once a punk rocker teen, but he rebranded when he moved to Los Angeles. No more eyeliner—just wire-rimmed glasses. Instead of skinny jeans, he wears a blazer and casual slacks. His hair, once a charming ginger, is dyed brown. Chin length. Slightly curled. A professor that students could dream about.

“What are you doing here?” Beau asks without preamble.

Because I don’t belong in a place like this.

“Dinner,” I say obviously. The word is garbled in my throat. There’s a reason he was the one who performed in the spotlight and I was behind a partition. I preferred it that way, but it’s also because his words are smooth like butter, just like his singing voice.

“That’s great,” he responds. This voice isn’t as buttery, though. The sentence sounds a lot like a pitying That’s cute.

“Hey, man,” Griffin says. I almost forgot he was there.

It’s odd how two men in the same career can look so different. Beau is tall and slender. Lanky, but approachable. I hate that it works for him. But Griffin is all hardness—muscles, hands, and jaw. Wild hair. Thick beard. Tattooed arms like carved, graffitied tree trunks.

“Oh. Hey, Griffin,” Beau says stiffly. So all musicians know one another. Great. Perfect.

“How do you know Beverly?” Griffin asks.

“We dated,” I say at the same time Beau murmurs, “High school friends.”

My eyes grow wide. My lips part.

“Friends?” I ask.

Friends?

We dated for fourteen years. Went to prom. Lost our virginities to each other. He lived with my family while he got his career off the ground. He was the brother that my brother always wanted. Beau and I talked about marriage, babies, and sitting on the front porch one day with wrinkly genitalia and not-so-wrinkly dentures.

Friends?

“Wait…this is her?” Griffin asks. “The high school girlfriend?” He swivels his gaze to meet mine. His brown eyes pierce like a sword through my chest. My stomach drops. “You’re the ex.”

Mortification squeaks down my spine like ice.

No. No no no.

I thought my relationship with Beau was forgotten by the world. That I was forgotten. I prefer it that way. But I guess nobody truly forgets how the sad hometown girl got dumped. I wonder if I’m a cautionary tale. Beau’s ex who’s a clinger. A star banger.

The man in the booth across from us is staring.

I avert my eyes.

We’re ruining other people’s dinners now.