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I try to distract myself with emails and last-minute prep for the ceremony, but the only thing truly working is thinking through all the ways I am definitely not overreacting. I even call Violet to double-check.
“You’re not crazy,” she says after hearing my anxious play-by-play. “He was a little off when I saw him at the grocery store, too. Which, by the way—he buys toilet paper in bulk, like a full-on doomsday prepper.”
I snort. “It’s a power move, Violet. Shows he’s prepared for anything.”
She laughs before her tone turns serious. “If you want my actual advice? Let him be weird. Let him come to you tomorrow.”
I frown at the ceiling. “Really?”
“Mmhmm. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Rowan, it’s that these strong silent types need time to work things out in their heads before they can say them out loud. They’re like emotional slow cookers.”
It’s annoyingly wise. I hate it.
So, naturally, I last all of two hours after Violet and I hang up before I cave.
Me:
Are you okay? You don’t have to say if you’re not.
His response comes quicker than I expect.
Beau:
All good, Red.
What does that even mean? Good as in fine? Or good as in please stop texting me I need to go brood in a dark room alone?
I toss my phone face down on the couch cushion, immediately regret it, then flip it back over just in case he changes his mind and sends something else.
I want to be chill. I want to let him come to me. Then again, I’m me, and I’ve never been good at waiting for the other shoe to drop without trying to catch it first.
thirty-one
. . .
Beau
Ihate canceling on her.
I don’t say that lightly. I don’t hate much. It’s a waste of energy, and I’ve never had much to spare, but sending that text tonight felt awful. I didn’t have a choice.
That’s the part nobody sees. The thirty seconds between reading her message and typing back something that gives nothing away. The practiced way I pack it all down and respond like a person who isn’t wishing, just for a second, that he could be somewhere else.
I’m not allowed to wish that. So I don’t.
I glance over at Mom.
She’s tucked into the far corner of the couch, legs pulled up, blanket wrapped tight around her narrow frame. Her tea sits forgotten in her lap. It’s likely gone cold twenty minutes ago, and she hasn’t noticed, or maybe she has and it just doesn’t matter right now.
Her dark hair’s up in a messy knot, streaked through with silver now, and her eyes, the same deep, bottomless shade as mine, don’t quite focus when she stares across the room.
There’s a version of her that’s sharp and funny and fills every room she’s ever walked into. I love that side of her. I’d do anything for it.
I’d do anything for this version, too.
Earlier today, she’d called me sounding breathless, voice shaking like she couldn’t catch up to her own thoughts. Said she felt off. Said she didn’t want to be alone.
So I came.
