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I soak it in, this glimpse of the boy he used to be. The one who’s still there beneath the walls and bruised silences. And even though this is just the beginning, I know one thing for sure, I’m going to love every version of him.

“Please tell me you have pictures,” I say. “I’m dying to see precious baby Beau.”

Beau protests. “God, Whitley, don’t do this.”

His mom laughs and nods, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, I have pictures. Plenty of them.”

Beau shoots me a warning glance, but I’m too busy basking in the glow of his mom’s approval.

She pulls out a worn photo album from the bookshelf with frayed edges and pages that threaten to stick together. As she flips it open, the first picture that leaps out is a chubby-cheeked Beau with a mop of unruly dark hair and the world’s most serious scowl.

I burst out laughing. “Oh my god,” I wheeze. “You were the most adorable little grump. Look at that face!”

“You weren’t even two there,” she tells Beau.

“And already over everyone’s shit,” I say, tracing the edge of the photo. “I love it.”

She grins, flipping the page to reveal a picture of toddler Beau in the middle of a tantrum, arms crossed, bottom lip pushed out. I’m obsessed.

Robin flips to another page, pointing to a picture of Beau around five years old, standing in front of a beat-up car with a toy wrench in his hand. “This is when he decided he was going to be a mechanic. Wouldn’t let anyone touch the neighbor’s broken-down truck without supervising.”

“Even then,” I marvel, glancing at him. “Taking care of things.”

Beau’s mom laughs like she’s remembering stories she forgot she loved. “He was a handful. But he had that smile that could melt anyone’s heart when he wanted.”

I nudge him playfully. “Looks like some things never change, huh?”

He shoots me a glare, but I catch the amusement in his eyes. Yep. The grump king was always there. But so was the heart.

thirty-eight

. . .

Beau

We pull away from Mom’s apartment, the fading silhouette of the building shrinking in the rearview mirror. My hands tighten around the wheel, muscles coiling like they’re trying to hold everything in. Memories, regrets, hope—all swirling together with the scent of chamomile and laughter still lingering in the car.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around how Whitley has this ridiculous way of making the heaviness feel lighter. I glance over and it hits me how lucky I am. How much I want to be better.

“Your mom was great,” she says, smiling over at me.

I nod. “Yeah. She was having a good day.”

Her smile falters just a touch. “What about the bad days?” she asks quietly.

I swallow, the weight settling in my chest. “They’re darker. Louder. Meaner.”

She reaches out, resting her hand lightly on my thigh. “How can I help, Beau? When those days come, what do you need from me?”

For the first time ever, the idea of handing over even a sliver of this mess feels less like losing control and more like not having to carry it all alone. She knows this world better than anyone. She understands what it takes to hold someone together when the pieces don’t want to stay put.

I take a slow breath and rest my hand on top of hers. “I need you to be patient. With her, and with me,” I say. “On the bad days, she’ll say things she doesn’t mean. She’ll lash out, try to push me away. Sometimes she calls in the middle of the night convinced something terrible is about to happen.”

Whitley’s thumb traces gentle circles on my thigh, grounding me.

“She’ll accuse me of not caring enough, or caring too much. She’ll forget the conversations we had hours before.”

“Okay,” Whitley says softly. “What do you need me to do?”