after we watch Ramon move through the airport’s glass doors with a backward glance, a wide smile, and a loving wave, I don’t dissolve in tears against this chest. I mean, it might make me feel better, but I barely know him.
Instead, when I sniffle and blubber, he hands me a tissue and reaches into the cooler next to Mica in the backseat—the one he insists on keeping stocked with healthy snacks and drinks—and offers me a bottle of water.
“Th-th-thank you,” I squeak.
“Naw worrth mentionin’, Irris,” Laird says in his lovely Scottish accent, and I swear, listening to it is almost enough to cheer me up and make me forget about how much my life has changed.
I mean, yeah, by almost every measure, it’s a better life. I’m free. Sure, Moira is suing me for wrongful termination and breach of contract, but Ela, my attorney, says she has no case and that if she keeps at it, I can counter-sue her for harassment. I mostly try to let Ela handle that. I’d rather not think about it if I don’t have to. And since I took Ela’s advice and got a restraining order, Moira hasn’t tried anything else. But I’m not letting my guard down. I know my mother. She’s not going to fade quietly into the shadows. The woman has staying power. Sometimes, I can still hear her voice in my head, but I’m working on telling that voice to go get a Brazillian wax.
Because I have a job that I enjoy and a home that actually feels like a home. And I get to eat real food, and no one tells me my stomach looks like I’m trying to hide an unplanned pregnancy.
But even with all that, I move through every day with this ache in my chest. And I’ll catch myself wondering where Beau is and what he’s doing at least thirty times a day.
Every night, when I go to bed around ten-thirty, I know it’s after midnight in Beau’s time zone, and he’s probably been asleep for hours. But I wonder. Is he in his tiny house? It should be all fixed by now. Is he there? Or has he moved on and found someone else’s bed to share?
God, that thought makes my chest threaten to cave in on itself.
Every morning, when I wake up, I know he’s already at school, in his classroom, but I don’t know what that looks like, so I can’t picture him there. And I never met his mom, so I can’t picture him visiting her, which I know he does several times a week.
I wish I knew how he was doing. If he’s okay. If he’s happy.
The only place I can clearly envision him is in the dance studio, giving lessons.
A thought hits me, and as soon as we get back to my new place, which is still littered with packing boxes, I head to my room with Mica at my heels and shut the door.
My heart is racing, and I know it shouldn’t be. I know he won’t mind me calling.
I tap his contact and blow out a breath while the phone rings. It’s just after eleven a.m. here, so it’s mid-morning there. Not too early.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Mr. Hebert’s voice rumbles over the line. I smile at the same time my eyes sting.
I laugh a shaky hello. “It’s good to hear your voice,” I admit, trying to keep my own strong and unbroken.
“Yours, too, darlin’. How’s L.A. treatin’ ya?”
I inhale through my nose and feel a little sturdier. “Good. I’m working on something new. It’s fun.”
“Oh? Anything you can tell me about?”
I chuckle. “Not yet.” Nothing’s been shared with the media yet about Couch Surfing. I’m only allowed to say that I have a new project.
“Already signed an NDA, if you recall.”
My smile is wide. “Different studio. Different set of lawyers and all that.”
“I’m just teasin’,” he says gently. “Besides, I have a feeling you’re not calling to tell me about your new part.”
My throat tightens. I have to swallow twice before I can squeak out. “How is he?” There’s no hiding the ache in my voice.
“You tried asking him yourself?” Mr. Hebert asks, surprise tinging his question.
I blush. My voice comes out low and ashamed. “H-he won’t take my calls.”
“That idiot,” he growls. Beau’s uncle sighs over the line. “He’s doing no better than you sound, I can promise you that.”
My breath leaves me. No better than me? Then why the hell wouldn’t he take my