calls? I have actually made myself stop calling him. The day Ramon told me he was leaving, I made myself stop reaching out. I figured if it took Ramon—Ramon, the man who wouldn’t have known what commitment was if the definition were tattooed on his forehead—six weeks to realize he couldn’t live without Sally, then the average man would probably only need three. Which could only mean one thing: Beau was just fine living without me.
But maybe I’ve been wrong about that.
“What do you mean?” I ask, not knowing what I want Mr. Hebert to say. “Is he okay?”
He scoffs a bitter laugh. “No, he’s not okay. He’s a moron.”
“He is not,” I say, the last word ending higher.
“Oh? You defendin’ him? Letting you go not only makes him a moron, it makes him a miserable moron.”
“He’s miserable?” Again, I don’t know how to feel. I’m glad that he’s miserable. Glad I’m not the only one. Glad to hear that he might still feel the same about me.
But he’s Beau. I don’t want him to be miserable. Not ever.
Mr. Hebert chuckles. “As miserable as a shucked oyster who’s survived the shucking.”
Yeah, that doesn’t sound too fun. It also sounds a lot like how I feel.
“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 were I’m sorry, Iris and this is over. None of that sounded remotely like Please wait for me or I 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 she sleeping with 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