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Full, glossy lips.
The new Beau sits at the bar with the shy neighbor girl, who wears a pair of acid-wash Levi’s better than anyone he’s ever seen.
Everyone is always watching me.
I’m sick of people talking to me, but it strikes me that listening to Bailey talk might not be so bad.
It makes me feel something in a sea of numbness.
Talking to him seems safe enough. Safer than talking to Bailey Jansen, who watches me just a little too closely with those big fucking doe eyes.
“Tried to stay alive,” Beau bites out. There’s a tremor in his voice—a quality that reminds me of a dog when they growl at you. It’s a warning to back away.
The summer storm caused everyone sitting here to flee, their forgotten glasses now partially filled with rainwater. I can still smell the storm.
“It helps me sleep at night.”
I can see him sinking right before my eyes. And I want no part in that. I can’t afford to be taken down with him.
I couldn’t stay that frozen, terrified little girl forever.
One who starts pulling up a stool every Sunday through Tuesday to drink chamomile tea until midnight, so I don’t have to close by myself.
Between my burns and my brain and my insomnia,
I’m like a shrink’s wet fucking dream.
Over her shoulder, I catch sight of Bailey. Her glossy hair shines like the top of the river, reflecting every light.
My eyes stay on Bailey as I speak to Winter. Focusing on her makes this easier. She’s become a calm spot in a mind that is a turbulent storm.
And sometimes we’re just quiet together. And that quiet is comfortable.
“No chamomile tea. But you look like you could use a pick-me-up.” She slides a glass of Coca-Cola in front of me, not realizing that she’s the pick-me-up.
I stare back at her, absently wondering how many freckles dot her nose. Wondering if they only crop up in the summer or if they linger through the winter.
“If we’re struggling, we’re still in motion, yeah? Heading somewhere better. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway.”
Everything about their existence seems very simple. Boring even. And yet they all seem happy.
And then I head straight for where the best part of my day always is. The place that I’ve come to associate with both peace and purpose. The stool at the end of Bailey Jansen’s bar.
You come in for a beer, that’s fine. But you’re gonna keep your eyes off of her”—I
She makes me tea and lets me be, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for the rest of the people in my life.
“Remove your fucking hand. Or I’ll do it for you.” Beau’s voice is lower than usual, quieter. More menacing.
I grew up learning to recognize that posture and then hiding from it.
My flip-flops make that obnoxious slapping noise as I trudge across the grass toward the river. The river that’s just beyond the barbwire fence. On Eaton land.
But it’s the voice I’ve come to associate with safety. And if I had to get caught trespassing naked in a river, I’m glad Beau Eaton is the one to catch me.
“Is that a bet?” “What?” She glides her hands through the water, giving me a confused look. “That things would be different if you had a different last name?” “It’s not a bet. It’s a fact.”
“I’ll take that bet.”
It seems metaphorical, separating me from what could be a terribly stupid decision. Those sharp little peaks somehow representative of all the ways this bet could come back to hurt me.
“She’s pretty too,”
“I haven’t had any sex, Beau.”
“You don’t see the shit I’ve seen and still believe a single thing is permanent.
“ . . . I really need to feel something.”
We shake. We exchange numbers. And just like that . . . I’m engaged.
Every time she catches someone staring, I see the corners of her mouth twitch before she presses her lips together and averts her gaze. And that right there makes the ring worth the ridiculous price tag.
“They heard about the ring through the grapevine, I’m assuming from someone at the bar. I heard them talking about pawning it as I was heading down here for a swim.
The way your face drops when you stare off into space for a beat too long. I do it too, and maybe that’s why I see it. But honestly, don’t bother around me. It’s almost offensive. It’s okay to not be okay.”
“Yeah, Baby Doll. It’s practice.”
“Sugar tits, are you pressing your ass against me?”
But it’s the sound of his laughter that gets me. It’s warm and full. It vibrates through my body.
It
makes my stomach flip. It hits me with a jolt of lust rig...
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“Then tell me about how wet you are right now.”
“You want to practice talking about sex? Let’s practice.” His raspy voice vibrates across my skin
like a touch.
And considering the fact that no one else is here . . . it’s not for show.
Beau: Bailey, I don’t give a fuck what they like.
The small brown horse shows all the wear and tear of being a comfort to a little girl who, no doubt, has had little comfort in her life.
