Page 25

“I don’t think you should go.”

Beau stops moving, hands halting where he’s applying gel to his hair, and turns to face me. He’s shirtless, his skin still glistening from a shower.

I’ve made a terrible mistake by walking across the hall to the guest bathroom to talk to him.

His hands fall to his sides, and he lifts a brow. “Why’s that?”

I avoid his gaze, unsure of how to respond, and end up looking at the broad expanse of his chest, the way the muscles ripple beneath his skin at the slightest movement. It’s distracting, and God, I want a distraction from what’s coming.

“Elsie,” Beau says, forcing me to drag my attention back to him. “Why don’t you think I should go?”

The words stick in my throat, and I try to figure out how to tell him what’s going on in my brain.

Things have been different between us since that picnic a few weeks ago, since I admitted to him how scared I’ve been.

I felt vulnerable and on edge after the admission, but when the dust started to settle, it was nice to know that someone knew , that someone was in my corner.

That Beau had me.

I’m not sure if it was that admission or if it was having another successful ultrasound where we were able to see how much the baby had grown and progressed—which made me feel a little less anxious about the risk of another miscarriage—but my panic attacks have been happening more infrequently.

There are still times where I hide in the bathroom or pull over onto the side of the road, my heart rioting in my chest, but they’re coming fewer and farther between.

I feel more in control than I have in months. But nothing makes me feel more on edge and out of control than seeing my parents. Which is exactly what I’m dreading today.

“Because,” I finally say, wiping my sweating palms on my jeans and wincing because I know it’s a shitty answer.

Beau’s jaw hardens, his eyes going steely, a new determination that is growing more and more familiar. “I’m not letting you tell your parents you’re pregnant alone.”

My heartbeat quickens, and I wonder if he can see it pulsing in my throat, if I’m half as good at hiding my anxiety as I would like to be. Swallowing, I say, “Might be easier.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment, like he’s searching for something, and finally, he finds it. “For who?”

The question hits me square in the chest. It would be easier for me, I think.

My parents make me feel like nothing I ever do is good enough, and the pressure of always trying to please them is heavy .

I always leave there feeling exhausted and emotionally spent.

It usually takes everything I have to make it back home without falling apart.

And on top of everything else, I don’t know if I have it in me today to do that.

Beau steps closer to me, invading my space, and although I know I could move backward, step out into the hall, I don’t.

I let him surround me. I breathe in his scent.

Something in my stomach liquefies when his calloused hands surround my upper arms, a familiar and not unwelcome feeling that’s been pushed to the back of my mind the last few months.

He holds my gaze, and I can’t help the way my eyes dart to his lips when his tongue reaches out to wet them. “You may not need me there,” he says, drawing my attention back to his. “But I want to be there for you. If you decide you need a shoulder to lean on, mine will be right there.”

I swallow hard, his words piercing all the tender places inside me, the ones I’ve ignored for much too long.

He’s poking holes in all my defenses, but for some strange reason, I can’t bring myself to care.

For the first time, I want to lean into it, let him shoulder some of the burden that has become so, so heavy.

“They’re not going to be happy,” I manage to say.

My mom is still waiting for me to “get over” my injury and go back to dancing professionally.

She says if I’m well enough to teach, I’m well enough to dance in a company.

But while I might still be able to dance after tearing my Achilles, I’d never be able to keep up with the demands of dancing professionally again.

His jaw tenses, and my eyes catch on the movement. “I’ll never understand them,” he says.

I’m shocked by the hardness in his tone, the way his jaw ticks like he’s holding himself back from saying more.

Beau has never been the biggest fan of my parents and the expectations they have for me, but he’s always been polite, and he’s never said an outwardly bad word about them.

“They just want what’s best for me,” I say, a line I’ve repeated to myself thousands of times over the years, even though I’m not so sure that’s true. I may not be a mother yet, but I can’t imagine putting the pressure on my child that my parents put on me.

“No, they want what’s best for them, regardless of how it affects you,” Beau says, his hands tightening on my arms. Not tight enough to hurt, but enough for me to know he’s tense.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask softly, genuinely curious.

I’m an only child, and I grew up with only my parents and other dance parents as references.

It wasn’t until I met the Jenningses that I truly felt like I could be missing something.

But just thinking that made me feel like I was betraying my parents, who had only ever given me what I needed to succeed.

So they’re not overly affectionate, and they usually spend more time pointing out my flaws than my attributes.

It’s not like I went hungry or without new pointe shoes every week.

I was well cared for and given everything I needed.

He shakes his head and stares at the ceiling. My eyes are fixed on his Adam’s apple when it bobs as he swallows. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and dark stubble coats his chin. It looks good on him. I want to tell him. I want to change the subject and forget that my parents are waiting for me.

“I just mean that they’ve always had one idea for you—that you would be a professional ballerina like your mom was,” he says, meeting my gaze.

It’s hard, unyielding, like he’s given this a lot of thought.

“They never gave you a chance to see if that’s what you even wanted.

They homeschooled you so you could focus on it and they sent you to camps all over the world and they put all these unrealistic expectations on your shoulders so when you couldn’t meet them, you felt like a failure.

” He stops abruptly, gathering himself. It makes an unknown emotion swoop in my stomach. “And I hate them for it.”

I flinch as his words hit me, and he drops my arms, pushing an agitated hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, sounding more like himself. “I shouldn’t have said all that.”

I stare at him for a long moment, sorting through everything he said. “Is it how you feel?”

His chin dips, eyes catching on mine, sincere. “Yeah, it’s how I feel.”

“Then you should have said it,” I tell him, and I mean it, even if it hurt to hear.

“Do you tell me what you feel?” he asks.

I let my gaze dart away from his, focusing on a point on the wall behind his shoulder. There’s a chip in the paint that needs to be fixed from where I accidentally nicked the wall with my hair dryer.

I stare at it, unable to meet his eyes, as I say, “I should probably finish getting ready.”

His hand snakes out, wrapping around my arm once more. “Hold on,” he says, his voice softer than it was a moment before. “Do you?”

I look up at him, at the familiar brown eyes, the dark hair that’s grown a little too long, curling at the edges, the mustache that I’ve grown to love on him, the stubble covering his jaw, the freckles that are just starting to peek out on his cheeks.

He’s so different from the boy I met at sixteen, but he’s still in there too.

Soft, gentle, so very caring. Beau. My Beau, even after everything.

“No, not always.”

He nods like he expected this. I shouldn’t be surprised.

Since he moved back home, it’s like he’s been finding my puzzle pieces all over the place and putting them together, forming a clearer picture.

I don’t know how to feel about it. No one has ever seen me all the way, not even him. It’s terrifying.

“You can, you know,” he says, voice gentle. “You don’t have to carry it all yourself.”

His words seep into my skin. The thing is, I think I’m starting to realize this.

That I can’t do it all alone, that I fall apart when I try.

But I don’t know where to start. How do I tell my husband that I’ve been hiding huge parts of myself for years?

How do I even go about letting him get to know me now?

I try to find a way to respond, but the words are stuck in my throat. I think Beau knows too, because his face softens, and he moves closer.

His breath makes the wispy hairs around my face billow. “Whenever you’re ready, Elsie, I’m here.” His lips press into my temple, and the warmth of him surrounds me.

I can’t help but lean into him, bask in it. A desire that’s been dormant the past few weeks flares to life at the feeling of him against me, causing liquid heat to pool somewhere behind my belly button.

It only grows when he doesn’t move back, when he keeps holding me, his hand tangling in the hair falling down my back. Awareness sizzles beneath my skin when he gives it a little tug.

I don’t know what makes me do it, but I turn my hands out, letting my knuckles drag across his stomach before pressing my palms there. His muscles twitch beneath them, tightening beneath my touch. He’s always responded to me like this, like the barest touch from me will bring him to life.

“Elsie,” he breathes, more of a groan than anything.

I feel it deep beneath my skin, in the marrow of my bones. The sound of it drags my gaze upward. He’s looking down at me, eyes molten, jaw tight. “What are you doing?”

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “I don’t know. I just…wanted to touch you.”

The noise he makes is strained, but it still manages to make goose bumps prickle along my skin, and I can’t help but let my hands drag down his stomach until I reach the waistband of his jeans. My fingers find the belt loops and tug.

His body connects with mine, and we’re touching from shoulder to toes. It’s the first time in so long , and it feels so good that I think my eyes might be rolling back in my head.

I feel Beau’s breath rasp against my neck, hear his quick inhale. “Elsie baby.”

That nickname. It’s like a string connected to the space behind my belly button pulling tight, every single one of my nerve endings catching fire all at once.

“Beau,” I say back.

“God, you can’t sound like that,” he groans.

It makes a small laugh bubble inside me. “Like what?”

His lips brush my neck, the spot that always makes me quiver. Not a kiss, but a tease. A promise of more to come. “Like you want...” he trails off, and my mind fills in all the blanks, just like I imagine his is doing.

The breath in my lungs sucks right out of me like a vacuum on high. “What if I do?”

My knees go weak when Beau licks a stripe up my neck and bites down on my earlobe, tugging it between his teeth. I have to grip his shoulders for balance, hard enough that I imagine I’ll leave bruises on the muscle. The thought makes me apply more pressure.

“You always taste so good,” he says into my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “I dream about it sometimes.”

“How my neck tastes?” I manage to ask.

His hands slip lower, landing on my ass, tugging me impossibly closer to him.

He shakes his head, the mustache and stubble scraping against my sensitive skin. I hope he’ll leave a mark too. “Not your neck, Elsie baby.”

I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears, feel the want settling lower and lower.

His hands tighten on my ass, gripping me. I can almost feel their roughness beneath my jeans. “Can I touch you? Please.” He sounds desperate, like a dehydrated man asking for water. “You don’t know how bad I want you.”

Warning bells shoot off in my head when I realize how close I am to saying yes, how close I am to begging . Because we can’t do this. I can’t do this. Not yet.

My hands loosen from the tight grip they had on his shoulders, and I step back.

My heart catches in my throat at the crestfallen look on his face.

He doesn’t hide the hurt there, even when he knows I’m looking, and I’m stuck by how damn brave that is.

Everyone always talks about my strength, but I’m just now figuring out how much of a coward I’ve been.

“I can’t, Beau. Not yet.”

He holds my gaze for so long, no doubt trying to read me, and I wonder if there’s anything on my face for him to decipher. I’ve been hiding my feelings for so long, I don’t even know how to show them.

“Okay,” he finally says, and some of the stiffness in my shoulders loosens. “But why?”

I feel exposed by his question, because it means he knows there’s a reason and that it has nothing to do with me not wanting him.

My hands shake at my sides, and I fight the urge to put them behind my back. Gathering all my courage, I say, “Because I don’t want to hurt you when I pull away.”

I watch the words land, but surprisingly, he doesn’t look hurt by them. He only looks like he’s absorbing them for later dissection. “Are you planning on pulling away?”

I shake my head, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “No, but I’m scared I might anyway.”

It’s perhaps the most truthful thing I’ve said in a long time.

Because I can see now that’s what I did when I asked him to leave.

I pulled away and retreated into myself to deal with everything on my own.

Like I always have. And I thought it would fix it, just like every time before, but I’m starting to wonder whether that’s actually true.

I think I’ve been bandaging my wounds for years instead of treating them. Now they’ve become infected and I finally have to fix it or risk damaging myself beyond repair.

Beau stares at me for a long moment, and the silence between us feels tangible, but not in a bad way.

“Okay,” he finally says, voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

I feel the words right in my chest. Like something warm that starts in its center and fans out, making me feel the glow all the way through my body. It gives me the courage to say, “We better go tell my parents we’re having a baby.”

He holds my gaze for a beat and asks, “You sure?”

No . But I think it will be easier with him there, having his hand to hold and his broad shoulders to lean on. So I say, “Yes.”