Page 36

My stomach is in knots as we pull up to the big house for family dinner on Monday night. I’ve been sitting on my hands since we got in the truck to keep them from shaking, feeling my heartbeat in my throat.

Beau parks the truck at the end of the long driveway, behind an intimidating line of cars that belong to everyone in his family, then turns to face me. “On a scale of one to ten, how nervous are you?”

“I’m not nervous.” The lie slips out before I can even consider speaking the truth, an instinct long ago ingrained in me.

Beau quirks an eyebrow, drawing my attention from the big house, and for a moment, I get lost in him.

He looks good tonight. He looks good every night .

He’s wearing jeans that hug him in all the right places and a charcoal tee with a black button-up layered over it, buttons undone.

In the evening light, the sunset reflects on his irises, making the greens and golds in them pronounced.

His lips are full, tilted in a knowing smile that makes my heart rate quicken.

It’s getting harder and harder to resist him, and I don’t know why I am anymore.

The panic attacks haven’t disappeared and I’m not better , but I’m getting there, and it’s getting easier to share with him what I’m actually feeling.

It’s like training a new muscle, learning a new dance move.

It takes practice, determination. But that, I’m good at.

So it’s easier to say, “Seven.”

He nods, like this is a fair number. “Why are you nervous?”

He may think they don’t hold the separation against me, and maybe they truly don’t.

It’s something that’s been running through my head on a loop since my conversation with Jade.

I’ve been going over every interaction I’ve had with people in town for the last eight months, dissecting each one to see where I misinterpreted things, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe she’s right.

Maybe the people of Larkspur haven’t been holding this against me.

But I have been, and I can’t stand to look at these people that I love, knowing I hurt their son, their brother, them .

My gaze darts away, focusing on the view outside the truck, my hand falling to the swell of my stomach beneath my plain white tee, the hem of which is barely covering my unbuttoned jeans. I still haven’t managed to find maternity ones yet, and I’m paying the price for it.

The mountains catch my attention, and I marvel in the way the sun arches through them, coloring the world in shades of gold, and let the view calm me. Settle me.

“They might not be mad at me,” I finally say on an exhale. “But I’m still nervous about seeing them after abandoning them for so long.”

When I finally glance at Beau, he looks like he wants to protest, but I shake my head, and he stays silent.

“You don’t need to correct me. I know…” I pause, searching his face for the right words. “I know that’s not what happened, but it’s how I feel.” My throat feels tight when I swallow. “I’m trying to be honest about how I feel, even when I know my feelings aren’t necessarily the truth.”

He holds my gaze for so long that I think he might not respond. “Thank you,” he says, voice thick. “For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you for doing it.”

His approval slides beneath my skin, warming me from the inside out.

I’ve always been so susceptible to praise, probably because it was so infrequently given to me growing up.

Dancers are most often told what they’re doing wrong and how to fix it rather than what they’re doing right.

It’s something I’ve been trying to do differently as a teacher.

When Maya threw herself at me the other day, her thin arms wrapping tight around my middle in a bone-crushing hug, I knew I’d made the right choice.

But from Beau, it feels even more pivotal. All-encompassing. It sinks into my bones, branding itself onto my soul.

“Thank you,” I say, and before I can get anything else out, there’s a series of loud thuds on my window. I jump, heart racing, and turn to find Cheyenne, grinning like a madwoman.

She rips the door open, squealing at a pitch dogs from miles away would be able to hear.

“You’re here!”

She grips my knees and spins me until my feet dangle out the door. Her hands land on my stomach, touching it with awed reverence usually reserved for rare gemstones or the perfect heirloom tomato at the farmers’ market. It makes a smile tug at my lips.

Cheyenne’s eyes snap up to mine, blinking furiously to hold back tears. I’ve always admired her ability to feel everything so deeply and show it. It must be so freeing. “You’re having my baby.”

Behind me, Beau laughs. “Mine, actually.”

“Ours,” Cheyenne corrects, her hands still holding my stomach. “Our communal family baby.”

“Pretty sure there was nothing communal or familial about the conception. In fact, it was downright—”

“Please never finish that sentence.”

“I’m interested in hearing it,” I say.

Beau’s eyes glow with mischief. It feels so much like the old us , like the new us we’re trying to find.

“You’re ruining this moment for me,” Cheyenne whines.

“Sorry,” I say, returning my attention to her and holding back a smile. “We’re all having a baby.”

Beau grunts and opens his door, climbing out as his sister smooths her hands over my stomach. “Chey, leave my wife alone, please.”

Cheyenne rolls her eyes and drops her hands. Her gaze fixes on mine. “I’m going to be an aunt.”

She says nothing about the last few months of silence. Nothing about the separation. Nothing about the way I asked Beau to leave and then left them too.

Just genuine, pure delight.

It makes my throat tight. “Yeah, Chey, you are.”

She reaches up, wrapping her arms around my shoulders tight enough to hurt, but I don’t mind. I hold her back, breathing in her familiar scent. Wildflowers and sunshine.

“I’m so glad you’re home.”

This time, I can barely speak around the lump in my throat, but I manage to say, “Me too.”

“Come on, let’s go inside,” Beau says, breaking up the moment.

I’m thankful for it, because I need a moment to compose myself so I’m not sobbing as I walk into the big house.

I follow the two of them, barely hearing Cheyenne’s chattering over the pounding of my heart, as we head up the wooden porch stairs. My breath catches as I walk over the threshold. The house I grew up in never really felt like home, but this one did from the first moment I stepped inside it.

It’s a classic ranch home. Wood everywhere.

School portraits and family photos lining the walls.

Boots discarded by the door and a hat rack with more than enough hooks.

Sunshine bursting through the windows and the smell of earth that never quite leaves.

Noise, the kind I never had in my house.

Voices talking over each other and laughter and music.

Home. It feels like I’m finally coming home after too much time away.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped in the foyer, but Beau does, and he motions for Cheyenne to keep going and turns back to me. His boots are heavy thuds on the wood floors as he closes the distance between us, matching the heavy falls of my heart.

There are voices coming in our direction, and before I can think about hiding my emotions, putting on a brave face for them, Beau tugs my arm, pulling the two of us into the coat closet and closing us in.

It’s dark in here, too dark to make out his expression, but we’re close enough for me to feel the pounding of his heart against mine, the heat of his breath on my skin. It smells like leather and shearling and dust in the cramped quarters.

“We’re in the closet,” I say dumbly.

Beau huffs a laugh, ruffling the hair fringing my face. “Shit, I thought this was a bedroom.”

I roll my eyes. “ Why are we in a closet?”

“You looked like you needed a minute,” he says.

My heartbeat slows infinitesimally. He’s been seeing more lately, a combination of him looking in the right places and me working hard not to hide as much.

At first, it scared me. It still does sometimes.

But right now, I’m grateful for it. I’m happy he saw that I was overwhelmed with every single emotion this place drags up in me and gave me a moment to digest it before seeing everyone.

“Thank you,” I say and mean it.

His hand snakes around my hip, squeezing it, and the contact feels almost electric in this small, dark space.

Then his thumb slips over the waistband of my jeans, and my breath hitches in my throat.

“Are your pants unbuttoned?” he asks, sounding amused.

“Unzipped too,” I say, trying not to focus on how his hands feel on me. How starved I’ve been for touch the last few months. His touch.

A laugh gusts out of him. “Why?”

“They don’t fit anymore,” I complain.

“We can buy you some new pants,” he says.

I can hear the smile in his voice so clearly I can picture it. The way his eyes are crinkling and his lips are curling one edge at a time.

I shake my head, and my hair catches in the stubble on his cheeks. “They’re all ugly. I looked.”

He laughs again, his thumb still tracing the waistband of my jeans through my shirt in a way that feels all too distracting. “You can’t just go walking around with your pants unbuttoned all the time.”

“Why?”

“It’s distracting,” he says.

My breath catches in my throat when his thumb slips beneath the hem of my shirt, touching bare skin.

“How?” I manage to ask, mortified at the way my breath comes out like a pant.

“I won’t be able to think about anything else,” he answers, his finger tracing the line of my waistband until it gets to where it’s folded down just below my belly button.

My stomach jumps beneath his touch, and I know he has to notice, but he doesn’t remove his hand, just keeps tracing his thumb there.

I have to hold in a gasp when he hits the top of my underwear.