The Beau & The Belle

by R.S. Grey

  Girls and boys rush around me, clamoring to find a partner before they’re left standing alone. There’s a contest for Rose’s hand, both of Preston’s best friends practically begging to dance with her. I spin around, trying to find Preston, and when I see him across the room with another girl from my class, tugging on her ponytail, my stomach twists with jealousy. He knew I wanted to dance with him. I made a fool of myself in order to show him my feelings and he didn’t even bother finding me. That should snuff out my crush then and there. I want it to, but deep down, I know if he marched over and offered me his hand, I’d still leap at the chance to dance with him.

  The music starts and Rose picks her partner. My male counterpart, Lincoln—the only other reject in the room—turns to me with a noncommittal shrug.

  “D’ya wanna be my—”

  I grab his hand and cut him off. Obviously, you idiot, we’re the only ones left. He smiles stupidly.

  I don’t even talk to him as we dance. I don’t trust my voice, and well, maybe I wasn’t paying much attention to my footwork either because by the time we’re done with the first song, I’ve stepped on his feet so many times that he curses under his breath.

  “Watch it,” he yelps.

  I gulp down my tears as he spins me around the room during the second song. I think he’s trying to stay as close to Rose and her partner as possible, and his pace makes me stumble over my feet. If he’d only just slow down…

  My foot comes down on his once again, and he’s had enough.

  He flings my arms aside and steps back. Couples still dance around us, but he doesn’t care.

  “Jesus, you suck at this. Why do you think Preston didn’t want to dance with you?”

  The couples around us hear him and a few of them snicker. Most have the decency to feign ignorance.

  I thought he was picked last because he was dumb, but I guess it was actually because he’s an asshole.

  Mrs. Geller cuts the music and everyone stops. I think she’s going to snap at Lincoln and me for interrupting the flow of the dance, but instead she tells us to line back up so she can continue teaching. Rose finds me and I know she wants to comfort me, but there is no comforting. There is only surviving at this point. I won’t cry in this stupid cotillion class, won’t give Lincoln or Preston the satisfaction. No, I save my tears for when I get home, when I toss my purse and yank off my stupid satin gloves. The house is dark. My mom is probably still working at her studio and it’s Wednesday, which means my dad is having dinner at the Boston Club.

  I welcome the solitude as my tears finally start to slip down my cheeks. I head toward the kitchen without bothering to turn on any lights.

  It wasn’t that bad, I tell myself.

  I know it wasn’t. I know in a few years, this day will make me laugh, but right now, I can’t stop replaying just how acutely embarrassing it felt to march across that room, right up to Preston, only to have him laugh in my face. Laugh!

  I groan and let my head fall against the refrigerator door.

  “Oh sorry, I didn’t think anyone was home.”

  I whip around to find Beau standing in the doorway of the kitchen, cast in a gentle glow from the patio light behind him. I didn’t hear him come in. How long has he been standing there?

  He takes a step forward and his hand reaches for the light switch, but I leap forward. “Don’t! Please!”

  He pauses then lets his hand drop. “Are you okay? Are you crying?”

  I shake my head vehemently and turn back around so he can’t see my face.

  I hear him take another step into the kitchen, but only one. He’s hesitating.

  “Are your parents home?” he asks.

  I shake my head again.

  “Is that why you’re crying?”

  I can’t help but laugh. I sniffle then wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “I’m not crying, and even if I were, that wouldn’t be why.”

  He sighs and I turn just enough to see him over my shoulder. He’s half-turned, ready to leave. His hand drags across his smooth jaw, and I get it—he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do in this moment.

  He turns back to me and I catch the details I missed before: the inky black hair still wet from a shower, worn jeans, white t-shirt stretched across his chest. His muscular arms look tanner than they were before. I wonder if his chest is too. That thought mingles with my other emotions, gentling nudging aside the fuel for my pity party.

  “Why are you in here?” I ask with a soft voice.

  His gaze darts to the refrigerator and then finally to me. “Your mom told me she put a casserole in the fridge. I was just coming in to grab some, but…” He looks back behind him. He wants to flee; it’s written in his body language. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, jaw locked, eyebrows furrowed. Clearly it wasn’t on his agenda to deal with teen angst today. Yeah, well, me neither, buddy.

  I’m about to speak up again, to apologize for my current state, but my stomach growls and beats me to the punch. The sound echoes around the room so loudly that I laugh. How can I be hungry at a time like this? Just minutes ago, my stomach was twisted into knots over Preston.

  His scowl eases as he glances back at me. “I guess you need some casserole too.”

  I nod and turn to yank open the refrigerator. Sitting on the second row is a glass baking dish covered with plastic wrap. On top, there’s a pink sticky note with my mom’s handwriting: I’ll be home a little later than usual. Do your homework before you start reading—I mean it! Also, make sure Beau gets some of this. Love you, Mom.

  I crinkle the note in my hand and cringe once I see the meal. It’s supposed to be a Cajun chicken and rice casserole, but she’s left out the sliced andouille sausage and green bell peppers, and also it’s still uncooked. Nice one, Mom.

  I drop it on the counter and offer Beau an apologetic smile.

  “I don’t think either of us want to eat this.”

  “Damn,” he says, brushing a hand over his stomach. Clearly, he’s as starving as I am.

  “Why don’t I make us something else?” I say, eager to feed him, eager to prove to the world that I might be a shitty dancer, but I am good at some things. “It’ll help me take my mind off of all the not-crying I’ve been doing.”

  Beau doesn’t have time to respond before I start pulling out ingredients to make my favorite sandwich: grilled cheese with a fried egg and ham. It’s delicious, unhealthy, and best of all, it only takes a few minutes to whip up. He hovers on the other side of the island, watching me flit around the kitchen. I rush, scared that if I’m not quick enough, he’ll leave. I sense that he wants to decline the sandwich and rush back out onto the back porch, but he doesn’t, at least not yet.

  I butter both sides of the bread slices and set them on the hot pan, artfully layering cheese and ham. In another pan, I crack two eggs, then I glance up at Beau—at his tall frame—and crack a third.

  We don’t talk as I cook. In fact, there’s no sound other than the pops and crackles from the eggs frying in butter. The smell is heavenly, and I know I have him. No one walks away from a grilled cheese like this, not even to escape your landlord’s emotional daughter.

  I set out two plates and finish arranging the sandwiches. He thinks ahead and lays out napkins for us at the table. I’m happy to see he isn’t going to take the food and run.

  “Do you have any more of that lemonade you made the other day?” he asks, tugging open a cabinet door to retrieve two glasses.

  I made another batch, but my dad already guzzled most of it down. There’s just enough for one glass and though I’d love some, I tell Beau to take it. I’d rather watch him drink it.

  It isn’t until I’m sitting across from him at the table that I realize we never turned on the lights. It’s not pitch black, not even close, but the sun is setting outside, and large oak trees block the horizon. What’s left of the golden hour filters in through the windows and leaves us in a shallow darkness, just enough that I pray he can’t tell how splotchy
my cheeks are.

  I pull my legs up and sit crisscrossed on the seat, watching as he picks up the first half of his sandwich. I overloaded it so much that it’ll be hard to eat, but he doesn’t complain. I wait for him to take his first bite, anticipating his response so much that I find myself leaning toward him across the table. Once he glances up at me and nods, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin, I sit back and smile.

  “Bravo,” he says after he swallows.

  I pick up my own sandwich and just like that, we’re eating together.

  I PROBABLY SHOULDN’T be here with Lauren while her parents aren’t in the house. Her mom offered me casserole, but I doubt she anticipated that I would be sitting here alone with her daughter. I should stand and take my dinner back to my apartment, but I’m already half done and it’s too good to stop now. It’s been a while since I’ve had a grilled cheese, forever since I’ve had one like this.

  I feel Lauren watching me as I eat. More than that, I can feel her nervous energy. She can’t just sit still. She’s jittery, unsure of herself. She might as well be wearing a neon sign that reads: PLEASE VALIDATE ME. I wonder if I was like that at her age too.

  When I first walked in earlier, she was crying quietly. Her head was tipped against the refrigerator and her shoulders shook from the weight of whatever shitty day she had. Truthfully, I could have turned back for my apartment and she never would have realized I was there. But, it could have been something serious, and my mom raised me better than to slink away.

  So here I am, sitting across from a girl who is a total mystery to me.

  She plays with her food, picking at it more than anything. I’m so hungry a part of me wants to reach across and finish it for her, but she needs to eat. Unfortunately, I know she won’t be able to until she finishes digesting the big ball of sadness in the pit of her stomach.

  I finish my sandwich and scoot back, telling myself it’s not my business if she’s sad or not. I checked to make sure she wasn’t hurt, and now it’s time for me to go.

  Lauren hears my chair screech against the wood floor and her head snaps up, blonde curls spilling over her shoulder.

  “Oh! You’re done already.” She glances down at her mostly uneaten sandwich. “Do you even chew, or just unhinge your jaw like a snake?”

  I smile and tip back the last of the lemonade, mourning the fact that it’s gone before I take my dishes to the sink and rinse them off so I can load them in the dishwasher.

  “Thank you for dinner. It was delicious,” I say with a quick tip of my head before I walk around the island toward the back door.

  All business.

  Her broad smile lights up the room. “Sure. Yeah. No problem!”

  Then she turns back and continues picking at her sandwich. The smile disappears.

  My hand is on the knob. I tell myself to leave, and then I cave and turn back. So much for boundaries.

  “Do you want to talk about what’s wrong?”

  Her gaze whips back to me, full of surprise and wonder, and then she looks past me, toward my apartment. Her brows furrow. “Don’t you have law school stuff to do?”

  Yes, I do. In fact, I’ll be up most of the night.

  I rock back on my heels and tuck my hands back in my pockets. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

  Her bottom lip quivers. “Wow. Thanks…that’s”—she looks back at her plate—“really nice of you.”

  So she’s not going to open up right away. That’s fine. I’ll treat her like a tight-lipped witness.

  “So it’s not about your parents—is it about school?”

  “No. School is easy. This is, well…” She shrugs. “A matter of the heart. A crush, I guess.”

  Oh Jesus.

  Warning bells blare in my head.

  Apparently she hears them too because she jumps up and laughs. “Not on you! Oh my god…”

  I laugh, relief flooding my veins. I rub the back of my neck and feel safe taking another step back into the kitchen.

  “It’s this boy who goes to St. Thomas.” She tips her head to the side like a little bird. “That’s the all-boys—”

  I nod and cut her off. “I’m familiar with it.”

  Another prep school that probably costs more than my law school tuition.

  “Yeah, right, well, Preston goes there…Preston Westcott.”

  She hangs his name out on the line like I’ll take the bait, but law school has prepared me for situations like this. Even if I don’t want to practice law after graduating, I’ve still worked to perfect my courtroom persona. Preston Westcott is the mayor’s son and I know she wants me to be impressed with the revelation, but I just nod for her to continue.

  And continue she does.

  Minutes pass as she spills the details of her afternoon without coming up for air, details like waltzing, dance partners, humiliation. Words are spilling out so quickly, it’s like I broke the floodgate.

  The entire time she talks, I push down my instinct to brush her off. This is nothing. She’s not even going to remember it in five years. High school feels like forever, but it’s not. It’s hardly a blip. I want to nudge her shoulder with my fist, tell her to grow a thicker skin and move on, forget about the prick and focus on school.

  I know better than that though. She doesn’t need tough love at the moment. She needs to make it through the night, get some rest, and wake up with hope for the next day. So, hope is what I’ll give her.

  “You guys were practicing the waltz?” I ask, rounding the island toward her.

  She drops her chin on her hand and sighs. “Yes, but I kept stepping on Lincoln’s feet. I’m sure he’s going to tell Preston how bad I was, and worse, I have to go back in two weeks and do it all over again. I should just call in sick, say I have a broken foot or something.”

  “Come on,” I say, holding my hand out for her to take. “We’ll practice—if you’re comfortable with it.”

  Her mouth drops open. “Really?”

  “Yeah. If I can do it, anyone can. You were just flustered because of all the silly drama.”

  She clamps her mouth shut and turns away with furrowed brows. “It’s not silly.”

  Perspective is everything—another law school lesson.

  “You’re right. It’s not.” I step forward, keeping my hand extended. “I can’t fix the Preston stuff, but I can teach you how to dance. That should help a little, right?”

  I tip down so I’m almost level with her eyes. She looks up at me and the evening light filtering in from the garden catches on her hazel eyes. She’s wearing an expression of gratitude so genuine, I’m caught off guard.

  “I know the steps already,” she says. “So you don’t have to start from the beginning. I guess I just get tripped up when it’s sped up.”

  “Okay, then we’ll start slow.”

  She swallows, lets her gaze drop to my hand, and then she stands, accepting my invitation. Her right hand falls into my left, and I’m surprised to find it shaking. I squeeze it lightly as my right hand wraps around to rest on her shoulder blade. She’s trembling as she places her fingertips lightly on my arm, as if she’s scared to touch me. If we were out on the dance floor at a formal event, I would step closer, but I don’t close the gap between us. Arm’s length is better. I barely touch her.

  “There’s no music,” she points out with a laugh.

  I shake my head. “We don’t need it. Just follow my lead and listen to the count. The waltz uses a three-count measure: 1-2-3, 1-2-3.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Good. Are you ready?”

  She nods so I start with my left foot and step forward, then to the side with my right foot, and then together. Right foot forward, left foot to the side, together. It’s been a while since I last waltzed, but it’s second nature to me, like riding a bike. I keep counting until we’ve found the rhythm.

  Lauren’s brows rise with shock as we wrap around the kitchen island. “You’re really good, way better than the boys I dance w
ith. Did you do cotillion when you were my age?”

  I smile. “No. My mom taught me how to dance.”

  “Huh.”

  We keep moving slowly. Lauren’s movements are robotic and tense, like she doesn’t quite trust me to lead her.

  “She thought it was important for me to know, even if I wasn’t able to do the cotillion thing. Relax your shoulders and let me lead. You’re fighting me for it.”

  She laughs and looks down at her feet like they’re the offending body part. “I am?”

  I tighten my hold on her right hand. “Yes. Relax.”

  No doubt half her problem is the fact that the boys she’s dancing with are terrible dancers themselves. She’s been forced to learn how to lead because they’ve failed so miserably at it.

  She heaves in a deep breath and the tension in her shoulders releases by degrees.

  We continue moving for a few three-counts and then she smiles tentatively. “Better?”

  “Marginally. You know, I’m half-tempted to teach you how to lead and let you take control during cotillion practice.”

  She laughs, and the sound is pure innocence. “I don’t think Preston would like that.”

  Who cares what Preston thinks? I’d forgotten how much stock teenagers put in perceived judgment.

  “Would you have liked that when you were 17?” she continues. “If a girl knew how to lead?”

  I want to laugh at her question. When I was 17, my public school dances featured styles less like waltzing and more like having sex with clothes on. The girls I dated weren’t wearing poofy dresses and kitten heels.

  The life I’ve lived taught me to be a leader. Sooner or later, she needs to learn to be one too. She needs to toughen up. The hardest lesson for most kids her age is that you can’t let shitheads from St. Thomas (or anywhere) dictate your happiness. I tell her I’d have been impressed back then if a girl knew how to dance, if she was confident and bold.