Beard In Mind: (Winston Brothers, #4)

by Penny Reid

  “Things?”

  “Emotional and physical intimacy.”

  I had to take a moment and really think about the question. “I suppose . . .” I licked my lips, my stomach fluttering. “I suppose the emotional intimacy was outpacing the physical until Tuesday.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He was here Friday. He saw me at my worst, with no defenses. How many people in a relationship see their partner in that state?”

  “That’s a good point.”

  “No. I’m asking because I don’t know. Is that common?”

  “No. It isn’t. Especially not so early in a relationship. You’re very brave.”

  “Or very reckless.”

  That drew a small smile from her. “What happened on Monday?”

  I stiffened. “Why?”

  “You said your physical intimacy didn’t begin in earnest until early Tuesday morning. What was the catalyst?”

  “Uh . . .” What was the catalyst? “Beau was at my house.”

  “That was the catalyst?”

  “Yes. So, opportunity?”

  She lifted an eyebrow at me. “Let’s back up. What happened after you left? On Friday?”

  “Things were rough after Friday’s session.”

  “How were they rough?”

  “He was treating me like . . . a refrigerator.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Like I was broken, and needed to be watched. Like I couldn’t be trusted to function properly.” My stomach pitched and then dropped at the memory, the embarrassment. “Like he needed to babysit me.”

  “Ah. I see. And how did that make you feel?”

  “I hated it.”

  “Do you understand why he behaved that way?”

  “I do, but I hated it.” I rubbed my sternum. “One of the reasons I trusted him to begin with was how he looked at me.”

  “And how was that?”

  “Like I wasn’t broken, like I wasn’t an object. He looked at me like he saw me. But after the session Friday, things were different.”

  “What happened after Friday?”

  “He stopped by Saturday to check on me, more refrigerator talk. So I told him to leave.”

  She nodded, writing something down. “And when did you clear the air?”

  “Clear the air?”

  “When did you talk things through, tell him how you felt about his ‘treating you like a refrigerator?’”

  I stared at her, knowing the truthful answer to her question was going to be the wrong one. “I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No.”

  She blinked, her eyes narrowing slightly in a way that reminded me of my dad when he thought I was being foolish.

  “I should do that.” I nodded quickly. “I’ll do that.” I continued to nod. “It’s just . . .”

  She waited for me to continue, saying nothing, her features devoid of telling expression.

  “Beau is going through a hard time.”

  “Okay.”

  “He just found out the woman who raised him isn’t his mother and his biological mother is a sociopath. His adoptive mother never told him he was adopted and now—he hasn’t said as much—but he doesn’t know whether to tell his twin brother, or what to do.”

  “Okay.”

  “And then there has to be other issues there as well, deep, self-reflective issues. Maybe he doesn’t even know who he is anymore. Maybe he doesn’t—”

  “Shelly.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m glad you’re taking such good care of Beau. But these are his issues to work through. You being there, being supportive, is the right thing to do. You trying to take on his worries and wearing them like a coat isn’t going to help him.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Was this the catalyst for Tuesday? Were you intimate with him because you wanted to make him feel better?”

  “No.” I shook my head adamantly, but then had to amend, “I mean, I brought him back to my house because I didn’t want him to be alone, not after that woman was trying to mess with his mind. He was going to go home, but I told him to stay the night—again, not wanting him to be alone after dealing with that psychopath. And then he woke up, and because he found me on the couch and wanted me to sleep in the bed, he was going to take the couch. I was going to offer to give him a blow job to make him feel better—and because I really, really wanted to—but then as soon as we started kissing, things progressed very quickly.”

  I was out of breath by the time I finished and bit my lip to stop from continuing, looking to her for a reaction.

  She was still wearing her poker face. “Let me see if I have this right. Beau just found out that his mother adopted him. His biological mother—in your estimation—is a ‘psychopath.’”

  “She was trying to manipulate him on Monday when she showed up. He didn’t want to speak to her, but she was saying she was his real mother. It made me so angry.”

  “I see. So would you say Beau was emotionally vulnerable Monday night?”

  I winced, groaning, “Yes.” And then covered my face with my hands.

  “Shelly, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty about this. Try to think about this rationally. Does Beau seem well? Has he talked about what he’s feeling? Regarding this change in his life?”

  “Did I take advantage of him? Have I ruined everything?”

  “Shelly, this isn’t about you. Think about Beau for a minute.”

  “Okay.” I breathed out. “Okay. No. He hasn’t talked about how he’s feeling. We haven’t been talking about much of substance recently. We talk, but not about feelings. Just a lot of . . . hanging out. And having sex.”

  So much great sex. All of it great.

  “I’m going to suggest that you talk to Beau about how he made you feel last week after the Friday session. And then, I suggest you let him know you’re open to discussing how he feels about the upheaval in his life.”

  “Shouldn’t he know that already?”

  “Which part?”

  “That I’m open to talking about the upheaval in his life?”

  “How often has he brought up his feelings to you? Has he told you how he feels about you?”

  “No.” My stomach dropped, my chest ached. “He doesn’t like talking about himself. I think it makes him uncomfortable. He likes helping other people.”

  “Like he enjoys fixing refrigerators?”

  Dr. West and I stared at each other. Although her features were stubbornly blank, the look in her eyes urged me to see her point.

  “If I don’t want to be just a refrigerator to him,” I struggled to put the pieces together, “then I have to get him talking about himself. I have to try to fix his refrigerator?”

  Her expression didn’t change. “All people are broken, Shelly. No one is perfect. Some seek help. Some don’t. But no one is ever fixed by another person. We can only work on ourselves. We are—using your analogy—our own refrigerators, no one else’s.”

  Dr. West paused, like she was giving me time to absorb and consider her words. “You can be supportive of Beau, hold the tools for him while he works on his refrigerator, remind him to take a break, show interest in his struggles. You can do things, gestures of kindness that show him he’s appreciated, that you care about him. But no one can fix Beau’s refrigerator except Beau.”

  28

  “Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.”

  ― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

  * * *

  *Beau*

  Hank had been calling me nonstop, at least twenty times a day, leaving messages each time.

  He was also sending text messages about stupid shit—memes, cats in hats, asking me for an opinion about an
outlet cover for the bar, linking me to disgusting news stories about A Florida Man—and threatening to buy me another boat. He was out of his mind.

  Exhausted by his harassment, I agreed to meet him Saturday morning for coffee. As soon as I did, the messages stopped, thank the Lord.

  I needed to tell Shelly about it, explain why I wouldn’t be looking at teacups with her when we woke up. I made a mental note to tell her when I saw her later in the evening at her place, once she’d returned from her appointment with Dr. West.

  But to my surprise, just as I was finishing up for the afternoon, I spotted her car pull into the shop lot.

  Wiping off my hands, I waited for her just inside the garage, grinning to myself as she exited her car. She looked focused and determined. It shouldn’t have been cute, especially when her normal looks were so intense, but it was.

  The last week had been . . . it had been incredible. Waking up next to her each day, talking about things that didn’t matter but were fun to talk about, taking walks, going on runs, watching her work on her angels, and making love to her each night. It was how I wanted my life to be. I was planning on riding this wave for however long it lasted.

  Shelly marched straight up to the garage, her glare zeroed in on me, and my grin spread.

  “Hey there, cutie.”

  She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, looking at me like I’d lost my mind. Then she blinked, took a breath, and said, “Beau, we have many things to discuss.”

  “Sure. How are you doing?”

  “How am I doing?” She was now scowling.

  “Yeah.”

  “No. How are you doing?”

  I shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  “Really? Because you just found out last week that the woman you thought gave birth to you is not your biological mother. Your biological mother is a vile human who wants to use and manipulate you.”

  . . . Right.

  She didn’t look cute anymore.

  “Thanks for the summary.”

  “In light of this information, let me ask the question again: how are you doing?”

  “I don’t know,” I snapped, startling myself because I hadn’t intended to raise my voice.

  Her expression immediately relaxed, her eyes growing sympathetic.

  God. Sometimes it was torture looking at this woman. Watching her gaze go from fierce to soft with pity was too much. I dropped my eyes to the rag in my hands.

  “Please touch me, Beau.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can touch you.”

  I clenched my teeth, swallowing past a tight lump. Where the hell was all this coming from? We’d gone all week without talking about Christine. Why was she bringing this up now?

  Dr. West. Mental health. That’s why.

  Damn.

  “I don’t want your pity.”

  “Do you want my compassion?”

  I tried to swallow again, but there was no saliva left in my mouth.

  She stepped closer, into my space. “Do you want my support? Do you want to tell me what’s on your mind and in your heart? Because I want to know. I want to be there for you.”

  “No.” I huffed a bitter laugh, shaking my head and looking beyond her. “I guarantee, you do not want to know what’s in my heart.”

  “You are so good, generous, with everyone. Especially with me. Please let me hold the tools for you while you work on your refrigerator.”

  I didn’t quite follow what she said, but I got the gist of her meaning.

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Why? Why not?” I sensed her eyes on me, searching my face. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why do you refuse to lean on me?”

  “Because—”

  “Is it because you don’t think I’m dependable?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Is it my OCD? Do I irritate you?”

  “No. Not at all—”

  “You’re worried I’m—”

  “I’m in love with you.”

  I gave her my eyes then and rather than a mere scattering of wits, the skipped beats, gave me a one-two sucker punch directly to the center of my chest.

  Her lips parted, her eyes going wide. She gaped at me—visibly dumbfounded—for a long time. Her breathing changed, grew faster, louder, like she’d just finished running.

  She wasn’t going to say it back.

  That’s why I hadn’t said anything.

  And saying it now had been a mistake.

  “Do you need to call Dr. West?” I gained a step away, stuffing the greasy rag I’d been holding in my back pocket and crossing my arms. Heat was crawling up my neck, making it itch.

  “No.” Her eyes, rimmed with what looked like panic, lowered to my mouth. “Maybe.”

  I lifted my chin toward the office on the first floor. “Phone’s in there.”

  “Beau . . .”

  “Forget it.”

  “That’s not likely.” She shifted her weight from her left foot to her right, and then back again. “I c-care about you.”

  Motherfu—

  Again, my laugh was bitter as I glanced at the ceiling, turned, and walked away.

  “Beau.” She was right behind me.

  “I have to close up.”

  “Don’t you think we should talk about this?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you think I’m allowed some time to-to-to process what you just said?”

  “Take your time, you know where to find me.” I pressed the button for the back door of the garage. The sound of steel on a roller track filled the air and I kept walking, this time around the interior perimeter to the front office.

  “This isn’t fair. I am not able to touch you and you keep walking away.” She was right on my heels.

  “Life isn’t fair.”

  “Would you stop?”

  “Nope.”

  Entering the office, I quickly navigated to the door facing the lot. I flipped the bolt, secured the bottom lock, checked it, then turned for the main garage again, intent on closing up the front.

  “You are cowardly.” Now she sounded angry.

  “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

  “This is so incredibly frustrating.” She said this on a loud growl.

  She has no idea.

  Reaching up, I tugged on the handle for the big roller door and pulled it down; it was three times as wide as the one at the back, and ten times as expensive to automate. As such, we hadn’t put it on a motor yet. As far as I knew, Cletus was still saving money for the upgrade.

  Shelly stood off to the side, watching me secure the shop.

  “We’re going to finish this conversation before we have sex tonight.”

  I smirked at that. “Honey, we’re not having sex tonight.”

  “Why?”

  Standing, I faced her, absorbing the echo of an ache as our eyes met. “Because, for you, it’s been just sex. Just fucking around.”

  Shelly winced. “That’s not true.”

  Slowly, I walked to her, getting in her space, leaving just a few inches between our lips. “Do you love me, Shelly?” I whispered.

  She didn’t respond.

  She didn’t need to.

  Nevertheless, I experienced another sucker punch just the same. This time to my stomach, making me lose my appetite completely. But that’s what I got for asking questions when I already knew the answer.

  “Have a nice evening, ma’am,” I said, giving her a polite smile as I leaned away.

  Then I turned away and strolled unhurriedly to my GTO.

  * * *

  “I ordered you apple pie.” Hank pushed a plate toward me. It was empty.

  Or rather, it had crumbs on it where an apple pie should’ve been.

  “Thanks.” I didn’t smile. “Did you drink my coffee, too? And have a good talk with yourself? Do I need to stay, or are we done?” I made like I was going to leave.

  “Sit your ass down.
Another three pieces are on the way.” Hank motioned to Beverly, who was standing behind the counter looking at him as though she’d been waiting for a sign.

  I’d slept at the home last night, in my own bed, surrounded by things. I’d never realized how many things I owned. The top of my dresser was covered with stuff, I didn’t even know where half of it had come from.

  Shelly’s place had been so bare. No pictures on the wall, no knickknacks, nothing unnecessary, nothing sentimental.

  Just like the woman.

  No evidence of me there either.

  I shook my head at myself, gritting my teeth. It had been an unfair thought. She’d wanted to give me compassion. And if she loved me, I would’ve happily accepted it.

  But she didn’t.

  The truth was, I had too much pride. Compassion without love felt suspiciously like pity. So instead I went home, drank exactly one glass of the Aberfeldy, and read poetry.

  That’s right. Poetry.

  I pulled a book of poetry from one of the shelves at random and flipped to an earmarked page. It was a poem entitled, ‘The More Loving One.’

  Huffing a laugh at the ironically appropriate title, I read the verse, expecting lots of how I love thee’s and thou arts. But when I reached the second stanza, I blinked, my breath catching, and I reread it again,

  How should we like it were stars to burn

  With a passion for us we could not return?

  If equal affection cannot be,

  Let the more loving one be me.

  After that, I read the whole book. I swam in it. Not only because my mother had written notes in the margins, like little breadcrumbs of her thoughts and feelings, but because I discovered the desire to do the same.

  But I stopped at one glass of Aberfeldy because I was also tempted to write poetry. To Shelly. From me. I was going to tell her all the ways she was amazing, epic, and extraordinary. How knowing her had taught me about having high expectations—for myself, for others—where before I’d been content to settle for simple. Because she was brilliant and brave. She was the pinnacle person in my universe. The star of my solar system.

  And if she couldn’t love me like I loved her, then maybe that was okay. Let the more loving one be me.

  Except, when I tried to find a word that rhymed with Shelly, the reality of what I was doing set in.