I DON’T TELL anyone about the night I snuck over to Beau’s apartment, not even Rose—especially not Rose. I tried to talk to her about Beau the night of the pool party when we were up in my room and I was hovering by the window, trying to sneak a peek into his apartment. He was still in there with the brunette girl, studying—or so I hoped.
“Will you give it up already? You’re not going to be able to see them having sex.”
I whip around to where she’s sprawled out on my bed, flipping through TV channels. “What are you talking about?”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing? Trying to spy on that guy?”
“His name is Beau.”
She laughs. “Bo-bo, right—whatever. I don’t know why you bother swooning over him.”
“I’m not swooning over him. I’m into Preston.”
She smirks and shakes her head. “Maybe you have a crush on Preston, but you talk about Beau nonstop.”
“No I don’t!”
She arches a dark brow. “Earlier, I had to listen as you described his smile in excruciating detail.”
“There’s a dimple, that’s all. You can’t deny that he’s hot.”
“Uh huh. He’s not going to date a high school girl though. You might as well just forget about him.”
I stiffen. “I don’t want him to date me…but, still…why wouldn’t he?”
“Uhh, because you’re jailbait? Because he’s like seven years older than you? Because he’s currently boning that pretty brunette? Need I go on?”
Her observations leave me with a weight in the pit of my stomach.
“My dad is older than my mom,” I point out.
“Okay, but I bet they didn’t start dating when your mom was still in high school.”
No, they met in college.
“He doesn’t treat me like I’m in high school.”
That doesn’t convince her of much.
“And besides, I’m not trying to date him.”
I’m not. I’ve just fully come to terms with the fact that I have an all-consuming crush on him. I volley back and forth between Beau and Preston, though something feels off, like they don’t even belong in the same category. That’s the problem—Beau isn’t easy to categorize. He isn’t my peer, and he isn’t a parent. He’s a man, an island unto himself. Powerful, older, intimidating. I blush thinking about him because deep down, I know he doesn’t even belong in my thoughts. I shouldn’t be running through our encounters, dissecting our every move. The prospect of being with Preston is fun, silly—he might make me a little dizzy, like the teacup ride in a kiddie park. Beau, on the other hand, is the Tower of Terror, the ride that makes my palms sweat and my heart race.
For so long, my focus has been on Preston, on my silly crush and my predictable feelings. He elicits just the right amount of toe curling, without all the messy feelings and drama that come with deep desire. But then I met Beau. I know he doesn’t belong in my world and I don’t belong in his, but here we are, sharing our little Garden District realm. I don’t want to profess my love or run off to Mexico with him, I just want more time to toe this line between us, in the gray area that shouldn’t exist. I don’t expect that he’ll ever notice me, but I can’t help hoping he does.
It’s been almost two months since he first moved in and in that time, I’ve become strangely attached to him. I yearn for the sight of him walking to and from his apartment. The other day, we arrived home at the same time and he held the gate open for me. I chanced a quick look at his face as I passed his outstretched body, my world nearly bottoming out when the sun caught his sooty black lashes and guarded blue eyes. I wanted to run inside, steal my mom’s watercolors, and immortalize his face on canvas. I didn’t, because I know my artistic limits—I think I’m just about the only person in history that Bob Ross would give up on. Instead, I flopped back on my bed, squeezed my pillow to my chest, and daydreamed about him for the rest of the afternoon. It wasn’t such a smart move. I ended up accidently falling asleep, which allowed my conscious dreams to morph into sleepy fantasies.
We have less day-to-day interaction than I would have predicted. Apparently, law school keeps you busy. My mom routinely invites him over for dinner, but he rarely accepts her invitations. Now, after my ill-advised midnight visit to his apartment, his appearance in our dining room has dropped off altogether. I suppose he’s purposely avoiding me, and I wonder why. First of all, neither of us is guilty of doing anything wrong. Even if we were to do something “wrong”—the thought awakens butterflies in my stomach—it wouldn’t even be illegal. I looked it up, and the age of consent in Louisiana is 17.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. More than anything, I’d just love to hear his unfiltered thoughts about me. He’s an adult man, but he’s not so far removed from being in high school. With that kind of perspective, I’d at least like to know what he thinks of me, if he finds me attractive at all.
“You need to go.”
The memory of his strained words reignites my imagination. In my reveries, he’s burning with the restrained urge to kiss me, to sneak up to my room late at night when my parents are asleep. I flush thinking of how many times I’ve gone over this particular scenario. There have even been a few desperate moments when the floorboards in the hallway creak and I bolt up in my bed, anticipating that he’s about to gently knock. Sometimes in my fantasies, there is no knock—he doesn’t bother asking if he’s allowed to come in, too caught up in his need. Those fantasies are darker and I hold them close to my heart. I’m scared that I shouldn’t be thinking such things. I should probably stop reading the romance books Rose gives me.
Rose says half the girls in our grade have already had sex, but I can’t believe it. I’ve never even been kissed, but Rose has. She tells me everything she does with the boys she dates, and I take it in with hungry ears. It all sounds scandalous and wrong. I swallow all the questions on the tip of my tongue. How does it feel? Aren’t you nervous when he touches you there? Aren’t you scared that you’ll get caught?
I can hardly imagine letting Beau touch me beneath my underwear, let alone kiss me there. Rose says it feels good, that some guys treat it like an art form, but I don’t believe her. I can’t imagine ever being able to relax enough to let it feel good. Sometimes in the shower, I close my eyes and let my hand trail down my body. I skim along the groove of my thigh, getting closer to brushing across the sensitive skin between my legs, but I always chicken out, too prudish, too scared I won’t like it—or worse, that I will.
Maybe I’ll be more inclined to experiment now that I have more…specific inspiration, but what if I find that my hand isn’t enough, or that the brush of my fingers will always leave me wanting more? What happens when I find that Beau’s touch is the only thing that will sate me? What then?
SHUT UP! I urge my brain. It doesn’t matter. It’s a stupid crush on the first older guy to ever give you the time of day. You don’t need to turn into a masturbation philosopher over it.
Guard your heart, Beau said.
Okay, but how?
And from what, exactly?
THE SATURDAY I’M due to tour the LSU campus, I’m sitting at our kitchen island, scarfing down my cereal as quickly as possible. The day has been fully planned for weeks. I’m heading up to Baton Rouge with Rose and her parents. We’re going to tour the campus, tailgate before the LSU home game, and then stay the night in a hotel near the stadium.
They’re due to arrive any minute.
Even though my parents are still pushing me toward the Ivies up north, they agree that I should consider all my options. If I attended LSU, I would get in-state tuition (something my parents should care about) and I’d only be an hour away from home (yet another thing they should care about), but my mom insists that she doesn’t want to hold me back just to keep me close. She went to school up north, away from her parents, and she says it was one of the most important things she did for herself. It gave her room to grow and cultivate her passion for art.
My mom’s voice carries into the kitchen before she appears in the doorway, concern written across her features. Her hazel eyes meet mine and she frowns. “No, of course, Catherine. Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure it out. I hope Michael heals up quick. Okay. Yes. I’ll tell her. Speak soon. Bye.”
“Was that Mrs. Delacroix?” I ask.
She walks over to the island and grimaces like she’s about to give me bad news. “Apparently Rose’s little brother took a little spill on his bike this morning. They’re taking him in now for x-rays to make sure nothing is broken.”
“Oh no!”
“She doesn’t think it’s too serious, but they’d rather be safe than sorry.”
“I hope he’s okay.”
She nods in agreement, and then she broaches the next subject. “Unfortunately, that means they won’t be taking you and Rose to tour LSU today. Apparently Rose is with them at the hospital right now.”
Crap.
Of course.
I furrow my brows. “There’s no way you or Dad could take me?”
“We have that charity luncheon. I’d skip it, hon, but I’m one of the co-chairs.”
It shouldn’t be a big deal. There are a hundred other weekends I could go for the tour, but still, my heart sinks. I glance back down at my cereal, wondering if it’s worth even asking if I could drive myself. I have my license and I’m an okay driver, but my parents have already said they aren’t comfortable with me taking a road trip that far by myself. I think they’re being overprotective, but I’m not going to go down that road right now. They aren’t going to budge.
She sets her phone down on the counter and taps her finger beside it for a few seconds before her eyes widen and she whips around. “You know what? Beau is headed toward Baton Rouge to visit his mom today, so let me ask if he’s up for dropping you off.”
“Mom—”
I don’t even have the chance to intervene before she’s headed out the back door, coordinating my transportation like I’m a child. I want to tell her not to bother since there’s no way he’s going to say yes.
Except he does.
Apparently, it took all of five minutes for my mom to convince him and concoct a game plan. I’ll be going with Beau to visit his mom and after, he’ll drop me off at the rally point for the LSU tour. After the charity luncheon, my parents will meet me in Baton Rouge and we’ll still attend the LSU football game and stay the night. I’m getting everything I wanted; I should be happy. I should be, but I’m too nervous to think about happiness at the moment.
I’m sitting in the cab of Beau’s truck as far from him as the bench seat will allow. We’re heading down I-10, a few minutes outside of New Orleans, and he hasn’t said a word to me since I hopped in back at my parents’ house.
It’s clear that he’s less than enthused to have me with him. I don’t know why he bothered saying yes, unless my mother somehow bribed him. I remember the lawn care-rent arrangement, and the thought makes me cross my arms a little tighter over my chest. What if she paid him?!
“Are you cold?” he asks, glancing over at my cutoff jean shorts before reaching for the air conditioning.
“Oh! No, I’m okay.”
He nods and lets his hand fall back to the steering wheel.
Another few minutes pass and I sneak peeks over at Beau as often as possible. Like a grade-A creepazoid, I’ve found that I can covertly stare at his faint reflection in the glass of the windshield, and it just appears as if I’m supremely interested in the passing scenery. He’s wearing a Tulane Law t-shirt and my favorite—pardon me, his favorite—pair of jeans. The dark denim hugs his muscled thigh every time he presses down on the clutch to shift gears.
“Ever driven stick before?” he asks once when he catches me looking.
He thinks I’m thinking about his transmission. I chuckle under my breath.
“Never.”
“You should learn. You never know when it might come in handy.”
I bite down on my lip to hide my smile. “Are you offering to teach me?”
He shrugs. “I’ve taught a few people before. Maybe if we have time out at my mom’s place.”
“So you aren’t annoyed that I’m coming with you?”
He meets my eyes for a fraction of a second before turning back to the road. Then he sighs. “Maybe I was at first.”
So my suspicions were correct.
“And now?” I push the subject.
“Your parents have been good to me. I’m glad to help.”
Fair enough. He’s being honest, and I want to reciprocate. “I want to meet your mom.”
“Yeah?” He seems amused. “Why’s that?”
“From what you’ve told me, she seems like a strong woman, and I want to see if she looks like you. I want to ask her what makes you tick.”
“Lauren—”
I turn to face him, cutting him off before he can continue. “You must think I’m so silly, but I’m not. You don’t have to be the feelings police. I’m not in love with you or anything.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“So why did you kick me out of your apartment? We were just talking.”
He sighs. “I’ve been around teen girls before. You’re nowhere near as opaque as you think you are.”
“Ooohhh, check out mister Jedi-law-school-mind-reader over here,” I taunt, unfazed by his comment. “How’s this for transparency? I LIKE PRESTON.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“I thought I told you to steer clear of him.”
His hand tightens on the steering wheel, or at least that’s what I imagine.
“You never said that.”
He changes lanes for no reason then reaches for the radio and turns up the volume. They’ve been talking about the weather all morning—it’s all anyone has been able to talk about for the last few weeks. Hurricane season in New Orleans is always a tense time, and this year is no different. There’s a tropical depression being upgraded in the gulf, and they say there’s a small chance it might head our way. It’s hard to believe considering how beautiful the weather is right now. Out the front windshield, it’s nothing but bright blue sky from here to the horizon.
“You think the storm is coming for us?” I ask, trying to pierce the tension brewing between us.
He shrugs. “Maybe. This morning they were talking about it heading to Florida. Either way, it’s going to be pretty big.”
I sigh and let my head fall back against the seat. He’s back to sulking and stays that way up until we pull up onto the gravel drive outside his mom’s trailer. I smile, pleasantly surprised by the property. Beau didn’t give it enough credit. It’s beautiful, a small yellow house—or trailer, I guess, but it doesn’t really look like one. There’s a large front porch, a chicken coop, and a garden. There’s a dense forest surrounding the home that gives the effect that we’re tucked away in our own little world.
Two dogs leap off the front porch as we drive up, barking and wagging their tails with excitement. I lean forward just as his mom pushes open the screen door and steps out, waving excitedly. I squint through the windshield to take in her dark hair and tan complexion. She’s beautiful, and it’s clear Beau takes after her.
He puts the truck in park in front of an old red semi, and I reach out to touch his arm. “I can stay in here if you want. I don’t know how long you usually stay and visit, but I have a book and the weather’s nice…”
My sentence trails off once I realize he’s staring down at where my hand is touching his arm. The contrast is clear. My hand is delicate, my skin a few shades lighter than his. He flexes and the muscles shift. I withdraw my hand like it’s a disobedient pet.
He shakes his head and turns to push his door open. “It’s too late. You have to come in.”
“Why?” I call out after him.
“Because my mom wants to meet you.”
I DECIDE WITHIN the first five minutes of meeting Beau’s mom that I love her a million times more than I like him. He’s always been polite and kind to me, but his mom is actually enthusiastic when she speaks, as if she’s excited that I’m here. After a short introduction in which Beau tried to distance himself from me as much as possible—“This is Lauren, my landlords’ daughter.” Oh. Okay—she wraps me in a warm hug and ushers me inside. On her small kitchen table, there are platters overflowing with steaming food: pancakes, scrambled eggs, croissants, sausage, fruit salad, coffee, and orange juice. I had cereal back at the house, but I don’t have the heart to deny her when she loads up a plate with food for me.
“She can’t eat all that,” Beau protests.
“Don’t listen to him. He underestimates me,” I tease, accepting it with a smile. “This looks amazing.”
She beams. “Now what can I get you to drink? Do you want coffee? I can make a pot of decaf if you’d rather have that?”
I hold up my hand. “No. The orange juice is great. Thank you.”
After we all have our food, we go outside to eat on the front porch. There’s a small table and Mrs. Fortier takes the spot beside me then grins when she sees me eat a big bite of my pancakes.
“I’m so happy you came with Beau today, Lauren.”
I nod while I chew, careful not to speak with my mouth full.
“I’m happy to be here. This is such a pretty place.”
Her cheeks flush with the compliment. “Well thank you. I work hard to keep it looking nice for when Beau comes to visit.”
“Does Mr. Fortier help with the gardening?”
There’s a moment of silence before Beau speaks. “My father actually died a few years ago.”
Oh god. I blanch.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
Mrs. Fortier’s hand comes to rest on top of mine and she squeezes. “It’s okay, dear.”
I glance down at my eggs, cheeks tingling with embarrassment for having brought up such a sad subject. The next few minutes pass in silence as I take a bite of pancake before Mrs. Fortier brings up a new topic.
“Now tell me, Lauren, how long have you and Beau been dating?”
WHAT?!
As if it was choreographed, Beau and I both begin to choke on pancakes, coughing and wheezing until Mrs. Fortier is forced to stand up and clap us repeatedly on the back.
“My goodness, are you two okay?” she asks, handing us water.
I nod and then guzzle down a few sips, relieved when I don’t immediately start coughing again.
“Mom,” Beau admonishes as he takes his seat once again. “You know we aren’t dating. She’s 17.”
She smiles innocently. “Oh right! I’m so forgetful sometimes. I might have a little of that Oldtimers.”
“It’s Alzheimer’s, Mom.”
“Well, see! Perfect example,” she jokes.
I can’t meet Beau’s eyes. In fact, I can’t look at either of them. I think my eyes have lost the ability to focus.
“I just have to say though, you two would be so cute together.”
“Christ, Mom, did you hear me? She’s 17.”
He shoots back from the table and takes his mug back into the house, presumably for a refill, or perhaps a cyanide tablet.
I squeeze my lips together to keep from laughing.
She leans forward, looking horrified. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I thought you were in college.”
I shrug. “It’s not a big deal. I will be soon enough.”
She nods and drops her voice low enough so he can’t hear it inside. “And for the record, he’s always been so easy to tease.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” I say with a little conspiratorial smile.
“This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.” She takes her coffee and leans back in her chair. “But honestly, girl to girl, I think I’m going to be 80 before he finally brings a woman home for me to meet.”
“Hasn’t he had girlfriends?”
She shrugs. “I assume so. I remember him mentioning one or two over the years, but he’s never bothered bringing one out here. I think he’s careful not to get my hopes up.”
“Well he only brought me here today because my mom bribed him,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh.
She frowns. “I don’t know, Beau’s never been very motivated by money. If you’re here, it’s because he wants you to be.”
Hope blooms in my chest.