The Beau & the Belle
Page 18
Even for a weather-tested city like New Orleans, it feels like the apocalypse.
Every road in town is blocked with traffic. News reports go into detail about evacuees running out of gas along I-10, suffering in the heat while they wait for emergency vehicles that are unable to reach them. I need to leave soon if I have any hope of reaching my mom sometime today. Apparently what is normally a 40-minute ride is going to take nearly 7 hours. It’s hard to believe.
Mr. LeBlanc keeps the radio on outside as we work. He asks me to turn it up when they declare that the hurricane has been bumped to a cat-5. Neither of us says a word; we just keep working. Neighbors around us are doing the same, using whatever they can to prepare their homes for the worst.
When the windows are battened down, I head back to my apartment and gather my things. It’s not much, the same stuff I moved in that first day minus a few things that are easy to replace. I can come back for the rest later…maybe.
I grab the shoebox of photos out of the closet and stuff it in my duffel bag on top of my clothes.
Every textbook gets packed so I can get some studying done back at my mom’s house.
It doesn’t feel real, even in the moment. I’m supposed to be a week away from another round of tests, and instead of studying, I’m evacuating. There’s no telling what will happen. I want the weathermen to be dead wrong, want them to do a cheesy segment next week where they all eat humble pie after the hurricane fizzles out over the gulf. I want us all to laugh and appreciate the few days we got off of work and school.
But life has taught me a lot of things, including the knowledge that wanting often doesn’t mean shit.
I’M NOT USED to seeing my mom so serious. She keeps me busy all morning. I take the car to the gas station and wait in line for an hour to fill up the tank. My dad has me take a gas can as well, but when I get to the front of the line, I see that there’s a policeman directing traffic, and each car is limited to 15 gallons. The quiet tension is conspicuous on everyone’s faces. I hurry home, careful to keep the A/C off per my dad’s instruction.
The choices for evacuation are simple: north or west. Our plan is to head for Houston as soon as possible. My mom’s sister lives there with her family. She’s been calling all morning, urging my mom to get on the road. She says to forget packing, but my mom tells her to take a deep breath and calm down. The storm isn’t due to hit for another day. It’s not even raining out, or at least I don’t think it is—I can’t see out my window anymore now that the house is boarded up. All the natural light is gone thanks to the ominous metal barriers.
What will happen to my house? My city?
My stomach feels tight thinking about it, and then my mind wanders to Beau and his mom. Her house is outside of New Orleans, but not that far. Surely they aren’t going to stay there to wait out the storm. It doesn’t make sense.
“Lauren!” my mom shouts from downstairs. “Are you packed, hon? Only the essentials!”
I look down at my suitcase, feeling silly for the paperbacks I have stuffed on top. I force the zipper closed then rush back downstairs.
My dad is rinsing off quickly so we can leave. My mom takes my suitcase and goes to load it in the car.
“Ten minutes, Lauren!” she calls out behind her.
Ten minutes!
I look around me in a panic, trying to think of anything else I’ll regret leaving behind, and then my attention snaps to Beau. Beau—he’s the only thing I don’t want to leave. I rush through the back door and out across our yard. I can’t see his truck out on the street. The windows on his apartment are covered.
Is he gone?
I rip open the door to his apartment with so much force that it slams against the side of the building.
“Beau?!” I shout, and then I turn and he’s there, standing beside his bed and collecting the things from his nightstand.
His inky hair is wet. The scent of his body wash hangs thick in the air. I haven’t seen him since he dropped me back home yesterday, but he’s here now and his gunmetal blue eyes are locked on me.
Surprised.
That’s how he looks, and well, so am I.
I thought he was gone. I thought he’d already left.
Without thinking, I rush toward him and wrap my hands around his waist. My cheek presses against his hard chest and I squeeze and burrow myself against him until I feel his heart hammering, barely concealed behind the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
I’m there, using him as a source of comfort before I even realize what I’m doing. This isn’t kosher, I think. We’ve hardly touched and now I’m embracing him like he’s the only thing keeping me standing.
His arms are up, like he threw them there in surprise when I rushed toward him and now he’s stuck, too confused about how to proceed. I don’t care what he does though, because this isn’t for him. It’s for me. My eyes pinch closed and I inhale, wondering why my body is choosing this exact moment to let a tear slip down my cheek.
“It’s going to be okay, Lauren,” his calm, husky voice assures me.
It doesn’t feel that way.
The way people were acting at the gas station, the panic in the air punctuated by occasional yelling—the city is descending into mayhem and he’s about to leave. We’re leaving. I won’t even be in the same state as him in a matter of hours. Regardless of what’s right and wrong, regardless of what’s proper, he’s become like part of the family. Can’t he sense how wrong it feels to split up now?
I want to blink and go back to the moment at his mom’s house before we were aware of the storm. I was outside on the porch with Mrs. Fortier and we were laughing about Beau. She was telling me stories about the kind of child he was: quiet, curious, respectful, so much like the man standing in front of me who’s too scared to touch me.
“You’re shaking,” he says, his breath hitting the top of my head.
Am I?
His hands come down on my biceps and he wraps his fists around them like he’s about to fling me off him, but he doesn’t. His hands tighten, and it’s an embrace in its own way.
He’s probably wondering what would happen if someone saw us like this, but the windows are covered up. My parents can’t see us right now. No one can. Two people hugging consensually is the last thing on anyone’s mind at the moment.
I blink open my eyes and tip my head back until I can look up into his gaze. His dark brows are knitted together. His attention is on my lips. I wet them, and his hold on my arms tightens even more. I think he’s cutting off circulation, trying to keep the oxygen from reaching my limbs.
“Beau?”
His eyes pinch closed and my gaze drops to his lips—the soft, full lips that don’t belong on a face as chiseled as his. Kiss him. The thought leaps into my mind and I push it down. Kiss him! Fear grips my spine like a fist, but temptation wins out. My body moves before I’ve confirmed it’s a good idea. I press up onto my toes and take the only opportunity I’ll ever have to steal my first kiss from him. It’s the quickest I’ve ever moved, a desperate act, but then I’m rewarded with the feel of his lips on mine. They’re soft and still. I’m too inexperienced to know how to coax a reaction out of him. I feel so small in his arms, so small and so naive. His non-response makes me angrier than ever and I press my body against his. Our chests touch. A wild jolt of lust barrels through me as I pull back slightly and brush my lips against his. He’s an inanimate object and then suddenly, animate—he lets go and pushes me away. Air rushes back into my lungs as he puts distance between us.
I turn and he’s already at the door, holding it open for me. The hurricane might destroy the city, but this moment is destroying me.
“I wanted my first kiss to be special,” I declare, trying to convince him to give in to me, to this one tiny moment that is about to be eclipsed by a million panicked ones. “But that doesn’t count. You didn’t even kiss me back.”
He pulls his hand down his face and I can tell he’s so frustrated with me. It’s taking all of his strength to keep his anger contained. Maybe I don’t want him contained. Maybe I want to see everything, every facet of the man who’s stolen my attention these last three months.
Every road in town is blocked with traffic. News reports go into detail about evacuees running out of gas along I-10, suffering in the heat while they wait for emergency vehicles that are unable to reach them. I need to leave soon if I have any hope of reaching my mom sometime today. Apparently what is normally a 40-minute ride is going to take nearly 7 hours. It’s hard to believe.
Mr. LeBlanc keeps the radio on outside as we work. He asks me to turn it up when they declare that the hurricane has been bumped to a cat-5. Neither of us says a word; we just keep working. Neighbors around us are doing the same, using whatever they can to prepare their homes for the worst.
When the windows are battened down, I head back to my apartment and gather my things. It’s not much, the same stuff I moved in that first day minus a few things that are easy to replace. I can come back for the rest later…maybe.
I grab the shoebox of photos out of the closet and stuff it in my duffel bag on top of my clothes.
Every textbook gets packed so I can get some studying done back at my mom’s house.
It doesn’t feel real, even in the moment. I’m supposed to be a week away from another round of tests, and instead of studying, I’m evacuating. There’s no telling what will happen. I want the weathermen to be dead wrong, want them to do a cheesy segment next week where they all eat humble pie after the hurricane fizzles out over the gulf. I want us all to laugh and appreciate the few days we got off of work and school.
But life has taught me a lot of things, including the knowledge that wanting often doesn’t mean shit.
I’M NOT USED to seeing my mom so serious. She keeps me busy all morning. I take the car to the gas station and wait in line for an hour to fill up the tank. My dad has me take a gas can as well, but when I get to the front of the line, I see that there’s a policeman directing traffic, and each car is limited to 15 gallons. The quiet tension is conspicuous on everyone’s faces. I hurry home, careful to keep the A/C off per my dad’s instruction.
The choices for evacuation are simple: north or west. Our plan is to head for Houston as soon as possible. My mom’s sister lives there with her family. She’s been calling all morning, urging my mom to get on the road. She says to forget packing, but my mom tells her to take a deep breath and calm down. The storm isn’t due to hit for another day. It’s not even raining out, or at least I don’t think it is—I can’t see out my window anymore now that the house is boarded up. All the natural light is gone thanks to the ominous metal barriers.
What will happen to my house? My city?
My stomach feels tight thinking about it, and then my mind wanders to Beau and his mom. Her house is outside of New Orleans, but not that far. Surely they aren’t going to stay there to wait out the storm. It doesn’t make sense.
“Lauren!” my mom shouts from downstairs. “Are you packed, hon? Only the essentials!”
I look down at my suitcase, feeling silly for the paperbacks I have stuffed on top. I force the zipper closed then rush back downstairs.
My dad is rinsing off quickly so we can leave. My mom takes my suitcase and goes to load it in the car.
“Ten minutes, Lauren!” she calls out behind her.
Ten minutes!
I look around me in a panic, trying to think of anything else I’ll regret leaving behind, and then my attention snaps to Beau. Beau—he’s the only thing I don’t want to leave. I rush through the back door and out across our yard. I can’t see his truck out on the street. The windows on his apartment are covered.
Is he gone?
I rip open the door to his apartment with so much force that it slams against the side of the building.
“Beau?!” I shout, and then I turn and he’s there, standing beside his bed and collecting the things from his nightstand.
His inky hair is wet. The scent of his body wash hangs thick in the air. I haven’t seen him since he dropped me back home yesterday, but he’s here now and his gunmetal blue eyes are locked on me.
Surprised.
That’s how he looks, and well, so am I.
I thought he was gone. I thought he’d already left.
Without thinking, I rush toward him and wrap my hands around his waist. My cheek presses against his hard chest and I squeeze and burrow myself against him until I feel his heart hammering, barely concealed behind the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
I’m there, using him as a source of comfort before I even realize what I’m doing. This isn’t kosher, I think. We’ve hardly touched and now I’m embracing him like he’s the only thing keeping me standing.
His arms are up, like he threw them there in surprise when I rushed toward him and now he’s stuck, too confused about how to proceed. I don’t care what he does though, because this isn’t for him. It’s for me. My eyes pinch closed and I inhale, wondering why my body is choosing this exact moment to let a tear slip down my cheek.
“It’s going to be okay, Lauren,” his calm, husky voice assures me.
It doesn’t feel that way.
The way people were acting at the gas station, the panic in the air punctuated by occasional yelling—the city is descending into mayhem and he’s about to leave. We’re leaving. I won’t even be in the same state as him in a matter of hours. Regardless of what’s right and wrong, regardless of what’s proper, he’s become like part of the family. Can’t he sense how wrong it feels to split up now?
I want to blink and go back to the moment at his mom’s house before we were aware of the storm. I was outside on the porch with Mrs. Fortier and we were laughing about Beau. She was telling me stories about the kind of child he was: quiet, curious, respectful, so much like the man standing in front of me who’s too scared to touch me.
“You’re shaking,” he says, his breath hitting the top of my head.
Am I?
His hands come down on my biceps and he wraps his fists around them like he’s about to fling me off him, but he doesn’t. His hands tighten, and it’s an embrace in its own way.
He’s probably wondering what would happen if someone saw us like this, but the windows are covered up. My parents can’t see us right now. No one can. Two people hugging consensually is the last thing on anyone’s mind at the moment.
I blink open my eyes and tip my head back until I can look up into his gaze. His dark brows are knitted together. His attention is on my lips. I wet them, and his hold on my arms tightens even more. I think he’s cutting off circulation, trying to keep the oxygen from reaching my limbs.
“Beau?”
His eyes pinch closed and my gaze drops to his lips—the soft, full lips that don’t belong on a face as chiseled as his. Kiss him. The thought leaps into my mind and I push it down. Kiss him! Fear grips my spine like a fist, but temptation wins out. My body moves before I’ve confirmed it’s a good idea. I press up onto my toes and take the only opportunity I’ll ever have to steal my first kiss from him. It’s the quickest I’ve ever moved, a desperate act, but then I’m rewarded with the feel of his lips on mine. They’re soft and still. I’m too inexperienced to know how to coax a reaction out of him. I feel so small in his arms, so small and so naive. His non-response makes me angrier than ever and I press my body against his. Our chests touch. A wild jolt of lust barrels through me as I pull back slightly and brush my lips against his. He’s an inanimate object and then suddenly, animate—he lets go and pushes me away. Air rushes back into my lungs as he puts distance between us.
I turn and he’s already at the door, holding it open for me. The hurricane might destroy the city, but this moment is destroying me.
“I wanted my first kiss to be special,” I declare, trying to convince him to give in to me, to this one tiny moment that is about to be eclipsed by a million panicked ones. “But that doesn’t count. You didn’t even kiss me back.”
He pulls his hand down his face and I can tell he’s so frustrated with me. It’s taking all of his strength to keep his anger contained. Maybe I don’t want him contained. Maybe I want to see everything, every facet of the man who’s stolen my attention these last three months.
