The Beau & the Belle
Page 3
“What’d he say?” she asks, panting beside me.
“‘Sup?’”
“And then what happened?”
“I said ‘nm, you?’ and he didn’t respond. He was probably busy, or his dial-up lost connection!”
She groans as we turn the corner onto my street. I’m so close. I think I can make it in time. He usually doesn’t leave for practice until around 4:40. I know this not because I’m creepy, but because I’m…observant.
Every day follows the same pattern. I rush home from school and sign on to instant messenger praying Preston will message me first. He goes to St. Thomas, the all-boys school that partners with ours. Every girl in my school knows who he is, and every girl in my school is probably praying he’ll message with her today as well. Rose thinks it’s silly that I even bother trying to compete with the rest of them for his attention, but I can’t explain it. He’s just so, so…cute. Tall and tan with shaggy blond hair he usually covers under a baseball cap, he looks like one of the Abercrombie & Fitch models they put on the side of the bags. I hoard them in my closet.
Rose reaches out and grabs my hand, yanking me to a stop in front of my house. We’re both out of breath. It’s the backpacks—private school educations weigh a lot.
“If he is online, do not message him first,” she says, leveling her light brown eyes on me. “Make him come to you.”
I wish I had half of Rose’s confidence. She’s beautiful, dark with long inky hair that reaches the middle of her back. Her eyes are almond-shaped and her lips are full. Even worse, she’s never had a pimple a day in her life. In a blockbuster film, she would be cast as the leading lady and I would fill in as her petite, spunky sidekick. She would be a love interest; I would be a laugh track.
I nod, repeating her phrase, “Make him come to me.”
Then I wave goodbye, promising to fill her in on all the details as I unlatch the gate and run up the path to my front door.
If I weren’t so preoccupied, I would have picked up on the voices chatting in the formal living room. Instead, I kick off my shoes, toss my backpack near the umbrella stand, and bolt toward the stairs.
“Lauren! There you are!”
My head whips to the side, my feet freeze, and I slide across the front foyer in my socks à la Tom Cruise in Risky Business. When I come to a stop, my attention snags on the man sitting across from my parents. He pushes off his knees and stands, presumably to shake my hand, and my lungs tighten as if squeezed by a boa constrictor. I make a little noise—an audible oof—and his eyes narrow curiously, a subtle hint that he’s heard me.
He’s in his mid-twenties and dressed in a suit, but he’s lost the jacket. His white shirt is rolled to his elbows, contrasting with the formality of his black tie, which is pinned to his shirt with a silver bar. He rounds the side of the couch toward me and my parents are saying his name in introduction—Beau Fortier—but I’m focused on his broad shoulders and chest that taper to a trim waist. I have to tilt my head back as he steps close and I think I’m supposed to introduce myself, but my parents are doing it for me, like I’m a child.
“This is our little girl,” my dad says, proud.
Though I hate the term of endearment, compared to this man, I am just a little girl.
“Lauren LeBlanc,” I correct the moment before his hand takes mine in a firm grasp.
Up. Down. Up. Down. My hand is limp. Beau is the one doing the shaking, and I’m just along for the ride.
“We call her Lou,” my mom supplies from behind him. If I were closer, I’d jab her in the ribs.
Beau smiles politely, still staring down at me.
He has classical features—strong jaw, straight nose, piercing eyes—and his full lips balance it all, leaving me wondering if he’s handsome or beautiful, intimidating or inviting. His raven hair is trimmed short, parted to the right. His eyes are arresting—gunmetal blue, sharp and glacial.
“Lou, why are you so out of breath?” my mom asks with a laugh.
“I ran home.”
I say it like it’s obvious and boring. Duh, I ran home. Duh, who doesn’t go for a jog in a plaid skirt with a 30-pound backpack? I try to look as relaxed as possible while panting at the feet of this handsome stranger with the face of a war hero. Beau releases my hand, turning back to my parents. I press my hand to my heart and realize it’s still hammering in my chest, now more than ever.
Who are you?
Who are you?
Who are you?
My brain begs to know—just out of harmless curiosity, of course.
“Beau is thinking about renting our apartment,” my mom fills in as if she can hear my pleading thoughts.
My eyes go wide with wonder.
He would live on our property?!
“Actually, I’m ready to sign the lease today,” he says with a strong voice. Boys my age sound like chipmunks in comparison.
My mom laughs. “Tell you what, give us a minute to talk and get the paperwork in order. In the meantime, why don’t you head out back with Lauren and let her show you around the apartment.”
They want me to give him a tour.
I swallow and play it cool. “It’s just right through here.”
I walk through the dining room and the kitchen and he follows after me, his dress shoes clapping against our hardwood floors. I wish I’d kept my shoes on. My socked feet feel silly now, as if I need one more thing drawing attention to how young I am. At the back door, I slide into my dad’s loafers waiting by the rug, too lazy to hunt down a pair of my own shoes. When I glance over to Beau from beneath my lashes, I swear he’s wearing an amused expression. I yank open the back door and he’s quick to reach out and hold it for me so I have to duck under his arm to step outside. A gentleman, I tell myself in awe. Most guys I know only hold the door open if they’re planning on tripping you. I smile in thanks and heave a sigh of relief once we’re outside, both because we’re out of earshot of my parents and because out here, Beau doesn’t seem quite so suffocating.
What is it about age that makes youth feel self-conscious? I try to tell myself to relax as I focus on the manicured path in front of me.
Finally, he breaks the silence.
“You go to McGehee?” he asks.
I nod enthusiastically, somehow impressed that he knows something about me. “How’d you know?”
“Well, your parents told me, but I think I might’ve been able to guess.” He gestures toward my uniform.
Oh, right—I’m still wearing my plaid skirt and white polo with the school logo. My wild, curly hair is coiled up in a ballerina bun and I have a matching plaid headband holding back the flyaways, though if history is any indication, it’s probably lying down on the job. I resist the urge to reach up and feel for chaos. There’s no sense in worrying about how I look now; he’s already seen me.
“I have to wear a uniform too,” he says, as if wanting to make me feel better.
I glance back over his suit. The fitted pants stretch over his muscular thighs as he walks. Don’t look there, you idiot! I turn back to the path that leads from the house toward the apartment. “For your job?”
“Law school.”
So he is a lot older.
“I’m a junior,” I say, as if to emphasize that I’m on my way out of high school. “I’m looking at colleges.”
“That’s exciting,” he says, and I’m surprised to find that he doesn’t sound like he’s patronizing me. “Your parents mentioned something about grad school too.”
“Jeez, would they let me get into college first? They’re already pushing me to go Ivy, Wellesley probably.”
The right side of his mouth hitches up, like my answer pleases him somehow—either that or it annoys him. I can’t tell.
“You should,” he says. “Not everyone gets that option.”
We stop in front of the apartment and I turn back to face the house, trying to see our back yard through a stranger’s eyes. It’s green, lush, and overgrown. My mom spends Saturdays gardening, a hobby she used to make me suffer through right along with her until I accidently watered her rosebushes with some herbicide instead of fertilizer. Now we both agree she’s better off solo.
“‘Sup?’”
“And then what happened?”
“I said ‘nm, you?’ and he didn’t respond. He was probably busy, or his dial-up lost connection!”
She groans as we turn the corner onto my street. I’m so close. I think I can make it in time. He usually doesn’t leave for practice until around 4:40. I know this not because I’m creepy, but because I’m…observant.
Every day follows the same pattern. I rush home from school and sign on to instant messenger praying Preston will message me first. He goes to St. Thomas, the all-boys school that partners with ours. Every girl in my school knows who he is, and every girl in my school is probably praying he’ll message with her today as well. Rose thinks it’s silly that I even bother trying to compete with the rest of them for his attention, but I can’t explain it. He’s just so, so…cute. Tall and tan with shaggy blond hair he usually covers under a baseball cap, he looks like one of the Abercrombie & Fitch models they put on the side of the bags. I hoard them in my closet.
Rose reaches out and grabs my hand, yanking me to a stop in front of my house. We’re both out of breath. It’s the backpacks—private school educations weigh a lot.
“If he is online, do not message him first,” she says, leveling her light brown eyes on me. “Make him come to you.”
I wish I had half of Rose’s confidence. She’s beautiful, dark with long inky hair that reaches the middle of her back. Her eyes are almond-shaped and her lips are full. Even worse, she’s never had a pimple a day in her life. In a blockbuster film, she would be cast as the leading lady and I would fill in as her petite, spunky sidekick. She would be a love interest; I would be a laugh track.
I nod, repeating her phrase, “Make him come to me.”
Then I wave goodbye, promising to fill her in on all the details as I unlatch the gate and run up the path to my front door.
If I weren’t so preoccupied, I would have picked up on the voices chatting in the formal living room. Instead, I kick off my shoes, toss my backpack near the umbrella stand, and bolt toward the stairs.
“Lauren! There you are!”
My head whips to the side, my feet freeze, and I slide across the front foyer in my socks à la Tom Cruise in Risky Business. When I come to a stop, my attention snags on the man sitting across from my parents. He pushes off his knees and stands, presumably to shake my hand, and my lungs tighten as if squeezed by a boa constrictor. I make a little noise—an audible oof—and his eyes narrow curiously, a subtle hint that he’s heard me.
He’s in his mid-twenties and dressed in a suit, but he’s lost the jacket. His white shirt is rolled to his elbows, contrasting with the formality of his black tie, which is pinned to his shirt with a silver bar. He rounds the side of the couch toward me and my parents are saying his name in introduction—Beau Fortier—but I’m focused on his broad shoulders and chest that taper to a trim waist. I have to tilt my head back as he steps close and I think I’m supposed to introduce myself, but my parents are doing it for me, like I’m a child.
“This is our little girl,” my dad says, proud.
Though I hate the term of endearment, compared to this man, I am just a little girl.
“Lauren LeBlanc,” I correct the moment before his hand takes mine in a firm grasp.
Up. Down. Up. Down. My hand is limp. Beau is the one doing the shaking, and I’m just along for the ride.
“We call her Lou,” my mom supplies from behind him. If I were closer, I’d jab her in the ribs.
Beau smiles politely, still staring down at me.
He has classical features—strong jaw, straight nose, piercing eyes—and his full lips balance it all, leaving me wondering if he’s handsome or beautiful, intimidating or inviting. His raven hair is trimmed short, parted to the right. His eyes are arresting—gunmetal blue, sharp and glacial.
“Lou, why are you so out of breath?” my mom asks with a laugh.
“I ran home.”
I say it like it’s obvious and boring. Duh, I ran home. Duh, who doesn’t go for a jog in a plaid skirt with a 30-pound backpack? I try to look as relaxed as possible while panting at the feet of this handsome stranger with the face of a war hero. Beau releases my hand, turning back to my parents. I press my hand to my heart and realize it’s still hammering in my chest, now more than ever.
Who are you?
Who are you?
Who are you?
My brain begs to know—just out of harmless curiosity, of course.
“Beau is thinking about renting our apartment,” my mom fills in as if she can hear my pleading thoughts.
My eyes go wide with wonder.
He would live on our property?!
“Actually, I’m ready to sign the lease today,” he says with a strong voice. Boys my age sound like chipmunks in comparison.
My mom laughs. “Tell you what, give us a minute to talk and get the paperwork in order. In the meantime, why don’t you head out back with Lauren and let her show you around the apartment.”
They want me to give him a tour.
I swallow and play it cool. “It’s just right through here.”
I walk through the dining room and the kitchen and he follows after me, his dress shoes clapping against our hardwood floors. I wish I’d kept my shoes on. My socked feet feel silly now, as if I need one more thing drawing attention to how young I am. At the back door, I slide into my dad’s loafers waiting by the rug, too lazy to hunt down a pair of my own shoes. When I glance over to Beau from beneath my lashes, I swear he’s wearing an amused expression. I yank open the back door and he’s quick to reach out and hold it for me so I have to duck under his arm to step outside. A gentleman, I tell myself in awe. Most guys I know only hold the door open if they’re planning on tripping you. I smile in thanks and heave a sigh of relief once we’re outside, both because we’re out of earshot of my parents and because out here, Beau doesn’t seem quite so suffocating.
What is it about age that makes youth feel self-conscious? I try to tell myself to relax as I focus on the manicured path in front of me.
Finally, he breaks the silence.
“You go to McGehee?” he asks.
I nod enthusiastically, somehow impressed that he knows something about me. “How’d you know?”
“Well, your parents told me, but I think I might’ve been able to guess.” He gestures toward my uniform.
Oh, right—I’m still wearing my plaid skirt and white polo with the school logo. My wild, curly hair is coiled up in a ballerina bun and I have a matching plaid headband holding back the flyaways, though if history is any indication, it’s probably lying down on the job. I resist the urge to reach up and feel for chaos. There’s no sense in worrying about how I look now; he’s already seen me.
“I have to wear a uniform too,” he says, as if wanting to make me feel better.
I glance back over his suit. The fitted pants stretch over his muscular thighs as he walks. Don’t look there, you idiot! I turn back to the path that leads from the house toward the apartment. “For your job?”
“Law school.”
So he is a lot older.
“I’m a junior,” I say, as if to emphasize that I’m on my way out of high school. “I’m looking at colleges.”
“That’s exciting,” he says, and I’m surprised to find that he doesn’t sound like he’s patronizing me. “Your parents mentioned something about grad school too.”
“Jeez, would they let me get into college first? They’re already pushing me to go Ivy, Wellesley probably.”
The right side of his mouth hitches up, like my answer pleases him somehow—either that or it annoys him. I can’t tell.
“You should,” he says. “Not everyone gets that option.”
We stop in front of the apartment and I turn back to face the house, trying to see our back yard through a stranger’s eyes. It’s green, lush, and overgrown. My mom spends Saturdays gardening, a hobby she used to make me suffer through right along with her until I accidently watered her rosebushes with some herbicide instead of fertilizer. Now we both agree she’s better off solo.
