The Beau & the Belle
Page 44
This is the absolute worst. I’m floundering.
When we turn toward House of Blues, Beau walks half a pace in front of me the entire first block. He’s an angry, stomping, flannelled giant, and my puny pumping legs can’t keep up.
“Hey! Slow down, will you!”
“We’re going to be late—you said so yourself,” he says, looking both ways before crossing Royal and then continuing on ahead without me.
My boots clatter against the concrete as I break out into a run.
“I didn’t know he would be there when you showed up!” I immediately hear how wrong that sounds. “Actually, wait, I didn’t even—”
He doesn’t give me the chance to correct my word vomit.
He shakes his head and his anger is visceral, and maybe I shouldn’t have lied, but what choice did I have? Beau doesn’t need to know what Preston said. What good would come from him knowing? I know Preston is wrong. It’s not fair for him to accuse Beau of only wanting me for my name, and I stand by my decision to not lend his stupid theories any more legitimacy. I didn’t want to spoil our night with the truth, but now I’ve spoiled it even more with a lie.
Beau doesn’t wait for me to catch up to him on the sidewalk outside the venue. He disappears inside and I’m left trailing after him, giving his name to the woman at the door. She tells me there are free drinks and food, the first band is already on, and the second act will be following shortly. I thank her and rush in after Beau.
He’s nowhere to be found. His dark hair and tall frame have been swallowed up by the crowd, and with each second that ticks by, my budding anger starts to replace my anxiety. He shouldn’t have left me back there. House of Blues is filled to the brim. There are familiar faces everywhere, and I look like a fool wandering around the room.
“Have you seen Beau?” I ask an acquaintance.
He shrugs and I wander on.
“Hey, have you seen Beau?” I ask the party coordinator near the door.
She laughs. “I should be asking you—isn’t he your date?”
I’m half-convinced he left without me, but then I find him. He’s talking to an edgy black-haired woman at the bar. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the tableau is enough to make me see red. Is this his way of teaching me a lesson? If I have Preston as a pet, he can have another woman too?
I hesitate there, tempted to turn and leave, but then I think over the last few weeks. All the evenings Beau has shown up at the gallery to walk me home have been building toward something, and I’m not going to throw it all away because of one silly lie. I hover there, still unsure of what I should do, when a man walks up and wraps his arm around the woman’s shoulders. A few more people join the group and I’m left looking like an outsider, and maybe a little bit of me is scared to approach him. I’ve seen how unwilling he is to mask his feelings for the sake of appearances. What if he shoots me down in front of all of them? My ego can’t take it, so I busy myself at the silent auction tables, bidding on a few smaller items, snooping on some of the more expensive bids. Someone has bid $10,000 on a spa package. That massage better include a happy ending—as in, a ride on a pony through a carwash made of licky golden retriever puppies. I accept a drink from a passing waiter. I’m stopped by a few friends. They ask if I’m here alone, and I smile tightly and tell them Beau’s in the bathroom. I say it so many times that people start recommending their trusted gastroenterologists.
It’s awkward and weird to be here at the event as Beau’s date without him by my side. I should go up and try to explain what happened, but he’s never alone, and the idea of him refusing to hear me out in front of a group of people makes my skin itch. I haven’t cried in front of a crowd this large since my 8th birthday party, when Rose overzealously decapitated my Minnie Mouse piñata.
I hate Preston for putting me in this position. He could have picked any other moment to march into NOLA; his timing couldn’t have been worse. I ask the pastry chef when they’re going to start passing around desserts, and I think she can tell I’m close to tears because she slips me a small piece of cake under the table. I eat it in the corner, shoveling buttercream into my mouth like an NYC subway rat.
Beau does eventually come find me, but it’s not because he’s ready to kiss and make up.
“I’ve been asked by half a dozen people if my ‘tummy’ is feeling better. What have you been telling everyone?”
I flush (poor word choice). “Yes, well, they’ve been asking me where you are and I can’t really tell them you’re ignoring me. The bathroom was the first excuse I could think of.”
His mouth twists into a sardonic smile. “What’s another lie, right?”
His tone is biting, and his hand pushes me through the crowd. We rejoin the group he left to find me and I’m forced to stand there beside him for the next half-hour as he chats away with every person but me. I’m there, but I don’t exist. He doesn’t touch me, look at me, or even speak in my direction. It feels like some sort of punishment. Now, you’re going to stand there and think about what you’ve done.
I accept another drink from a passing waiter. The last one I had was blue. This one is green. I imagine them blending together in my stomach to make a murky, dark brown. I normally wouldn’t be drinking my feelings, but I’m tired of gazing into the side of Beau’s head, trying to bore in and extract his thoughts. At least with a drink, I have something to do with my hands.
Beau’s eyes slice over to me, stopping on my drink. The message is clear: slow down.
My pathetic little heart expands under his gaze. He hasn’t completely forgotten I exist! He cares about my liver!
In a matter of seconds, I’m a rebellious teenager, craving attention any way she can get it. With wide, disobedient eyes and a mouth like a puffer fish, I circle my lips over the straw and down half the drink in one swallow. I glance up at him from beneath my lashes with a sarcastic grin. His brows are furrowed and his beautiful, angry eyes are narrowed on me.
Interesting.
I take another small sip.
Lines form beside his eyes.
Ooph, I’m parched. One more itty-bitty sip.
His hand hits my elbow and I think he’s going to wrench the cup out of my hand and toss it across the room. My back arches toward him.
“Lauren, how long have you and Beau been dating?” someone asks.
I glance up and find half the group staring our way, probably aware of the tension growing between us.
“A few weeks,” I answer lackadaisically, even though I’m not sure that’s the truth. Is this dating?
“And are you from New Orleans?”
I smile extra wide, laying on the charm. “Born and raised.”
I grew up in this world, talking and chatting my way through any awkward situation. Beau wants me to make a fool of myself, but in 10 minutes, I win the group over. They’re small birds eating out of the palms of my hands.
After a well-received story about the day I tried to introduce Beau to beignets at Café Du Monde, the man to my left chuckles and asks, “Where have you been hiding this one, Beau?”
I turn to look at Beau and my expression says, Yes, Beauregard, where have you been hiding me?
He learns his lesson quickly, dragging me away from the group as soon as it’s polite. On the surface, his grip on my arm is a gentle guiding force. Underneath, it bites and sears. He wants to fight with me and I consider grabbing another drink from a passing waiter, but he veers us to the right just before I can. My hand catches nothing but air.
“You’re making a scene,” I hiss under my breath, though it’s not true. It’s crowded in here and the music is too loud. We could hash it out right here, clattering dishes and voices raised, and it would probably go mostly unnoticed.
He pulls me to the back of the room and down a hallway toward the bathroom. It’s as private as we’re going to get. A group of women passes by, loudly singing along with the band, and when they disappear into the bathroom, he lets go of me and turns. “Why was Preston alone with you?”
I open my mouth so the same lie from earlier can spill out, but I’ve learned my lesson.
When we turn toward House of Blues, Beau walks half a pace in front of me the entire first block. He’s an angry, stomping, flannelled giant, and my puny pumping legs can’t keep up.
“Hey! Slow down, will you!”
“We’re going to be late—you said so yourself,” he says, looking both ways before crossing Royal and then continuing on ahead without me.
My boots clatter against the concrete as I break out into a run.
“I didn’t know he would be there when you showed up!” I immediately hear how wrong that sounds. “Actually, wait, I didn’t even—”
He doesn’t give me the chance to correct my word vomit.
He shakes his head and his anger is visceral, and maybe I shouldn’t have lied, but what choice did I have? Beau doesn’t need to know what Preston said. What good would come from him knowing? I know Preston is wrong. It’s not fair for him to accuse Beau of only wanting me for my name, and I stand by my decision to not lend his stupid theories any more legitimacy. I didn’t want to spoil our night with the truth, but now I’ve spoiled it even more with a lie.
Beau doesn’t wait for me to catch up to him on the sidewalk outside the venue. He disappears inside and I’m left trailing after him, giving his name to the woman at the door. She tells me there are free drinks and food, the first band is already on, and the second act will be following shortly. I thank her and rush in after Beau.
He’s nowhere to be found. His dark hair and tall frame have been swallowed up by the crowd, and with each second that ticks by, my budding anger starts to replace my anxiety. He shouldn’t have left me back there. House of Blues is filled to the brim. There are familiar faces everywhere, and I look like a fool wandering around the room.
“Have you seen Beau?” I ask an acquaintance.
He shrugs and I wander on.
“Hey, have you seen Beau?” I ask the party coordinator near the door.
She laughs. “I should be asking you—isn’t he your date?”
I’m half-convinced he left without me, but then I find him. He’s talking to an edgy black-haired woman at the bar. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the tableau is enough to make me see red. Is this his way of teaching me a lesson? If I have Preston as a pet, he can have another woman too?
I hesitate there, tempted to turn and leave, but then I think over the last few weeks. All the evenings Beau has shown up at the gallery to walk me home have been building toward something, and I’m not going to throw it all away because of one silly lie. I hover there, still unsure of what I should do, when a man walks up and wraps his arm around the woman’s shoulders. A few more people join the group and I’m left looking like an outsider, and maybe a little bit of me is scared to approach him. I’ve seen how unwilling he is to mask his feelings for the sake of appearances. What if he shoots me down in front of all of them? My ego can’t take it, so I busy myself at the silent auction tables, bidding on a few smaller items, snooping on some of the more expensive bids. Someone has bid $10,000 on a spa package. That massage better include a happy ending—as in, a ride on a pony through a carwash made of licky golden retriever puppies. I accept a drink from a passing waiter. I’m stopped by a few friends. They ask if I’m here alone, and I smile tightly and tell them Beau’s in the bathroom. I say it so many times that people start recommending their trusted gastroenterologists.
It’s awkward and weird to be here at the event as Beau’s date without him by my side. I should go up and try to explain what happened, but he’s never alone, and the idea of him refusing to hear me out in front of a group of people makes my skin itch. I haven’t cried in front of a crowd this large since my 8th birthday party, when Rose overzealously decapitated my Minnie Mouse piñata.
I hate Preston for putting me in this position. He could have picked any other moment to march into NOLA; his timing couldn’t have been worse. I ask the pastry chef when they’re going to start passing around desserts, and I think she can tell I’m close to tears because she slips me a small piece of cake under the table. I eat it in the corner, shoveling buttercream into my mouth like an NYC subway rat.
Beau does eventually come find me, but it’s not because he’s ready to kiss and make up.
“I’ve been asked by half a dozen people if my ‘tummy’ is feeling better. What have you been telling everyone?”
I flush (poor word choice). “Yes, well, they’ve been asking me where you are and I can’t really tell them you’re ignoring me. The bathroom was the first excuse I could think of.”
His mouth twists into a sardonic smile. “What’s another lie, right?”
His tone is biting, and his hand pushes me through the crowd. We rejoin the group he left to find me and I’m forced to stand there beside him for the next half-hour as he chats away with every person but me. I’m there, but I don’t exist. He doesn’t touch me, look at me, or even speak in my direction. It feels like some sort of punishment. Now, you’re going to stand there and think about what you’ve done.
I accept another drink from a passing waiter. The last one I had was blue. This one is green. I imagine them blending together in my stomach to make a murky, dark brown. I normally wouldn’t be drinking my feelings, but I’m tired of gazing into the side of Beau’s head, trying to bore in and extract his thoughts. At least with a drink, I have something to do with my hands.
Beau’s eyes slice over to me, stopping on my drink. The message is clear: slow down.
My pathetic little heart expands under his gaze. He hasn’t completely forgotten I exist! He cares about my liver!
In a matter of seconds, I’m a rebellious teenager, craving attention any way she can get it. With wide, disobedient eyes and a mouth like a puffer fish, I circle my lips over the straw and down half the drink in one swallow. I glance up at him from beneath my lashes with a sarcastic grin. His brows are furrowed and his beautiful, angry eyes are narrowed on me.
Interesting.
I take another small sip.
Lines form beside his eyes.
Ooph, I’m parched. One more itty-bitty sip.
His hand hits my elbow and I think he’s going to wrench the cup out of my hand and toss it across the room. My back arches toward him.
“Lauren, how long have you and Beau been dating?” someone asks.
I glance up and find half the group staring our way, probably aware of the tension growing between us.
“A few weeks,” I answer lackadaisically, even though I’m not sure that’s the truth. Is this dating?
“And are you from New Orleans?”
I smile extra wide, laying on the charm. “Born and raised.”
I grew up in this world, talking and chatting my way through any awkward situation. Beau wants me to make a fool of myself, but in 10 minutes, I win the group over. They’re small birds eating out of the palms of my hands.
After a well-received story about the day I tried to introduce Beau to beignets at Café Du Monde, the man to my left chuckles and asks, “Where have you been hiding this one, Beau?”
I turn to look at Beau and my expression says, Yes, Beauregard, where have you been hiding me?
He learns his lesson quickly, dragging me away from the group as soon as it’s polite. On the surface, his grip on my arm is a gentle guiding force. Underneath, it bites and sears. He wants to fight with me and I consider grabbing another drink from a passing waiter, but he veers us to the right just before I can. My hand catches nothing but air.
“You’re making a scene,” I hiss under my breath, though it’s not true. It’s crowded in here and the music is too loud. We could hash it out right here, clattering dishes and voices raised, and it would probably go mostly unnoticed.
He pulls me to the back of the room and down a hallway toward the bathroom. It’s as private as we’re going to get. A group of women passes by, loudly singing along with the band, and when they disappear into the bathroom, he lets go of me and turns. “Why was Preston alone with you?”
I open my mouth so the same lie from earlier can spill out, but I’ve learned my lesson.
