Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
“Yeah, he did.” Beau stops us walking and turns into me. Fuck. “What’s going on?”
I laugh, and it’s natural. “What’s going on?” Where the fuck would I start? “You know what’s going on. You’re making a point of knowing what’s going on.”
Her eyes narrow accusingly. I don’t shy away. “And what happened to my surprise?”
Fuck.
“It—”
Her phone saves me, and Beau huffs, looking at me like a woman looks at a man when she’s communicating silently that she’s not done. “Hello,” she answers, sounding irritated. Then her face drops, and our previous discussion is forgotten. “Oh,” she breathes, making me cock my head in question. She inhales, as if bracing herself, and nods. “I’m sorry. Is it too late?” She covers her mobile with a hand and moves it away from her ear. “Can you take me somewhere?”
“Anywhere,” I answer quickly, slightly surprised.
She nods and goes back to her mobile. “I can be there in an hour.” A swallow. “Yes.” Her eyes close briefly. “Thank you.” Then she hangs up, and I stand before her waiting. Looking patient but not feeling it.
“Where am I taking you, Beau?” I ask, after a long few seconds of silence.
“To see my dad,” she finally says, shuddering, like ice could have just glided down her spine. “I want to see him before the funeral tomorrow.”
I withdraw, taken aback. I can’t hide my surprise.
“I was never able to see Mom.” She frowns as she toys with her phone.
“Are you sure?” I ask, placing a hand on her shoulder, rubbing into it gently.
She smiles. It’s weak. “No,” she admits, and I nod, understanding. “But I know I’ll regret it if I don’t.” Moving into me, she wraps her arms around my waist and . . . hides.
I can hear her mental war as I drive her to the funeral home. Guilt is driving her. Nothing but guilt. She’s spinning her ring on her finger, checking the GPS constantly to see how far away we are.
When I park, I turn in my seat to face her. No typical words will suffice here. I can’t ask her if she’s sure she wants to do this. I can’t question whether she would prefer to remember her father as he was. Alive. Beau’s memories of him aren’t exactly fond. So instead, I say, “Okay?” and I feel like a useless sack of shit for it.
On a nod, Beau unclips her seatbelt, takes a visible inhale, and gets out of the car, looking up at the front of the building as she does. I join her on the sidewalk. “Do you want me to come in?” I ask. She nods, so I hold my hand out for her to take and lead the way, hating this uncertainty on her. The door opens before we get there, an old fella who’s suited greeting us with a sympathetic smile.
“You must be Miss Hayley,” he says, his voice loud, like he hopes to raise the dead in his care. He opens the way, allowing us to step into the reception area. It’s cozy in a sickly way. Full of florals—the paper, the prints, the carpet. But it reeks of death. “I’m Arnie Gluttenhiem.”
“Thank you for keeping open so late,” Beau says, gazing around, moving into my side and clinging on to my arm.
“What, dear?” he yells, leaning in.
“I said—”
“What was that?”
“I was going to say—”
“Damn hearing aid has broken again.” He taps his ear, where a wire hangs just below his lobe.
“Thank you!” Beau yells, making me wince. “For staying open!”
He waves off her appreciation. “Death isn’t a nine-to-five job,” he shouts, sweeping an arm out toward the back of the room where three doors are. “The one on the right. Your father’s ready for you.”
Beau stares at the door, frozen, breathing heavily.
Torn.
“Take your time,” I say quietly. “Do you want to sit down for a moment?”
She shakes her head, stepping forward. And again. And again. I follow her lead, until we’re at the door. She takes the handle. Stills. “Do you mind if I go in alone?” she asks, looking up at me, almost in apology. “I have some things I want to say to him.”
“You do what you have to do.” I detach her from my side and drop a kiss onto her forehead. “I’ll be here.”
I take a seat on one of the floral chairs and watch as she starts again to build the strength she needs to go inside and confront her father. Because that’s what she’ll do. Confront him. Have it all out. Tell him how he made her feel, how much she needed him. That he wasn’t there.
Closure.
I mentally will her on, encourage her, push her, my body tense in the seat. She takes the doorknob. Her shoulders raise with a confidence-hitting inhale.
Then she drops her hold and moves back, exhaling. “I can’t,” she says to the door, forcing me to my feet. “I can’t do it.” She swings around, her eyes flooded with tears ready to fall, her head shaking, dislodging them, making them tumble down her pink cheeks.