Page 156 of Two-Step
God, that thought makes my chest threaten to cave in on itself.
Every morning, when I wake up, I know he’s already at school, in his classroom, but I don’t know what that looks like, so I can’t picture him there. And I never met his mom, so I can’t picture him visiting her, which I know he does several times a week.
I wish I knewhowhe was doing. If he’s okay. If he’s happy.
The only place I can clearly envision him is in the dance studio, giving lessons.
A thought hits me, and as soon as we get back to my new place, which is still littered with packing boxes, I head to my room with Mica at my heels and shut the door.
My heart is racing, and I know it shouldn’t be. I know he won’t mind me calling.
I tap his contact and blow out a breath while the phone rings. It’s just after eleven a.m. here, so it’s mid-morning there. Not too early.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Mr. Hebert’s voice rumbles over the line. I smile at the same time my eyes sting.
I laugh a shaky hello. “It’s good to hear your voice,” I admit, trying to keep my own strong and unbroken.
“Yours, too, darlin’. How’s L.A. treatin’ ya?”
I inhale through my nose and feel a little sturdier. “Good. I’m working on something new. It’s fun.”
“Oh? Anything you can tell me about?”
I chuckle. “Not yet.” Nothing’s been shared with the media yet aboutCouch Surfing.I’m only allowed to say that I have a new project.
“Already signed an NDA, if you recall.”
My smile is wide. “Different studio. Different set of lawyers and all that.”
“I’m just teasin’,” he says gently. “Besides, I have a feeling you’re not calling to tell me about your new part.”
My throat tightens. I have to swallow twice before I can squeak out. “How is he?” There’s no hiding the ache in my voice.
“You tried asking him yourself?” Mr. Hebert asks, surprise tinging his question.
I blush. My voice comes out low and ashamed. “H-he won’t take my calls.”
“Thatidiot,”he growls. Beau’s uncle sighs over the line. “He’s doing no better than you sound, I can promise you that.”
My breath leaves me. No better than me? Then why the hell wouldn’t he take my calls? I have actually made myself stop calling him. The day Ramon told me he was leaving, I made myself stop reaching out. I figured if it took Ramon—Ramon, the man who wouldn’t have known what commitment was if the definition were tattooed on his forehead—six weeks to realize he couldn’t live without Sally, then the average man would probably only need three. Which could only mean one thing: Beau was just fine living without me.
But maybe I’ve been wrong about that.
“What do you mean?” I ask, not knowing what I want Mr. Hebert to say. “Is he okay?”
He scoffs a bitter laugh. “No, he’s notokay.He’s a moron.”
“He isnot,” I say, the last word ending higher.
“Oh? You defendin’ him? Letting you go not only makes him a moron, it makes him amiserablemoron.”
“He’s miserable?” Again, I don’t know how to feel. I’m glad that he’s miserable. Glad I’m not the only one. Glad to hear that he might still feel the same about me.
But he’s Beau. I don’t want him to be miserable. Not ever.
Mr. Hebert chuckles. “As miserable as a shucked oyster who’s survived the shucking.”
Yeah, that doesn’t sound too fun. It also sounds a lot like how I feel.
