Beau
618 Words
The drive home was quiet. The stars glimmered like diamonds on velvet. I had lived the city life in college but being in the darkness was more of a fit for me. I craved the privacy it afforded me. Was there anything a woman craved more than a place to keep her secrets?
I walked into my house. It was quaint two-bedroom bungalow. It had such character, and by that, I mean room for major improvement. I had renovated the kitchen nearly by myself. It was hard work, but my father had taught me everything I knew about plumbing and electrical work. I wasn’t a tile master, but I did my best. It was a labor of love to his memory. I cried through most of it. There was nothing to do to get through it but work.
I threw my keys on the counter and grabbed a water from the fridge. I ran my hand over the granite countertop and thought of my dad. We were both so frustrated the day we installed it. We yelled at each other until we were red in the face, and then silence. We exchanged looks and burst into laughter. We were hot tempered, but it rarely lasted. Well, his rarely lasted but like my mother I held a grudge. A mean grudge.
My phone buzzed. I knew who it was without looking. I ignored the call. Seconds later it buzzed with a text. I see how it is.
I drummed my fingers on the counter and contemplated my reply. You weren’t supposed to call.
But you wanted me to….
And how would you know that?
You answered my text. He wasn’t wrong. In a small town there were very few stars, and Beau Douglas was one of Middleborough’s golden boys. He played football at a division one school and was admittedly a very good player. He was everything you’d expect from an all-American small-town quarterback: blond haired, tan skin, and blue eyes worthy of Poseidon. He was almost ten years my senior. Our mothers had been friends in high school. I had given him a ride home once from a bar. Apparently, I was the only one he knew in Reston, my college town. I didn’t believe him, but I wasn’t going to let him stumble into a gutter.
That night was one for the books. It is a memory that you look at through rose glass. Everything was prettier that way, and the moments shared that night were only enhanced by it. The memory made me ache for him.
You know I can’t do this anymore, B.
Do I know that? I am pretty sure that you, of all people, can do exactly what you want.
How was I supposed to respond to that? I knew what he would taste like. I knew how his hands would trace my face. Why would I stop him? Why would I want to?
Please stop. The phone stopped ringing. I walked to my bathroom. I neatly stepped out of my clothes and turned on the water. I wanted to wash the indecision off of my body. I was twenty-four. I didn’t need a decision, but I needed a direction. I was lost.
Once the suds had cleared and my skin was pink with heat, I dried off and slipped into an old shirt and someone’s boxers. The hardwood floors were cold under my feet. I scurried down the hallway and into my bed. The respite of sleep did not come quickly. I eyed my phone.
Can’t sleep. You know how to get in. Be gone before morning. I typed out begrudgingly. I asked, and he came.
- Writer
