Page 39 of Not Our First Rodeo
He holds my gaze, and I can’t help the way my eyes dart to his lips when his tongue reaches out to wet them. “You may not need me there,” he says, drawing my attention back to his. “But I want to be there for you. If you decide you need a shoulder to lean on, mine will be right there.”
I swallow hard, his words piercing all the tender places inside me, the ones I’ve ignored for much too long. He’s poking holes in all my defenses, but for some strange reason, I can’t bring myself to care. For the first time, I want to lean into it, let him shoulder some of the burden that has become so, so heavy.
“They’re not going to be happy,” I manage to say. My mom is still waiting for me to “get over” my injury and go back to dancing professionally. She says if I’m well enough to teach, I’m well enough to dance in a company. But while I might still be able to dance after tearing my Achilles, I’d never be able to keep up with the demands of dancing professionally again.
His jaw tenses, and my eyes catch on the movement. “I’ll never understand them,” he says.
I’m shocked by the hardness in his tone, the way his jaw ticks like he’s holding himself back from saying more.
Beau has never been the biggest fan of my parents and the expectations they have for me, but he’s always been polite, and he’s never said an outwardly bad word about them.
“They just want what’s best for me,” I say, a line I’ve repeated to myself thousands of times over the years, even though I’m not so sure that’s true. I may not be a mother yet, but I can’t imagine putting the pressure on my child that my parents put on me.
“No, they want what’s best for them, regardless of how it affects you,” Beau says, his hands tightening on my arms. Not tight enough to hurt, but enough for me to know he’s tense.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask softly, genuinely curious.
I’m an only child, and I grew up with only my parents and other dance parents as references. It wasn’t until I met the Jenningses that I truly felt like I could be missing something. But just thinking that made me feel like I was betraying my parents, who had only ever given me what I needed to succeed. So they’re not overly affectionate, and they usually spend more time pointing out my flaws than my attributes. It’s not like I went hungry or without new pointe shoes every week. I was well cared for and given everything I needed.
He shakes his head and stares at the ceiling. My eyes are fixed on his Adam’s apple when it bobs as he swallows. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and dark stubble coats his chin. It looks good on him. I want to tell him. I want to change the subject and forget that my parents are waiting for me.
“I just mean that they’ve always had one idea for you—that you would be a professional ballerina like your mom was,” he says, meeting my gaze. It’s hard, unyielding, like he’s given this a lot of thought. “They never gave you a chance to see if that’s what you even wanted. They homeschooled you so you could focus on it and they sent you to camps all over the world and they put all these unrealistic expectations on your shoulders so when you couldn’t meet them, you felt like a failure.” He stops abruptly, gathering himself. It makes an unknown emotion swoop in my stomach. “And I hate them for it.”
I flinch as his words hit me, and he drops my arms, pushing an agitated hand through his hair.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs, sounding more like himself. “I shouldn’t have said all that.”
I stare at him for a long moment, sorting through everything he said. “Is it how you feel?”
His chin dips, eyes catching on mine, sincere. “Yeah, it’s how I feel.”
“Then you should have said it,” I tell him, and I mean it, even if it hurt to hear.
“Do you tell me what you feel?” he asks.
I let my gaze dart away from his, focusing on a point on the wall behind his shoulder. There’s a chip in the paint that needs to be fixed from where I accidentally nicked the wall with my hair dryer.
I stare at it, unable to meet his eyes, as I say, “I should probably finish getting ready.”
His hand snakes out, wrapping around my arm once more. “Hold on,” he says, his voice softer than it was a moment before. “Do you?”
I look up at him, at the familiar brown eyes, the dark hair that’s grown a little too long, curling at the edges, the mustache that I’ve grown to love on him, the stubble covering his jaw, the freckles that are just starting to peek out on his cheeks. He’s so different from the boy I met at sixteen, but he’s still in there too. Soft, gentle, so very caring. Beau. My Beau, even after everything.
“No, not always.”
He nods like he expected this. I shouldn’t be surprised. Since he moved back home, it’s like he’s been finding my puzzle pieces all over the place and putting them together, forming a clearer picture. I don’t know how to feel about it. No one has ever seen me all the way, not even him. It’s terrifying.
“You can, you know,” he says, voice gentle. “You don’t have to carry it all yourself.”
His words seep into my skin. The thing is, I think I’m starting to realize this. That I can’t do it all alone, that I fall apart when I try. But I don’t know where to start. How do I tell my husbandthat I’ve been hiding huge parts of myself for years? How do I even go about letting him get to know me now?
I try to find a way to respond, but the words are stuck in my throat. I think Beau knows too, because his face softens, and he moves closer.
His breath makes the wispy hairs around my face billow. “Whenever you’re ready, Elsie, I’m here.” His lips press into my temple, and the warmth of him surrounds me.
I can’t help but lean into him, bask in it. A desire that’s been dormant the past few weeks flares to life at the feeling of him against me, causing liquid heat to pool somewhere behind my belly button.
It only grows when he doesn’t move back, when he keeps holding me, his hand tangling in the hair falling down my back. Awareness sizzles beneath my skin when he gives it a little tug.
