Page 55 of Lighting the Lamp
Ibarely manage to shut the front door behind me before the heat rushes up my neck. My heart hasn’t stopped hammering since I left the kitchen. Every footstep up the stairs feels like I’m dragging my shame behind me. I usually take the elevator, but I need time alone with my thoughts because everything is so scrambled right now. Not to mention that I can’t stop thinking about what almost happened in Beau’s bedroom this morning; it’s like the memory of Beau’s hands is burned into my skin.
But the kiss isn’t the only thing tangled up in my chest. There is also the way he tugged his shirt down in the kitchen, careful, like the fabric alone might shield the secret strapped to his chest. The quiet terror in his eyes that someone else might notice. I keep telling myself it’s not my story to tell, but God, the weight of knowing feels heavy enough to crush me. Some things aren’t mine to share, no matter how much the knowing might keep me awake at night.
Yeah, I need a minute to think, maybe a month—fuck, probably an entire year—to process whatever the hell happened. Unfortunately, I only have the next few minutes as I exit the stairwell and head right for Ramona and Cooper’s door.
I don’t knock. I just push open Ramona’s bedroom door, already halfway to a panic spiral, and stop dead in my tracks. She isn’t alone, something my brain would have picked up on if it were firing on all cylinders this morning.
Ramona perches cross-legged on the bench in the entryway, wearing her robe and holding a mug of what I hope is coffee in each hand, with her hair tucked under her bonnet, looking like she hasn’t moved since sunrise. She stares at me with one perfectly arched brow raised. Beside her is Michele, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, sipping some green smoothie thing with a straw. She’s the love of Cole Hendrix’s heart and the newest addition to this swirling mess of a found family. She looks completely relaxed, like this is a regular Saturday morning occurrence, not the disaster of the century.
They both look at me like they’ve been waiting for me, but I’m not saying a thing until I can get some coffee. I move as if my limbs aren’t connected to my body, grabbing one of the mugs from Ramona’s hand and lowering my body to the floor, but I don’t settle. My spine won’t stop straightening, like my body’s trying to hold itself together from the outside in.
I move on autopilot, taking a healthy pull from the mug, hoping the hit of caffeine will settle my nerves, but no such luck. I don’t even taste the coffee.
My fingers are clenched too tightly around the mug for it to register as anything but a source of warmth I’m trying not to shake out of my hands. My pulse is a roar in my ears, thumping like a warning. And when Ramona’s voice cuts through the quiet like a scalpel, I nearly flinch.
“Okay, coffee first.” Her expression goes straight to smug as she looks down at me. “So, did you commit a felony or fall in love?”
“Wow. That’s where we’re starting?” Michele blinks, her head looking between Ramona and me.
“I’m not one to beat around the bush with this one,” Ramona says, gesturing to me casually with her mug. “If we let her sit here long enough, she’ll clam up and not tell us a damn thing. I’ve found that leading with an emotional sucker punch is the best course of action.”
She’s not wrong. I’m already halfway down a mental escape route, sprinting for the door in my mind, trying to outrun the ache that’s lodged behind my ribcage. I stare into my mug of milk with a drop of coffee, unsure whether to bolt or burst into tears. All I see is the tremble in my hands and the way the surface of the liquid shivers as hard as I am. And then they do the worst thing possible; they slide off the bench to the floor, one on each side of me.
The moment they settle on the floor and block my escape, something in me wilts. I can’t outrun this. I can’t hide from it. Ramona’s shoulder bumps mine gently, and the contact is enough to deflate me entirely. I lean against her like I’m collapsing inward.
Neither of them says a word. The silence is so soft I could scream. Then Michele, with all that quiet intuition that always catches me off guard, asks, “You okay?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. My voice feels like it comes from somewhere far away, too small to carry the weight behind it.
My palms are so sweaty I feel like my mug could slip out of my hands at any minute. Sweat prickles down my spine, collecting at the base of my neck where Beau’s shirt clings. It’s too hot and not warm enough all at once. The air feels thick—like honey laced with smoke—and I can’t get it into my lungs. My chest is too tight. Everything is tight.
“You stayed the night,” Ramona says gently, coaxing the truth out of me like it’s a wounded animal.
I nod, the movement barely there. It takes too much effort.
“With Beau?” Michele’s voice is soft, but I see the hope flicker in her eyes.
Another nod.
Ramona leans forward, mug braced on her knees. “So, do we get a kiss rating, or are we jumping straight to the full emotional meltdown?”
“Ramona,” I groan, but it sounds more like a plea for mercy.
“What? I’m invested!”
Michele’s already grinning. “How invested? Scale of ‘I need details for gossip’ to ‘I’ve got a playlist and Pinterest board ready’?”
“There’s a playlist. Obviously.”
“God help me,” I groan again and bury my face in my hands, willing the world to blur away.
“Come on. What happened?” Ramona nudges me with her toe, and a laugh slips out before I can stop it.
It cracks in my throat, jagged and sharp, nothing like the relief Ramona and Michele were hoping for. It’s panic, not amusement, wearing a flimsy disguise.
“He kissed me.”
The confession drags past my lips. My heart lurches, seizing so hard in my chest that I have to press my knuckles to my mouth to keep it from shattering into the open air.
