Page 93 of Lighting the Lamp
That earns me a low hum, knowing and too calm. “Ah.”
“Not ah.” The word rips out sharper than I mean, and shame floods my cheeks. I bury my face in the pillow, muffling my voice. “He kissed me.”
Her cane clicks softly as she shifts, and for a second, there’s only quiet. Then, “And you look this miserable about it?”
I glance up, heat crawling up my neck. “You don’t get it. He’s—he’s Beau. He’s been there my whole life. If I screw this up, it’s not just a breakup. It’s losing everything.”
Her face softens, lines easing into something that makes me feel fifteen again, raw and breakable. “Baby, maybe don’t start by assuming you’re going to screw it up.”
“I saw the way he looked at me like I was worth it. And I don’t know how to carry that. I don’t know how to believe it.”
“Can’t believe it?” she asks gently.
Tears burn my eyes, blurring the edges of her face. “What if he leaves? What if I’m too much? Dad left, and he was supposed to stay.”
For a flicker, her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t look away. “Your father’s leaving had nothing to do with you. That was his weakness, not yours.”
I want to believe her. God, I do. But the ache under my ribs laughs at the idea.
She crosses the room slowly, lowering herself onto the mattress with care. She pries the pillow from my grip and sets her hand over mine. Her palm is warm, grounding, the way it always is when I’m coming apart.
“I know you’re scared. But don’t punish a good man for someone else’s mistake.”
The words crack something open in me, and the tears spill, hot and relentless. I let her hold my hand until the trembling eases, though my chest still feels like it might cave in. When she finally kisses my temple and rises, cane clicking softly as she leaves, the silence she leaves behind feels bigger than the room.
My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark, daring me. The need claws at me until I can’t resist. My fingers move before my cowardice can stop them. By the time I realize what I’m doing, the call is already ringing.
“Alise?” His voice is rough, like I dragged him out of sleep, but all I hear is hope.
“Hey.” I pause long enough for doubt to creep in, but then force the words out before I can run again. “I don’t want to keep running.”
He inhales, sharp and shaky, like I just pulled the ground out from under him. “You don’t?”
“No. I’m terrified, but I want to try. With you. I don’t know how to be good at this. At us.”
“You don’t have to know.” His voice is steady, warm, the exact opposite of the storm clawing at my ribs. “You just have to let me in. That’s it. I’ll keep showing up, Alise. Every day. In every way I know how. When it’s easy, when it’s brutal, when you think you’re too much, I’ll still be here. You can shove me out the door, and I’ll knock until you let me back in. I’m not going anywhere.”
My breath stutters. “You say that now, but?—”
“No,” he cuts in, gentle but fierce. “Not ‘but.’ I’ve loved you in a hundred quiet ways for years, even when you didn’t see it. I don’t care how scared you are, or how hard you try to convince yourself it’s safer to run. I’m not leaving you. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
The words crack something wide open inside me. I press the phone harder to my ear, like I can hold him closer through the sound alone, like his voice can stitch me together.
“Beau…” My voice is nothing but breath and ache.
“Sleep tonight knowing this one thing,” he says, low and unshakable. “You are it for me. The start, the middle, the end. Whatever comes, I’m already yours.”
Silence stretches, but not the sharp, awkward kind I’ve drowned in before. This silence is warm and alive. I close my eyes, clutching the phone like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground, my knuckles aching from the grip.
My chest rises too fast, shuddering on the way down. My heart beats so hard it feels like it’s trying to crawl out of my skin, not from panic this time, but from something deeper and so huge I can’t name it without breaking.
“I don’t want to hang up,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
“Then don’t,” he answers without hesitation, steady as bedrock. “We’ll stay like this. Breathing together. No goodbyes.”
The sound of his breath fills the line, steady, anchoring me in the moment. I match mine to his, inhaling and exhaling until the jagged edges inside me soften. The world shrinks to the sound of him existing on the other end of this fragile connection, proof that he’s still here. That he’s not running.
We don’t say goodnight. We don’t say goodbye. We just stay suspended in this moment, where everything terrifying feels a little less sharp because he’s in it with me.
