Page 65 of Lighting the Lamp
But I do. I pull the door open a crack, and the second our eyes meet, I feel my panic rising fast, burning through my chest like wildfire.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, but it barely escapes. I’m not sure my vocal cords are working properly.
“Didn’t want you to think I forgot the promise.”
“What promise?” I blink hard, disoriented.
“Gummy bears,” he says, lips twitching like he wants to smile but can’t quite pull it off. “I promised you something other than red ones at that birthday party, and I never followed through.”
And just like that, I’m ten years old again. Hiding behind the equipment cart, hands over my ears, too overwhelmed to move. Too ashamed to speak, until I open my eyes and see him on his knees, sitting with me, like silence was enough. It’s one of the first times I remember not having to explain the chaos inside me.
“I told you I’d always be your friend,” he says, voice rough like gravel smoothed by rain. “That I wasn’t going anywhere.”
“You said that when we were kids.” I squeeze the edge of the door until my knuckles ache.
“I meant it then.” He steps a little closer, not enough to cross the threshold, but enough that I feel his presence like a current in the air. “I still do.”
“Beau, don’t.” The words burst out of me like a wound breaking open.
I shake my head and move to shut the door in order to preserve what’s left of me, but he stops it gently with the toe of his shoe.
“I just needed you to know,” he says, steady despite the way his jaw ticks like he’s holding something back.
“I can’t—I can’t do this right now. I don’t know how to let you in without completely falling apart.”
“Then fall apart, and I’ll be here when you do.”
“No.” I take a shaky step back, pressing my hand to my chest like I can keep my ribs from cracking open. “I’ve always been that someone you come to when you’re broken. I don’t just want to be a soft place to land when the world’s too heavy. I want to be more than that. I need to be more than that.”
His gaze stays locked on mine. Unshaken. Like nothing I say could scare him away.
“I want you to want me,” I say, my voice splintering under the weight of the words. “Not because I make it easier. Not because I calm you down or let you breathe. I want to be wanted whenyou’re okay. When you’re whole. When you could choose anyone and you still chose me.”
“I do.” He swallows hard, chest rising.
“Don’t say that just to make me feel better?—”
“I’m not,” he says. “I want every version of you, especially the one who doesn’t believe she’s worth it.”
“I don’t trust that. I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust that I won’t screw it up and say something that is too much, or need too much, or break you without even meaning to.”
Hot, angry tears spill down my cheeks, but he doesn’t turn away. Instead, he reaches forward, his hand cupping my cheeks as his thumb brushes away the tears. I can barely resist the urge to close my eyes and nuzzle into his palm, but I manage.
He pulls his hand back and smiles, shoving it back into his pocket. “You won’t.”
“You can’t know that,” I whisper, my voice barely holding. “I want this. I want you, but I’m terrified, because the last time I believed I was worth loving, they left. I haven’t let anyone that close since. Not really.”
Beau doesn’t flinch or try to fill the silence with easy words or half promises. He just nods, like he understands the ache under my skin better than anyone ever has.
“I’m not ready,” I say, and the truth tastes bitter. Like failure. Like loss.
“Okay.” His shoulders drop slightly, but he doesn’t push.
“I don’t know if I ever will be.”
“I’ll wait as long as it takes,” he responds, his voice soft but full of conviction.
Something in me wants to believe that, but the rest of me—the bruised, broken, still-healing parts—can’t. We stand there, quiet. My fingers still curled around the edge of the door, his hands tucked into his pockets as if he moves too much,he’ll shatter the fragile thread between us. And then he does something I don’t expect.
