Page 77 of Lighting the Lamp
The words hit harder than I expected because they force me to admit the thing I’ve been avoiding since the moment I shut my door and let him walk away.
“I didn’t mean to make him think he had to be perfect. That wasn’t the point,” I whisper, mostly to myself.
Michele softens, her brow creasing just slightly. “I know that, but he’s not the kind of guy who hears what you meant. He hears what confirms what he already believes about himself.”
That he’s not enough.
That he’s broken.
That he has to work harder just to stay in the room.
I wrap my arms around my middle, fingers digging into my sides, as Beau skates out to reset a drill. He lifts his whistle, blows it once, and then barely winces, and I see it. God, the irony. I spent years building walls so I wouldn’t be someone’s emotional crutch, and now I’m terrified he’s breaking himself just to prove he doesn’t need one.
“He’s out there,” I say, eyes fixed on him. “That has to count for something.”
“It does,” Michele agrees softly. “But showing up isn’t the same as being okay. You know that better than anyone.”
And I do. I’ve shown up broken a thousand different ways, smiled when I felt like screaming, worked when my body begged me to stop, and even pretended to be fine just to keep the people I love from looking too closely. I know what it costs to perform and seem “normal”. But I never wanted that for Beau. I don’t know if he’s protecting me from the truth, or himself from what I’ll do with it. But either way, he’s doing it alone, and that’s not what I ever wanted.
Before I can say another word, someone drops onto the bleacher behind us with a dramatic sigh and the unmistakable scent of peppermint lotion.
“God, I’m sorry I’m late,” Ramona says, breathless as she leans over my shoulder. “Darius wouldn’t leave the house until he found his lucky socks. Apparently, they determine his slap shot velocity now.”
“That’s what you get for raising a deeply superstitious drama king.” Michele snorts into her latte.
“Don’t act like you’re not obsessed with him.” Ramona sniffs the air, then zeroes in on the tray at Michele’s feet. “Please tell me one of those is for me.”
I lean down and notice the tray of coffee cups sitting at Michele’s feet. “When the hell did these get here?”
“Umm, they’ve been here,” Michele says with faux innocence, her cheeks turning slightly pink. “I was actually hoping Ramona would’ve gotten here sooner so I could blame them on her.”
“Beau,” I say, more a statement than a question.
Of course, it was him. I don’t know why I’m the least bit surprised he would make sure I had something warm to drink while watching the game. He left me a steaming cup on my desk earlier, which, of course, is still cold. This is his way of showing up, just like with the gummy bears. His small ways of letting me know he’s still here, patiently waiting for me to be ready for the next step.
“Please tell me they aren’t all pumpkin spice lattes,” Ramona whines, leaning forward and eyeing the cups like they could bite her.
“Hell no,” Michele replies, completely deadpan. “There is one for Ms. Thing over here, of course. ”
“Thank God.” Ramona sighs, taking a seat on the other side of me, sandwiching me between the two of them
“How did he get the barista to make it for me? It’s not even pumpkin spice season,” I ask her, knowing that one or both of them had something to do with it.
“I’m just the pickup girl,” Michele says sweetly, then lifts her brows. “Though I may have slipped the barista a very specific note.”
“You two are the most suspicious ‘innocent bystanders’ I’ve ever met.”
I glance down at my cup—the one I’ve been clutching for nearly half an hour now, the paper having gone soft from my grip. The rim shows a smudge of gloss and maybe a little teeth-marked anxiety.
Before I can stop her, Ramona gently plucks it from my hands and exchanges it for a fresh one from the tray.
“Drink the one that’s still warm,” she says, softer now. “You look like you need it.”
The heat seeps into my palms instantly. The scent hits me before the first sip—spice, sugar, memory. He always remembers. I don’t know why I’m even surprised.
Even if these two weren’t such horrible liars, I’d know that Beau had a hand in making sure I had this with me. I wouldn’t need a fancy note of text because this is the exact drink I order when everything’s too much and I can’t say it out loud. The drink I only ever mentioned to him once—rambling, overwhelmed, and half-laughing. And he listened; he always does.
“I made the right choice,” I murmur, my voice brittle and sharp around the edges like cracked glass.
