Page 62 of Beautifully Messy
“Good night, everyone. I’m wiped,” I say, already making for the stairs. I pray Mason doesn’t follow; I’ve used up all my acting skills for one night.
Staring at the ceiling, my eyelids finally begin to drift shut. For the first time in weeks, sleep pulls at me. Because somewhere deep down, beneath the chaos and the lies and the pain... I don’t believe this is over.
Eighteen
Thebarestsliverofmoonlight ghosts through the windows, shrouding the sunroom in pre-dawn shadows and hiding the book my foot strikes, sending it skidding across the floor.
“Shit,” I whisper.
A lump on the couch jolts upright. I jump, the sweater I’m still wearing from last night billowing out from the motion. James runs a hand through his tousled hair, eyes still clouded with sleep. A soft blanket is tucked around his waist. I smooth my hair into something more presentable than when I crawled out of bed to a babbling Anna.
“God, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I was reading and must have dozed off.”
“I’ll leave. Sorry again.” I look away.
“Please don’t go.” His voice cracks, betraying what we’ve both been holding in since yesterday.
In the quiet shadows of the sunroom, sheltered from prying eyes, everything between us feels simpler. We don’t have to measure our words or glance over our shoulders. Here we don't have to pretend. In this early morning, tucked away in this beautiful space, we exhale enough to let go of the hurt and tension—if only for a moment.
With a flip of the switch, Christmas tree lights flicker to life. Anna drinks her milk while James and I slip into conversation about work and running, sharing our latest reads, the races we have coming up. Just our easy, natural connection when we forget the rules and limitations that should exist. He selects a Sade album, her silken voice floating through the shadows, a low hum beneath our words.
When Anna finishes, we slide to the rug with her toys. James follows, dropping onto the floor as Anna moves between us. She climbs on to James’s lap, stopping for a moment to put her hands on each side of his face and just looking at him. She smiles, then walks off, heading toward her toys.
“I was telling my mom about you the other day,” he says, nudging my shoulder.
Surprised he’d mention me, I realize I don’t know about her life now, or what happened after she left her husband all those years ago.
“She was worried about a woman in a dangerous situation. Concerned she wouldn’t get proper legal help.”
I wrap my hand around his without thinking about it—without weighing whether it’s right or wrong. The contact jolts me, but I don't pull away. Talking about these deep wounds is hard, and I want him to know I’m here; that I understand.
“Is she in Boston?” I ask.
He pauses, staring down at our joined hands as if surprised to find them there. Then he turns our palms over, interlacing his fingers with mine, exhaling long and slow. “After we left my father, we moved to western New York, where she grew up. She still lives outside Rochester.”
“I’m licensed to practice in New York. I took both the D.C. and New York bar exams because I wasn’t sure where I wanted to stay after graduating. I don’t practice family law, but I might be able to help.”
“I’d love that. Cases like this take their toll on her, and I want to wipe away her guilt and fear over what happened when I was younger.”
“Let me give you my number so she can call me.” I release his hand, and he passes me his phone.
He laughs when he sees how I saved my name:Dutchess Fan.
“It’s only fair I get to name myself something too.” He holds his hand out, and I relent mostly because I want to see what he does.
He hands back my phone with a grin as mischievous as a high school prankster’s. I look down to read:Skating Stud. I laugh so hard my stomach aches.
“Where’d you actually learn to play pool?” He bumps my shoulder, trying to steer us to safer ground, not knowing what he’s asking.
My deflection last night wasn’t only because Mason asked a question twelve years too late. It’s the hurt wrapped in those memories; the hurt that might never go away, the hurt I’d rather not feel. Even though James never judges, telling him about boarding school means revealing the whole truth.
True to form, I deflect. “When you spend your teenage years at boarding school with more freedom and money than oversight, you pick up a few useful skills.”
“You were at boarding school?”
“Yeah.” I pause, gathering courage. “Nannies raised me until I was thirteen, then my parents sent me to school in France.”
