Page 150 of Hopeless
Beau turns, and his eyes sweep over my face, like he’s trying to memorize my every feature. Then he shrugs, a nonchalant motion in contrast to the intensity of his gaze. “Told you I love you, Bailey. And I meant it.” He gives me a wink and hits the truck roof twice, like I’m a fucking cab driver or something. “Make sure whatever house you pick has room for us to host family dinners. You know the Eaton clan will visit more than we want them to.”
Us. We.
I sit here slack jawed, at a loss for words. Is he getting a job in the city just so he can be with me?
But I don’t get a chance to ask because he strides off, calling back over his shoulder, “Text me when you’re headed back. I’ll keep myself busy until you’re done.”
Then he’s across the street. Going for a job interview.
And me? I’m an emotional puddle.
I wander the campus in a daze.
I drink a coffee that tastes bland and watery. The ones Beau makes me are better.
I walk, checking for any cafes or restaurants that might be hiring. I drop off a resume at two that I like the looks of. Both times I’m met with smiles and enthusiasm. People who seemed excited by the prospect of hiring me.
It’s nice, but … I don’t feel that good about it.
The first rental I have an appointment at is a condominium on the twelfth floor. The woman showing it to me seems nice enough as she leads me through the space, which has big windows and lovely views. But when she says, “And there’s room for a small dining table right here,” while pointing at a practically non-existent space, I burst out crying.
Because that’s not nearly enough space to host the Eatons. And I want that. I want Beau, and I want that life, and I—god, I wish he was here with me.
Looking at places to live without him here feels wrong. Especially after that smug little bomb he dropped on me right before leaving my truck. So casual. Like he’s known all along what I don’t.
I press my palm against the center of my chest to press away the ache there as I ride the elevator down to the lobby. I’m pretty sure this isn’t the spot for me. Not only because I’m almost positive no one wants to rent their place to a girl who cries over a dining room, but also because that dining room is simply not big enough.
I miss Beau more intensely in this moment than I have in the past three days.
I wonder what he’s doing.
I wonder how he’s feeling.
I wonder if he knows what he’s doing.
I wonder if he’ll regret changing his life for me. And the weight of that is downright crushing.
I don’t go to my next appointment. I don’t think I can handle looking at another dining room and wondering about Beau. What I want is to crawl into bed with him and have him hold me.
I don’t text him. I just drive back to the fire hall, prepared to wait for him if I have to.
But I don’t have to.
When I pull up, he’s seated on a bench in the sun, knees slung open, phone held low while he scrolls the screen.
You’d think for a tier one operator he would notice me across the street, but he doesn’t. So I watch him. He smiles and his shoulders vibrate on a laugh.
I wonder what he’s watching.
I wonder how his interview went.
I wonder how long he’s been waiting.
I wonder if he’s hungry or if he ate lunch.
I wonder if he’d be okay with me coming to sit beside him.
It feels like my brain is just an ode to Beau Eaton. I think about him all the fucking time. Worry about him. Crave him.
