Page 9 of Hopeless
Asong I don’t recognize plays from the speakers, but I two-step anyway. I’m wearing a suit that feels fucking awful, and these dress shoes are rubbing my grafts uncomfortably. Winter Hamilton has one hand on my shoulder and her nose is tipped high as she stares just beyond me. Or possibly at the top of my ear. I’m not entirely sure which.
Dancing with Winter is more uncomfortable than anything going on in my shoes. And that’s saying something.
For an entire song, we dance like stiff pieces of wood, ignoring each other. I can see Rhett and Summer dancing too. They look so fucking happy it’s hard to watch, but I don’t know where to land my gaze. It seems like everyone is watching me. I’ve got my hands locked in place because I don’t want to slide too low or too high on Winter’s ribcage. Those are no-fly zones, and based on the way her baby daddy, Theo, is glaring at us, every inch of her might be a no-fly zone.
The music switches over to a slower song and Winter mumbles, “Thanks. That was the junior high dance blast from the past I’ve always dreamed of.”
“Good god, Winter.” My fingers tighten. “One more dance.”
“Why?” Her head tilts and her blue eyes home in on my face. I feel like I’m in therapy again. Something broken that needs fixing. A specimen for medical professionals to poke and prod and analyze. Between my burns and my brain and my insomnia, I’m like a shrink’s wet fucking dream.
I hate that feeling. That expression. Like I’m a big dumb goldfish in a bowl.
“Because I need to apologize to you.”
She just shrugs. “No, you don’t.”
“I blew up at you at a family dinner.”
I’d quit seeing all my doctors and wasn’t sleeping. I was sore and tired and just wanted to rest for a bit. Winter saw right through it when I dragged her down the hallway to talk. Right through my request for prescription sleeping pills—because over-the-counter ones weren’t doing the trick. Her knowing smirk and crossed arms, followed by a calm “no” pushed me over the edge.
I exploded. She didn’t deserve it. Everyone heard.
Winter’s lips form a slight curve. “Did you? I don’t remember.”
“Winter,” I bite out, annoyed that she’s making this so hard for me.
“Beau,” is all she responds with as we continue swaying on the wooden dance floor. Over her shoulder, I catch sight of Bailey. Her glossy hair shines like the top of the river, reflecting every light. She’s not a guest, but she’s tending bar for the reception, and that’s good enough for me.
“I shouldn’t have done that.” My eyes stay on Bailey as I speak to Winter. Focusing on her makes this easier. She’s become a calm spot in a mind that is a turbulent storm.
“No, probably not. But you know what, Beau?”
I finally glance down at Winter. “What?”
“We’re all human, and we all make mistakes. Especially when we’re struggling.”
“I’m not struggling.”
She snorts and then gives me an exaggerated wink. “Cool. Me neither.”
My molars clamp down and I glance back at Bailey. “Okay. Maybe I am.”
But I relax when I’m looking at her.
“You sleeping now?”
I roll my lips together and consider lying to her. But Winter is so no-nonsense—so not flowery and overly doting—it’s easier to be real with her than with the rest of my family. “No. Well, I’ve gotten on a schedule, and that seems to help a bit.” I don’t tell her that byscheduleI mean planning my week around sitting at Bailey’s bar drinking chamomile tea. But the truth is, sitting there has given me a purpose, and it feels good.
“Seeing anyone?”
“Like a doctor?”
She nods.
“Nah.”
“Why see a professional when we can diagnose ourselves, right?”
