“Yikes.”
He nods. “They notice. Which I love. But it’s also taught me to be meticulous about everything. I stress over things most people wouldn’t even know to stress over.”
I can see that. He is stressed. It’s in the way he holds himself and how his mouth turns down and his eyes have dark smudges under them. Beau’s a good-looking guy; even with all that going on, I can only imagine what a good night’s sleep would do for him.
“That’s really interesting.”
“Code for boring as fuck?”
I bark out a laugh. “No, I’m being serious. I wouldn’t know the first thing about writing. Whereas you can create a world out of nothing, using only your brain …”
“I’d appreciate the compliment more if my brain hadn’t written me into a corner.”
I think for a moment. “Could you have the love interest not be taken there?”
“No, it’s how I ended the last book. Which just published.”
“Well, I’m not creative, so I don’t have a lot of ideas for you, but I’m here if you need to, I don’t know, throw ideas out there?”
“Thanks.”
Before an awkward silence can fall, I change the subject.
“I applied for ten jobs last night.” Basically all entry-level, which I’m trying not to think about.
His whole face lights up. “No way.”
“I’ve already been turned down for three of them.” I wave off his surprise. “You’re going to have to put up with me for a little longer.”
“I’ve already said there’s no rush. That wasn’t pity. I’m serious.”
I’m sure he thinks that, but if this fort is anything to go by, he’s used to being on his own. “Don’t you want your own space back?”
“No.” He looks at me like I’ve grown an extra head.
“You don’t feel weird having a roommate at our age?”
“Our age?” He snorts. “I’m four years younger than you, thanks. It counts.”
“Sure, it does.”
“I’m not in my forties yet.”
“Unlucky.” I lift my hands. “Being forty is awesome. Unemployment, infidelity, homelessness, and divorce. Who wouldn’t want to be hit with all that at once?”
“You’re right. Sounds like a dream.” Beau leans back on his arms. “But you’re not homeless. You live here. This is your place too.”
I know he’s trying to make me feel better, but while he might not have an issue with having a roommate, it makes me feel … like I’ve gone backward. “Well, I’m in no hurry to leave, not when you’ve been so kind to me. But once I have a job, I will be on the hunt for my own place.”
“All right, but my offer stands. It’s not as lonely with you here.”
He doesn’t say it like he wants sympathy, but I can’t help feeling bad for him again. “You have friends.”
“It’s not the same. Like, even when you’re in your room, knowing you’re here is nice. I don’t always want to talk to people, but having them around without expectations …” He cuts off. “Sorry, that sounds dumb.”
“Not really. You want the companionship, without the pressure to be social.”
He looks surprised that I get it. I mean, I don’t understand it, but the way he describes it makes sense.
“Exactly. And until I find a boyfriend, your company will have to do.” He blinks innocently at me.
“Glad to know I’m an acceptable consolation prize.”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something but snaps it closed again.
I glance around at the furniture towering over me. “So, this is what an impenetrable fortress looks like, huh?”
He cringes. “I’m sorry. I thought it might give me some stroke of inspiration.” He frowns. “Wait, is this one of those things you’re supposed to be pointing out to me?”
“Pointing out to you?”
“Our deal, remember? Anything weird, you’re supposed to tell me.”
Oh. That deal. The one I’m doing my best to forget he even asked about. He can call it improvement all he likes, but what he actually wants is to change himself so people will like him better. That doesn’t sit right with me, not that it’s my decision to make, but I’ve always liked Beau. Sure he’s … different in ways, but that’s not a bad thing.
“I’ll admit this isn’t what I’d expect to walk out to—”
His face falls.
“—but it doesn’t matter what I think.”
Beau looks like he wants to roll his eyes.
And fair enough. If this is something he wants to do, I’m not going to stop him, but I’m also not going to encourage it. Convincing him he’s fine the way he is isn’t my place.
“I’m going to cook lunch. You hungry?”
“Yeah, thanks.” He goes back to gathering up the paper. “I’ll put everything back and—”
I cover one of his hands to make him stop. “Leave it.”
“What?”
“You’re working, and if this helps, then it stays for as long as you need it. I’ll slide lunch in through the, ah, door when it’s ready.”
Beau’s forehead creases as I climb out, but I pretend not to notice.
Sure, the fort thing seems like a leap in logic to me, but it’s a minor thing. This is his place, he can do what he wants, and if building a pseudo-replica impenetrable fortress is what he needs to get past the writer’s block, then why shouldn’t he? Beau doesn’t take himself too seriously, and it’s refreshing.
My fuckhead ex took everything too seriously. From our furniture to his clothes to where we hung out and with who. I’d liked it at the time, but thinking back on it makes me sad.
How much different would things have been if we’d taken a step back and built a blanket fort in the living room to watch movies from?
I know exactly what that fucker would say to those kinds of suggestions though. That we’re too old. Like I just told Beau we’re too old to have a roommate.
The whole time I’m cooking the rice for lunch, I keep glancing over at where I can hear Beau shifting papers and tapping at his keyboard as he mutters to himself. He’s like his own center of energy, filling the apartment with his presence.
I’m still not sure how to take him.
But I’m curious anyway.
6
Beau
My brain is wired today. Hopped up on overthinking and hyperfocus with no outlet to unleash it on. I woke up at midnight, and the second I opened my eyes, I knew there was no getting back to sleep. Sneaking down the hall so I didn’t wake Payne, I closed off the door into the living room, made a coffee, and then switched on the computer. Words tumbled from my fingers with the steady tapping of keys, and an hour later, I had a scene written about a seashell pining for the ocean.
It’s too on the nose for anyone to ever see it, so I save the scene to the depths of my hard drive and open the novel I’m working on.
The next chapter stares back at me blankly—white screen, pulsing cursor, brain urging me to type something—but my hands are unwilling to listen.