But realistically, it’s only been a month. We’re moving too fast, aren’t we?
There’s a knock on the door, and I freeze in fear as Ringo starts barking wildly. As I descend the stairs, the knock is back. My first thought is that it’s the same people who were responsible for vandalizing Beau’s car. But it’s after ten at night. Would they really come to my house and knock on my door? I pull out my phone, ready to call Emerson or 9-1-1 or do something when I hear a voice.
“Maggie, it’s me.”
Beau.
In a rush, I run across the foyer and tear open the door. He’s standing on my doormat, an ugly red scrape running from his cheek to his forehead on one side of his head and a large purple bruise forming under the other eye.
“Oh my God, Beau!” I say with a gasp as I pull him inside. “What happened to you?”
He groans as he holds his head. I pull him into the kitchen and rush to the sink to grab a towel, running it under the warm water of the faucet.
“I fucked up,” he mumbles.
“What do you mean you fucked up? Weren’t you taking Sophie out for ice cream?”
“I did. Her boyfriend was there with another girl.”
As I rest the wet cloth against the bloody gash on his face, he winces. “Tell me you didn’t start a fight with a teenager.”
He doesn’t reply, only grimaces. There is remorse dripping from his expression as he stares at the ground.
“Oh my God, Beau. Is he okay?” I ask.
“I didn’t even get a punch in. I was just…so mad at him. I hated him.”
“Well, you care about Sophie a lot, but you can’t beat up every guy who breaks her heart.”
His sullen eyes lift to my face, and my heart skips in my chest. The vulnerability he’s expressing, the pain, fear, anger, all of it, is somehow as beautiful as much as it is haunting.
“I’m no better than him.” His expression is pleading, and I hate to hear him talk about himself like this. I hate it. So I turn my back and head toward the freezer for ice.
“No, you’re not. Don’t say that,” I reply with my back turned. As I pile ice cubes in the towel, I hear him standing up from the stool and walking toward me.
“Yes, I am, Maggie. I’ve cheated on almost every girl I’ve been with. I cheated on Charlie twice and she only knows about one. I fucked the other girl and Charlie in the same fucking day.”
My hand freezes in the ice bin as his words impale me with fear. Every perfect vision I have of him and any future we may have had evaporates into thin air.
I feel so stupid.
When I turn toward him, ice in my hand, I can’t hide the contempt on my face. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why he is telling me this or what I’m supposed to do with this information. Does he want me to regret opening my heart to a selfish twenty-two-year-old man? Because at the moment, I do.
“That’s terrible, Beau,” I whisper.
“I know,” he replies, moisture springing to his eyes, “I’ve been trying to tell you this. I’m terrible. I don’t respect any of the women I’m with—I just want to hurt them. I fuck it up every single fucking time. You don’t have to hate me. I hate myself enough.”
“Don’t say that. I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.”
“I get the slightest attention from a woman and I don’t care who I hurt to get it. I don’t care about anyone but myself. Sooner or later, I’ll cheat on you too.”
I shake my head, trying to press the ice pack to his forehead. I just want him to stop talking, stop trying to convince me that I shouldn’t care about him. It’s not working. It’s alarming how much it’s not working, because everything Beau is saying should have me pushing him out the door, out of my life, out of my heart. But I’m not. The more he deprives himself of love, the more I want to make up for it.