Now I’m here to stay.
“But you guys haven’t talked about it?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Then why are you talking to me about it?”
“Because I don’t know who else to talk to about it,” I bite out.
“Maybe try the girl who it involves?”
“Rich coming from you. How many years did you pine after Sloane before you came clean?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Jasper shake his head. “That was different, and you know it. But even if it weren’t, I have enough perspective now to tell you I wish I’d told her sooner. I wish I hadn’t counted myself out or convinced myself I didn’t deserve something happy.”
I flinch at his words, covering it by pretending to swat at a fly. Didn’t deserve something happy. He’s a little too on the nose today.
“Nobody just waltzes around telling their lifelong friend they’re into them, Jas. Not anyone with a modicum of survival instinct anyway. Imagine she turned you down. Oof. That would have been rough. Kiss that friendship goodbye.”
I look both ways before pulling out onto the main highway that will lead us into Chestnut Springs. The tires go from crunching over gravel to humming over asphalt. The radio from slightly crackling to clear sound.
Finally, Jasper speaks. But it’s in that quintessentially Jasper way, quiet and introspective, like he’s thought out every single word before they even leave his lips. “Right. But it would have been worse to spend my life wondering what would have happened if I told her. Or wishing I had.”
I swallow as the horizon line in front of us changes. Buildings crop up as downtown comes into view. As we draw closer to the bar. To Bailey.
To the girl I might spend a lifetime wishing I’d told this thing isn’t fake to me anymore.
32
Bailey
Beau: Jasper and I are coming to hang out for a drink.
Bailey: Oh, a sign of life. Thanks for the heads up.
I should be Beau Eaton’s biggest fan today. He made me see stars last night and then held me against him like I was his favorite stuffed toy all night long. Then, when I thought he was getting up to go to the bathroom or get a drink of water, he disappeared on me. If it were for work, he’d have gone earlier. But instead, he slept in and then left without a word when he thought I was still asleep.
He told me he was hung up on me. Then fucked off. And I was too chickenshit to go after him.
I grab another fork, spoon, knife combo and angle them across the paper napkin, rolling the cutlery up like it’s done something to offend me. I toss it into the bucket beside me, glance up and down my mostly empty bar to see if anyone needs topping up, and start all over again.
I’ve spent all day trying to make heads or tails of it, and it’s become clear to me I have no clue what I’m doing where Beau Eaton is concerned. I’m officially a basic bitch with a massive crush on the same person as every other girl in town.
And I know I’m leaving. Which is a hilarious combination.
Do people masturbate together all the time and then just carry on like nothing happened? I don’t even know! Worse, I have no one to ask.
Except for Beau. Which just comes off kind of pathetic in this case. So I’ve stewed all day. Lying in the sun, pretending to read when I’m fairly sure I just read the same page over and over again while waiting for him to show up.
Then I got ready early for work, taking extra time to look really fucking good. Glowing from an afternoon spent in the sun made it easy to go light on my makeup. I scrubbed and moisturized my skin until it freaking shines when the light hits it. Wanting to showcase the goods, I picked a floral tank top that ties at both shoulders and tucked it into skin-tight black jeans. Jeans I know make my ass look great.
And then I spent a painstaking amount of time blowing out my thick head of hair, section by section, with a round brush. It tumbles down my back like a mane, heavy and voluminous.
I’m counting on Beau actually showing up. For all his mixed signals behind closed doors, he’s been nothing but steadfast and dependable where safeguarding me at my bar is concerned.
And sure enough, the door swings open at 8 p.m., and in he walks, all bronzed skin, tight T-shirt, and sun-bleached hair. His brown locks are now highlighted with streaks of blond and warm chestnut because he refuses to wear a hat at work. He insists he’s not a cowboy while simultaneously burning his ears working the ranch all day long.
My stomach flips over on itself, butterflies erupting as he approaches.
He doesn’t belong here.
The thought pops up and I swipe it away. Write it off as wishful thinking. Of course he belongs here. He’s the prince of Chestnut Springs.