Page 48 of Fifty-Fifty

I can barely make out Noah’s face in the darkness, but his silhouette pauses and tilts its head in confusion. “Why? She normally goes down fine.”

My cheeks heat even though he can’t see me. “Because someone wasn’t here to read her a bedtime story.”

His normally broad shoulders deflate instantly before he collapses onto his side of the bed. Well, what used to be his side, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. The sound is so damn sincere it almost breaks me.

He’s so close I can nearly taste the whiskey on his breath. And I’m surprised to find he doesn’t smell like Noah. He smells like the local bar, and the thought is sobering.

“You’re drunk.”

He rolls toward me. “Yeah. Well, I had a shit day.”

“And why’s that?” I prop myself up onto my elbow, restin’ my head in my hand.

“Guess I’m just lucky,” he comments sarcastically.

I roll my eyes. “Well ain’t you just chock-full of helpful information this evenin’.”

He laughs. “You know me. Always here to help.”

“Is that right?” I ask, quirkin’ a brow.

He sits up and rests his elbows on his knees before holdin’ his head in his hands. “No. Seems like all I do is screw things up, actually.”

His vulnerability is enough to melt a bit of the ice around my heart from his earlier horse shit.

Gingerly, I follow suit, sittin’ up on the bed and tuckin’ my feet beneath me. I lean closer and start to rub his back through his shirt. “You don’t screw things up, Noah.”

He laughs, but there ain’t any humor in it. “That’s bullshit. And I think we both know it.”

Hastily, he pushes the sleeve of his black, long sleeved shirt to his elbow, displayin’ his muscular forearm. “See this?”

I nod. It’s that same tattoo that grabbed my attention when we first met. The image of a dead tree with a single leaf clingin’ to its branches.

“This is me. It’s a physical reminder to never give up. To hold on to the things I want in life. No matter what.” He pushes away from the bed and starts pacin’ the floor, makin’ my hand fall to my side. “I can’t give up on my dream, Beau. Not for anyone.” He looks down at me, and I can see what little light is in the room reflectin’ off the tears in his eyes. “Not even for you.”

His confession feels like a vice around my brittle heart, squeezin’ the life out of me.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Noah?” My voice is shaky, but I can’t help the emotion that slips through.

He bounces on the balls of his feet like he’s fightin’ to stay and talk this out rather than run for the hills.

“It means that I need to go. It means that I need to ask something of you that I can’t even believe I’m actually asking. It means…” He grabs his hair and starts to pull at the strands as he fights with himself.

“What are you askin’ of me?” I whisper, tryin’ to soothe the angry beast in front of me.

Noah drops to his knees before restin’ his weary head in my lap. The sight damn near breaks me. I’m terrified to admit to myself that I’d give him anythin’ he’d ask of me.

“What are you askin?” I repeat when he doesn’t say a word.

A choked sound escapes him. “I need the money, Beau. I need my dream.”

A tear slides down my cheek, but I can’t get my mouth to cooperate. To yell and to scream. To ask him what the hell about my dream?

This inn is my home. It’s my daughter’s home. It’s our life. The one we’ve built together. But as I look around the freshly painted white walls, I know the truth.

I won’t be able to stay here without Noah by my side. Not since I gave my heart to him.

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