Page 143 of Lighting the Lamp
Forty-five minutes into the drive, the glow of my dashboard clock feels like it’s mocking me, each minute stretching and snapping back like a rubber band. The letter sits in the passenger seat, my gaze snagging on it between mile markers, like the words might vanish if I stop checking.
Fifty-five minutes in, my hands are cramping from gripping the steering wheel so tightly, and my breathing is quick and shallow. My stomach twists with every mile marker, each one a reminder that I’m getting closer, even as the fear in my chest tightens. I replay his last words in the letter until my throat is raw from holding back the sound that wants to tear out of me.
My tires crunch over loose gravel as I pull into the lot, headlights sweeping across the brick façade of Beau’s building. The faint glow of a lobby light spills out onto the pavement, and my chest tightens like it’s bracing for impact. I’m out of the car before the engine quiets, the letter back in my grip, my thumb tracing his name over and over until the ink feels like it might smudge into my skin.
The lobby door is heavier than I expect, the metal cool under my palm, and the faint scent of cleaner and stale coffee hits meas I step inside. My sneakers squeak against the polished tile, each step echoing in the quiet like a countdown.
The elevator waits at the end of the hall, its silver doors reflecting my blotchy face, but I can’t stand still long enough to push the button. My feet carry me toward the stairwell, and I take them two at a time, the air growing warmer and heavier with each flight. By the third floor, my legs burn and my breath comes hard, but adrenaline keeps me moving until the number4stares back at me from the wall.
His hallway is dim and quiet, the carpet muffling my steps. Every door I pass feels like it’s watching me, holding its breath. When I reach his, I don’t think. I just lift my hand and knock, the sound sharp in the silence, my pulse roaring in my ears. For a long moment, nothing. My chest tightens, breath catching painfully in my throat, and then the door opens.
Beau stands there, backlit by the soft light spilling from his living room. His hair is a little mussed, his jaw shadowed, eyes rimmed in red like he hasn’t slept in days. There’s a hollow exhaustion in his face, but the second he sees me, he goes completely still as if one wrong move might shatter whatever fragile thread is holding this moment together. His gaze drops to the paper in my hand, lingering there for a beat too long before it climbs slowly back to my face.
“Alise…” His voice is low, rough, scraped raw like gravel dragged across velvet.
I swallow hard, my throat burning, the words scraping their way out. “I read it.”
Something that looks like hope, fear, and disbelief all tangled together flickers across his face, each one fighting for space. His shoulders sag, the fight bleeding out of them, as the weight of those three words hits him harder than he expected.
“And you came anyway?”
“I couldn’t not.” My voice cracks, splintering in the quiet. Suddenly, I’m moving, because standing still feels like I’m suffocating. “You don’t get to send me that and then think I’m staying away.”
His hand twitches like he wants to reach for me but doesn’t trust himself.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”
“God, Beau.” My fingers curl into the fabric of his T-shirt, warm and worn under my palms, and the letter crumples between us. “You don’t get it. I’ve been dying to see you. I’ve been?—”
That’s all it takes for him to break. His hands come up, framing my face like he’s afraid I’ll dissolve into smoke if he lets go. The pads of his thumbs catch on the dampness under my eyes, his touch both reverent and desperate. With each pass of his thumb, it’s like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me before I slip away again.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispers, voice shaking with something deeper than fear. “And I don’t—fuck, Lisey—I don’t know how to do this without you.”
“You don’t have to.” My words are barely a breath before I’m surging up, and he’s meeting me halfway.
His mouth crashes onto mine in a kiss that’s all heat and ache and weeks of holding back. It’s not neat or careful how his lips move over mine, trying to drink me in and memorize every angle, every taste. My fingers fist in his shirt, dragging him closer until there’s no space left between us, the letter crushed and forgotten but still pressed between us, carrying the weight of everything we’ve never said.
When he finally tears his mouth from mine, we’re both breathless, our foreheads pressed together, the air between us hot and unsteady, our exhales mingling like neither of us is ready to give the other back their space.
“I’m still scared,” he murmurs, his voice rough and ragged against my skin. “But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”
“You realize you just quoted yourself like you’re auditioning for a dramatic movie trailer,” I whisper, my lips brushing his as I speak. “Then don’t let go.”
His answer is another kiss, deeper and steadier this time, before he finally steps back. His hand finds mine, tugging me gently over the threshold. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing us into the quiet warmth of his condo. Somewhere inside, music hums low, a deep, rich voice curling into the air like honey poured slowly. I take a second to place it, and then I huff out a watery laugh.
“Gary Allan? Really?” My voice wobbles between teasing and choking. I swipe at my eyes, still smiling through the tears. “What is this, some kind of ‘welcome home’ playlist for sappy country boys?”
One corner of his mouth curves, slow and deliberate, but there’s a softness in his eyes I’ve never seen before, a quiet sort of worship that makes my knees weak. “You like it?”
“I mean…” My gaze flicks toward the speaker in the corner as the chorus swells, the words wrapping around me. “It’s a little on the nose.”
He steps closer, his hand still holding mine, thumb brushing over my knuckles in slow, grounding strokes. “Dance with me.”
“Here?” I glance around at the narrow entryway.
“Here,” he says, his voice low and certain, like this moment is exactly where we’re meant to be.
Before I can argue, his other hand slides to my waist, warm and steady, pulling me into the heat of him. My free hand rises automatically to his shoulder, and the familiar feel of him anchors me. The world outside ceases to exist until there’sonly the slow sway of our bodies, the rough velvet of his voice humming the lyrics against my hair.
