Page 92 of Lighting the Lamp
And Beau is different. He’s too good. Too thoughtful. Too careful. And maybe that’s what scares me most. I know what it’s like to be someone’s burden. I’ve seen it in their eyes—the shift, when affection turns into obligation—but that’s never happened with him. Although that doesn’t mean it won’t.
“I don’t want to be his secret weight to carry. I don’t want to be the reason he has to smile through something heavy and awful. And whatever it is he’s keeping to himself is big. I can feel it in my chest like a second heartbeat.”
“So ask him,” Michele says, leaning in.
“I tried. Not directly. But I’ve hinted, and he changes the subject or deflects. And maybe that’s fair. He doesn’t owe me his everything, but how am I supposed to let him into my everything if I don’t know what he’s hiding in his?”
“Okay, so the thought of opening the door is terrifying.” Ramona stares into my eyes, warm and steady. “But you can decide not to run. You can sit in the messy middle, where you want him and you’re scared. Both things can be true.”
I swallow but nod because, as much as it terrifies me, I don’t want to walk away just yet. Not when part of me still hopes he’ll choose to let me in. That this time I won’t be the one left holding the wreckage.
“I think I want to believe,” I murmur, staring at the cold cinnamon roll in my lap like it might have the answers. “I just don’t know how to survive it if I’m wrong.”
“Then we’ll help you figure it out.” Ramona leans her head against my shoulder.
Michele doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then says quietly, “Sometimes the bravest thing isn’t staying or leaving, it’s staying open. Letting yourself hope, even when you know how bad it can hurt.”
My throat clenches as traitorous tears sting my eyes for what feels like the millionth time because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s hope. Real, sharp-edged hope. And that’s fucking terrifying.
“I just…” I wipe my hands on a napkin and take in another rattling breath. “What if I’m not strong enough for the good stuff?”
Ramona lifts her head and looks at me like she sees all the shattered parts, stitched-up scars, and the heart that still beats anyway and says, “What if you are?”
And I don’t have an answer.
At least not yet.
But for the first time, I think I want to find out.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Alise
Igrip the steering wheel so tight the leather bites into my palms. The whole hour and some change drive back from Ramona’s, my brain wouldn’t shut up. Every song on the radio sounds like a love song gone wrong. Every mile marker feels like a countdown I can’t stop. My chest hasn’t stopped pounding since I bolted out of Beau’s apartment, and now that I’m home, the buzzing under my skin is worse. Like he’s still there. Like his hands are still warm on my waist, his mouth still whispering promises against mine.
By the time I pull into the driveway, my legs are jittery, restless, like they might give out if I stand still too long. I slam my bedroom door harder than I mean to, and the sound echoes down the hall. Great. Subtle, Alise. I kick off my shoes and start pacing, back and forth, counting steps like they’ll pin me down. They don’t.
I can’t outrun the image of him. The way he looked at me when he said he meant it. Not bluffing. Not joking. Like he wasn’t going anywhere. My throat aches like I swallowed glass, and I press my palms into my eyes until colors burst behind them.
“Alise?”
My mom’s voice is soft but firm, followed by the familiar thump of her cane against the hardwood, followed by a gentle knock like she’s done this a hundred times.
“Yeah?”
“You’re stomping around like a herd of elephants in there. You okay?”
“Fine,” I lie, the word cracking at the edges.
The door creaks open anyway. Mom leans on the frame, bonnet skewed from her nap on the couch. She shifts her weight carefully, balancing on her cane, eyes narrowing as they sweep over me—barefoot, pacing, nails chewed down to nothing.
“Fine,” she echoes, arching a brow. “That’s what we’re calling this now?”
I sink onto the bed and clutch a pillow to my chest like it might hold me together. “It’s nothing. Just… a long day.”
She doesn’t buy it. She never does, but she doesn’t push either, just stands there, arms crossed, letting silence stretch until it presses on me like a weight. I fold under it, just like always.
“It’s Beau.”
