The Beau & the Belle
Page 4
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Beside the gardens, there’s a pool with blue and white striped lounge chairs lining one side. On weekends, Rose and I live there, reading until my mom insists we have to come inside for dinner.
“That’s the garden and the pool, obviously,” I say, waving in front of us before moving my hand to the other side of the back yard. “And there’s a grill and outdoor kitchen over there. My parents probably wouldn’t care if you used it, as long as you cleaned up afterward. Good luck trying to figure it out though. I tried to use it once to roast hot dogs and nearly singed my eyebrows off.”
He smiles then we turn for the apartment and step inside. My dad owns an architectural design firm that specializes in restoring old homes around the Garden District. For years, my parents talked about fixing this guest house up and renting it out to a Tulane or Loyola student, and last year, they finally did it. It’s small, more of a studio than anything else. There’s a bedroom combined with a living room, a bathroom, and some space he could turn into a makeshift kitchen if he wanted to. I turn to Beau, expecting him to complain that it’s not big enough.
“My parents were talking about letting the renter use our kitchen in the main house,” I say. “Although, I hear you can do a lot with a hot plate, pancakes and…well, actually I’ve only ever seen people make pancakes with a hot plate, so I hope you like breakfast!”
He’s mostly ignoring me at this point as he walks through the apartment and opens the door to the bathroom, the only separate room in the whole place.
“It’s fine,” he says, assessing the space with an appreciative look as if it’s not the size of a shoebox.
“So you’re going to take it?” I sound surprised.
“Have your parents shown it to anyone else?”
I shake my head, and as if on cue, their voices drift over the back garden. They come to join us in the apartment and start to discuss the logistics with Beau, facts and numbers I don’t really care about. I linger in the background, wondering what exactly I’m supposed to be doing…wondering how I can get Beau to notice me again. Hey, remember me? Your loveable, witty tour guide?
My parents lead him out of the apartment so they can all go sign the paperwork, and I’m left behind. They’re halfway back to the house when Beau glances back at me and smiles. I realize then that he hasn’t met my eyes since we were first introduced. His blue gaze is heavy when it lands on me, rooting me in place.
“Thank you for the tour,” he says, tipping his head.
My heart hammers in my chest and I wave as I call out, “You too!”
YOU TOO is what I say back to him, which makes no sense at all, but he’s already turning back to my parents and I’m left wallowing in teen angst. I replay the exchange long after he’s gone. I pull out my homework and spread it across the dining room table, thinking about what a cool reply would have been, murmuring them to myself in anger.
“Oh, sure thing. My pleasure. Fuggedaboutit.”
A solid No problem! would have at least made sense. I sigh and push back from the table, planning to distract myself with a snack. I’m rooting through the fruit bin in our refrigerator, trying to decide between an apple or some grapes, when my brain remembers that I forgot about Preston. PRESTON! I jerk up, smack my head on the bottom of the condiment tray, and then whip around toward the kitchen clock. It’s 5:20 PM. My heart races. My head hurts—I hit it harder than I thought I did.
With a bag of frozen peas pressed to my temple, I bolt for the stairs. It takes ages, EONS for my computer to wake up. I ice my head and tap, tap, tap my finger on my mouse, circling it around like mad. Preston’s baseball practice has already started. It’s too late to talk to him today. I have enough homework to occupy me for hours, and I need to help my mom with dinner (otherwise we’ll be eating some form of overcooked loin). I know it’s too late. I’ve missed my opportunity for today, but that doesn’t matter because when my computer finally wakes up, there’s a chat window sitting in the center of the screen with a halo of gold light shining around it.
OH MY GOD.
PRESTON MESSAGED ME.
AFBaseballGuy05: Yo, what’s up?
So smooth. So aloof.
In response, my away message popped up.
XO_LoULoU_XO’s AWAY MESSAGE: BrB ScHoOl.
I sit there wondering what my away message says about me. My alternating-caps letters hopefully convey that I am trendy. Fun. Carefree. Also, now he knows I care about school, I guess. That’s good. Maybe next time I should add a song lyric, Green Day or Pink. Something recognizable but vague, possibly “Wonderwall”.
I wonder what our conversation could have been had I seen his message in time. Maybe he would have asked me to hang out this weekend, or asked me to be his date for the cotillion. I smile and lean back against my chair, basking in the knowledge that Preston Westcott messaged me. ME. Rose isn’t going to believe it.
I MOVE INTO the apartment on Saturday. It’s a quick process, one trip over from my old place. My old furniture—the modest collection I’ve scrounged together over the years—gets sold, and what’s left is a few boxes of my personal items: school stuff, worn LSAT books I can’t find the courage to part with even though I’m due to graduate from law school in the spring. It feels like if I get rid of them now, it might jinx it, so they get stuffed in the bottom of my TV stand.
My phone buzzes in my pocket; it’s been ringing all morning. It’s my mom, wondering when I’ll be heading over. Usually at this time on Saturdays, I’m already home. She likes to cook me breakfast with all the trimmings: bacon, eggs, and pancakes with enough high-fructose syrup that I have to crash on her couch and sleep off the meal while old Saints games play in the background. I didn’t have the heart to cancel on her this week even though I need to get settled in at my apartment, not to mention I have enough coursework to keep me occupied for two weeks straight—advanced corporate law, mergers and acquisitions, negotiation theory. Saturdays are our tradition though, and I know how much my visits mean to her since my dad passed a few years back. Hell, they mean a lot to me too. Besides, I could use a stack of her pancakes right about now. My stomach has been grumbling for the past 30 minutes.
I grab my keys from the coffee table and assess the current state of affairs: my crap is everywhere, and there are still more boxes to unpack. My jaw ticks. I can’t stand the mess. I might have lived in some bad places over the years, but I always found peace in maintaining the day-to-day neatness that I’m able to control.
I swallow down the compulsion to stay and get everything in order, and instead I yank open the apartment door and step into the LeBlancs’ back yard. There’s a gate on the fence near my apartment, but I loop around the pool instead since my truck’s parked out front.
I shoot my mom a quick text.
BEAU: Headed over now.
A flash of movement catches my attention and I glance up in time to see Lauren duck below her window on the second floor. I resist a smile. She was there watching me all morning as I carried boxes from my truck to the apartment. During my first trip, she came down in Nike shorts and a cotton tank top, flip-flops flapping. Her blonde curly hair was pulled back in a swinging ponytail, messy and girlish.
“D’ya need any help?” she asked me with wide, expressive eyes, hazel with green flecks. It’s been said that eyes are little windows to the soul, but hers seem to offer a floor-to-ceiling view into every damn thought in her head.
I turned down her offer, not because I make it a point to be an asshole, but because the boxes were heavy and there’s a reason moving companies don’t hire willowy teenagers. She would just get in the way.
She didn’t let that stop her though.
By the time I was on my next trip, she was back out there with a glass of lemonade. I hesitated, thinking of how it’d tasted the last time I was offered a glass, but she was quick to ease my fear.
“I tossed that hydrochloric acid my mom made. This is my signature blend. I’ve been making it since my friends and I used to sell it out on the sidewa—” She stopped short and flushed. “Never mind, just try it. It’s good, I promise!”
Her tentative smile was enough to sway me and I took a long sip, appreciating how cold it was. Even in the morning, the temperatures were creeping up.
“That’s the garden and the pool, obviously,” I say, waving in front of us before moving my hand to the other side of the back yard. “And there’s a grill and outdoor kitchen over there. My parents probably wouldn’t care if you used it, as long as you cleaned up afterward. Good luck trying to figure it out though. I tried to use it once to roast hot dogs and nearly singed my eyebrows off.”
He smiles then we turn for the apartment and step inside. My dad owns an architectural design firm that specializes in restoring old homes around the Garden District. For years, my parents talked about fixing this guest house up and renting it out to a Tulane or Loyola student, and last year, they finally did it. It’s small, more of a studio than anything else. There’s a bedroom combined with a living room, a bathroom, and some space he could turn into a makeshift kitchen if he wanted to. I turn to Beau, expecting him to complain that it’s not big enough.
“My parents were talking about letting the renter use our kitchen in the main house,” I say. “Although, I hear you can do a lot with a hot plate, pancakes and…well, actually I’ve only ever seen people make pancakes with a hot plate, so I hope you like breakfast!”
He’s mostly ignoring me at this point as he walks through the apartment and opens the door to the bathroom, the only separate room in the whole place.
“It’s fine,” he says, assessing the space with an appreciative look as if it’s not the size of a shoebox.
“So you’re going to take it?” I sound surprised.
“Have your parents shown it to anyone else?”
I shake my head, and as if on cue, their voices drift over the back garden. They come to join us in the apartment and start to discuss the logistics with Beau, facts and numbers I don’t really care about. I linger in the background, wondering what exactly I’m supposed to be doing…wondering how I can get Beau to notice me again. Hey, remember me? Your loveable, witty tour guide?
My parents lead him out of the apartment so they can all go sign the paperwork, and I’m left behind. They’re halfway back to the house when Beau glances back at me and smiles. I realize then that he hasn’t met my eyes since we were first introduced. His blue gaze is heavy when it lands on me, rooting me in place.
“Thank you for the tour,” he says, tipping his head.
My heart hammers in my chest and I wave as I call out, “You too!”
YOU TOO is what I say back to him, which makes no sense at all, but he’s already turning back to my parents and I’m left wallowing in teen angst. I replay the exchange long after he’s gone. I pull out my homework and spread it across the dining room table, thinking about what a cool reply would have been, murmuring them to myself in anger.
“Oh, sure thing. My pleasure. Fuggedaboutit.”
A solid No problem! would have at least made sense. I sigh and push back from the table, planning to distract myself with a snack. I’m rooting through the fruit bin in our refrigerator, trying to decide between an apple or some grapes, when my brain remembers that I forgot about Preston. PRESTON! I jerk up, smack my head on the bottom of the condiment tray, and then whip around toward the kitchen clock. It’s 5:20 PM. My heart races. My head hurts—I hit it harder than I thought I did.
With a bag of frozen peas pressed to my temple, I bolt for the stairs. It takes ages, EONS for my computer to wake up. I ice my head and tap, tap, tap my finger on my mouse, circling it around like mad. Preston’s baseball practice has already started. It’s too late to talk to him today. I have enough homework to occupy me for hours, and I need to help my mom with dinner (otherwise we’ll be eating some form of overcooked loin). I know it’s too late. I’ve missed my opportunity for today, but that doesn’t matter because when my computer finally wakes up, there’s a chat window sitting in the center of the screen with a halo of gold light shining around it.
OH MY GOD.
PRESTON MESSAGED ME.
AFBaseballGuy05: Yo, what’s up?
So smooth. So aloof.
In response, my away message popped up.
XO_LoULoU_XO’s AWAY MESSAGE: BrB ScHoOl.
I sit there wondering what my away message says about me. My alternating-caps letters hopefully convey that I am trendy. Fun. Carefree. Also, now he knows I care about school, I guess. That’s good. Maybe next time I should add a song lyric, Green Day or Pink. Something recognizable but vague, possibly “Wonderwall”.
I wonder what our conversation could have been had I seen his message in time. Maybe he would have asked me to hang out this weekend, or asked me to be his date for the cotillion. I smile and lean back against my chair, basking in the knowledge that Preston Westcott messaged me. ME. Rose isn’t going to believe it.
I MOVE INTO the apartment on Saturday. It’s a quick process, one trip over from my old place. My old furniture—the modest collection I’ve scrounged together over the years—gets sold, and what’s left is a few boxes of my personal items: school stuff, worn LSAT books I can’t find the courage to part with even though I’m due to graduate from law school in the spring. It feels like if I get rid of them now, it might jinx it, so they get stuffed in the bottom of my TV stand.
My phone buzzes in my pocket; it’s been ringing all morning. It’s my mom, wondering when I’ll be heading over. Usually at this time on Saturdays, I’m already home. She likes to cook me breakfast with all the trimmings: bacon, eggs, and pancakes with enough high-fructose syrup that I have to crash on her couch and sleep off the meal while old Saints games play in the background. I didn’t have the heart to cancel on her this week even though I need to get settled in at my apartment, not to mention I have enough coursework to keep me occupied for two weeks straight—advanced corporate law, mergers and acquisitions, negotiation theory. Saturdays are our tradition though, and I know how much my visits mean to her since my dad passed a few years back. Hell, they mean a lot to me too. Besides, I could use a stack of her pancakes right about now. My stomach has been grumbling for the past 30 minutes.
I grab my keys from the coffee table and assess the current state of affairs: my crap is everywhere, and there are still more boxes to unpack. My jaw ticks. I can’t stand the mess. I might have lived in some bad places over the years, but I always found peace in maintaining the day-to-day neatness that I’m able to control.
I swallow down the compulsion to stay and get everything in order, and instead I yank open the apartment door and step into the LeBlancs’ back yard. There’s a gate on the fence near my apartment, but I loop around the pool instead since my truck’s parked out front.
I shoot my mom a quick text.
BEAU: Headed over now.
A flash of movement catches my attention and I glance up in time to see Lauren duck below her window on the second floor. I resist a smile. She was there watching me all morning as I carried boxes from my truck to the apartment. During my first trip, she came down in Nike shorts and a cotton tank top, flip-flops flapping. Her blonde curly hair was pulled back in a swinging ponytail, messy and girlish.
“D’ya need any help?” she asked me with wide, expressive eyes, hazel with green flecks. It’s been said that eyes are little windows to the soul, but hers seem to offer a floor-to-ceiling view into every damn thought in her head.
I turned down her offer, not because I make it a point to be an asshole, but because the boxes were heavy and there’s a reason moving companies don’t hire willowy teenagers. She would just get in the way.
She didn’t let that stop her though.
By the time I was on my next trip, she was back out there with a glass of lemonade. I hesitated, thinking of how it’d tasted the last time I was offered a glass, but she was quick to ease my fear.
“I tossed that hydrochloric acid my mom made. This is my signature blend. I’ve been making it since my friends and I used to sell it out on the sidewa—” She stopped short and flushed. “Never mind, just try it. It’s good, I promise!”
Her tentative smile was enough to sway me and I took a long sip, appreciating how cold it was. Even in the morning, the temperatures were creeping up.
