Beau: A Fictional Narrative

“Hey, you awake?” Hot breath tickles my cheek. The lightest, barely-there touch skids along behind the breath, both interpreting my deep sleep. I must be dreaming. Dead to the world. That’s it: my body and mind is heavy with exhaustion. After the hospital and worrying about whether or not Bubba was going to be okay, and the tiresome attempts to decode a very complicated Beau had me passing out flat on my stomach on his old sofa. Bubba has an ear ache and will be fine. Beau on the other hand, wouldn’t even let me hold the toddler, existent that nobody was going to take the child from him. Beau was distraught. Bubba clung to him as if he felt the same way. Once in the Emergency room I had even caught Beau stroking the little boy’s hair telling

Anyways, I swore not to wake again until morning light. Maybe then things would be clearer. The past weeks have been miserable with its many up and downs. I felt like that night, the night I had crawled through that window, I had willingly made a deal with the devil, the devil being Beau. But then, sometimes, like an unexpected wave knocking you on your ass at the beach and ripping your feet out from underneath you, Beau would be decent.

Or at least approachable.

I groan, switching my head side to side on the pillow, wiping the drool from my open mouth. I envision an edgy artist with oil creases around nailbeds, popped hoods and wicked beautiful grins. The bastard has now invaded my dreams. I never should have agreed to stay, I wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t been for the baby.

Flushed and overheated, I push one foot out from underneath the sheet in search of a draft. There it is again, that annoying tickle over my cheek. “Juliet, I need you to wake up.”

“I don’t wanna.” But even as I say it I lift my head a fraction off the pillow; my eyes prying open and fixating on his face so near to mine. I’m asleep, and then he is there. Imagine the jolt that has to

A letter is produced from his back pocket. “What is it?” I stare at Beau in utter confusion. He leans and turns on the lamp beside the couch then noisily unfolds the letter and smooths out its many wrinkles, putting the letter in my hand. His palms rub up the sides of my throat, turning briefly so his knuckles brush the line of my jaw, and then up to along my cheeks. So tender. So gentle. A totally different Beau from that first night in his bedroom. I’m beginning to wonder if that Beau ever insisted or was just a front to keep people out. I’ll never regret waiting around to find out. I blink, my gaze remaining on the letter in my grip. Beau is sharing his big secret. The thought warms my heart and cause tears to sting my eyes. “Beau,” I