BEAU
"Move your hand up a little," I instruct Parker, feeling the familiar roughness of the guitar strings beneath my own fingers. He does as I tell him, looking up to observe my placement, and I continue with the lesson. "See how it sounds different?"
"I guess so," He shrugs, pushing dark hair behind his ear and crinkling his brows in frustration. I hide my smirk - I guess not everyone can be a guitar-playing god. Sucks to be everyone else.
Setting my own instrument to the side, I lean back on my hands, letting the dewy grass impress lines against my palms. Looking out over the small pond, I watch the ducks dunk their heads below the surface, rippling slightly from the fountain in the center. After a couple of minutes, they pop right side up again, necks discolored from the murky water. Parker continues playing, if you can call it that, the chords disjointed and harsh on my ears, as I let my mind wander.
I'm only a couple of weeks away from being two months sober. I let the idea stir in my mind, wondering what it is I'll finally do once I'm out of this place. Emma is a no go, obviously. How strange and depressing it is to consider a future without her in it.
I roll my eyes up to the sky, the fluffy white clouds looking too soft for my mood. Resuming my habit of tugging the grass out from the ground, I let out a deep sigh. I can't really go back to music, either. At least not the tour scene. So where does that leave me?
"Penny for your thoughts?" Parker mumbles, huffing as he sets his guitar in his lap, rubbing the sore pads of his fingers against his old sweats. I pick at the calluses on my fingertips, missing my nail polish yet again.
"My thoughts are worth much more than pennies." I mutter sarcastically, avoiding the question entirely. "And you should keep trying. Practice makes perfect - isn't that what they say?"
"Is that what you did?" Parker stares at me intently, making no move to pick up the instrument again.
"No," I admit with a casual shrug. "Some are just born talented. Don't take it too hard,"
I chuckle as Parker shoves me hard, rolling his eyes and flicking hair from his view. His gaze doesn't waver and I know he won't just let the subject go. Parker isn't one to take hints, subtle or otherwise.
"Just thinking about when I get outta this place," I shrug again, mindlessly grabbing my guitar and beginning to strum casually, hoping he'll do the same.
"What's your plan?" Parker asks instead. He's like me in a lot of ways: sarcastic, angry, sometimes rude. But he's more of a talker, so long as it's not really about him - a habit that causes me more suffering than him.
Again, I shrug. "Don't really have anywhere to go or anyone to see... So I guess I don't really know." My brows furrow and I close my eyes to avoid his intrusive staring as I pretend to concentrate.
"Man, I wish," Parker sighs, laying back against the grass and staring up at the sky. "My family is too much. They'll probably send me back drinking just by trying to help."
My eyes open and squint involuntarily as he complains. "They care about you though, right?"
He raises his brows at me, a smirk on his lips. "Sure they do. If for nothing else, I give them something to talk about around the holidays." I don't speak but my expression must give me away because he chuckles humorlessly and keeps going. "You know how it is, Beau. Everyone claims to care but no one really does."
I consider the statement for a few moments, pretending to be focusing on my notes. I guess I do understand, in a way. The entire world watches every time I fall, cameras at the ready to capture it and broadcast it to countless others. While the label might portray a concerned front, they only really give a shit about their wallets. The fans, well... Some might care, but only as much as they know how. If they knew me, the real me, if they spent a week putting up with my shit, they'd probably bail, too.
But Parker doesn't have a label to worry about or a publicist or the entire world watching - just a family willing to pay to get him help.
I shake my head finally. "I don't know how it is. No one I know cares enough to put up with me," I wave my hands to the facility, "Or this, anymore. Your family is just trying to watch out for you. Don't ruin it. You don't want to be let out of a place like this and have no where to go."
As usual, Parker rolls his eyes at me. "Isn't that the same thing as having everywhere to go, and no one to stop you? You're such a downer." He laughs and continues yapping away about his shrink and his latest theory that the man actually wants him to get worse. For the most part, I tune him out, contentedly strumming at my guitar strings and enjoying the breeze off the pond. But some small, deeply hidden part of me is jealous of him. Jealous that this is his first time in a place like this, jealous that he has someone who still cares.
Hearing Dex reminding me not to compare my journey to anyone else's in my head, I push the thoughts away, losing myself in Parker's mindless chatter and the sound of my music.
***
"Beau, here you go." Callie comes by the dinner table and drops an envelope beside my plate before quickly heading to the next package. Parker raises his brows at me, cheeks full of mashed potatoes.
I shake my head without looking at it and speak before Parker can begin talking with his mouth full. "Can't be right," I hand the envelope back to Callie. "I don't get any mail."
"Well you did today." She smiles and deliberately places the paper back beside my forearm before continuing her rounds of the dining room. My eyes narrow at her hot pink scrubs, wondering who wrote me, but too nervous to look for myself.
Probably Beck, I roll my eyes and shovel another forkful of corn into my mouth, Probably asking for more money.
Swallowing loudly, Parker grabs my mail before I can look at it. Nosy little shit. I don't bother giving him a reaction but keep eating wordlessly.
"Ooh," He wiggles his brows at me, a snide grin on his lips. "Who's Emma?"
My head snaps up instantly and I snatch his wrist tightly, using my other hand to pry the envelope from his fingers. His eyes widen at me as his mouth pops open in surprise, but he quickly regains composure, leaning back in his chair and raising his brows at me inquisitively.
That can't be right. I smooth the paper against the table and immediately recognize her handwriting. Fuck me.
"See you later," I mumble to the table, earning head nods from Ronnie and Parker, and a "God bless" from Melanie. Too captivated by the swirls of Emma's script impressed on the thin paper, I don't even make a snide comment to bible-thumping Mel before clearing my place.
My mind races as I rush back to my room, fingers tearing hungrily at the envelope to get to what's inside. I settle on my bed, flipping the folded paper over in my hands again and again.
Do I really want to read this? Something admittedly more than curiosity fuels my movements as I unfold the note and begin to read, heart hammering in my chest the entire time.
Beau,
First, I want to say that I'm sorry. We said we need space and we DO. I never want to jeopardize your well-being but I feel like you really need to know.
The paper shakes in my fingers. Know what? The nerves race through me, making it hard to focus my sight on the tiny letters coloring the page.
I thought a lot about what to do and basically found no answers, except that whatever happens, it affects you, too. Please know I wanted to do this another way, any other way, really... but our options are limited.
So, here it goes.
Beau, I'm pregnant.
The world stops turning, except for the walls now spinning out of control around me. My throat catches fire as anxiety pumps my heart faster and faster so that it's pounding in my ears, so loudly that I can't hear myself think. Not that there would be much to hear anyways - my mind scrambles in a million directions, not a single one providing me any sort of rational thought.
Memories, or hints of them, at least, tug at the vulnerable fabric of my thoughts, threatening to overtake me entirely. Never mind shaking, the paper now wobbles in my hands as I fight to not crush it between my clenched fists.
"Beau, you okay?" Parker halts at the door to our room and I look up without really seeing him. He's there, but it doesn't matter. Nothing else matters. "Hey, man, what's going on?"
If I was paying attention, I'd notice the concern creeping into his usual snarky tone. But it's all I can do just to keep breathing with the insurmountable weight now pressing against my chest.
Shooting up from my mattress, I carry the letter with me as I walk past Parker and to the front desk. He follows, but again, I pay him no mind as I slam the sheet of paper down against the reception area.
Callie jumps behind the computer screen before finding her polished and professional demeanor at once. "Beau, can I help-"
I don't wait for her to finish, manners be damned. "I need to speak with Dr. Williams. Now."
Thanks for reading loves! How do you think Beau's handling the news...? Any predictions?
First question! (From Dartanyan-LoveAlways - thank you!
Do you have a Beau in your life, or someone like him that inspires his character?
Funnily enough, I actually do not have a Beau in my life. What I do have is a deep love for "bad boys" or misunderstood characters with sad backstories. I'm really drawn to characters, love interests especially, who are tough/hard to everyone else, but melt when they meet the right person.
In terms of his addiction, I'm very interested in psychology and I knew I wanted Beau to be sort of a tortured character. I wanted his troubles to go beyond the surface level - for both himself and for his relationship with Emma. Because while Beau makes bad choices, a lot of them have to do with his personal demons and not how he truly feels about Em. (Not that that makes them okay!)
I wanted to depict a real struggle between two characters and an even deeper struggle between Beau and himself, and eventually tell the tale of trying to overcome these obstacles.
I do a lot of research and hopefully I do his story justice!
Thanks for the question! Remember to leave q's in the comments ❤️