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Beau lowers onto the couch beside me like he’s not sure how to sit in his own skin. I shift close, thigh pressed to his, and lean in close enough to whisper, “You’re doing great.”
He huffs a breath, part scoff, part relief. “Feels weird.”
“You’re allowed to feel that way. You’re also allowed to just…be.”
From the kitchen, cabinet doors open and shut with quiet clinks. She’s humming now, something slow and melodic.
When she returns, it’s with three mismatched mugs, steam curling from each. She sets them down with trembling fingers that she tries to hide by brushing invisible crumbs from the tray.
“I wasn’t sure what kind you liked so I made chamomile,” she says, eyes glancing at my tea, then Beau’s. “Figured it was a safe choice.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, wrapping my hands around the mug.
Robin sits across from us. “So, tell me everything.”
I laugh softly, trading a glance with Beau. “That’s a dangerous invitation.”
He snorts, but there’s affection in it. He leans back against the couch, arm settling behind me, finally letting himself exhale.
His mom catches the gesture. Then she smiles. “You two look good together.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, cheeks warming. “He cleans up okay.”
Beau groans beside me.
“What?” I grin into my tea. “You do.”
His mom chuckles, and for a moment, I can almost see her the way she might’ve been before the shadows settled in. “He always hated dressing up. Used to fight me tooth and nail just to wear clean jeans to school.”
Beau groans again, tipping his head back against the couch. His mom lets out a real laugh this time. “What do you do, Whitley? For work?”
“I’m a therapist,” I say, setting my mug down carefully. “Well, play and art therapy, mostly. I work with kids who’ve been through trauma. Help them find ways to talk without always having to use words.”
A soft smile pulls at Robin’s mouth. “That must be hard.”
“It can be,” I say truthfully. “But it’s good. It feels…right. Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Her eyes linger on mine. I would love to spend time with her. Not just for Beau, but because I can already tell there’s so much more to her.
She lives with bipolar. I’ve seen what that can do—how it folds a person in on themselves, makes them wary of their own reflection, their own thoughts. I also know what it looks like when someone claws their way through the chaos and still manages to show up with a gentle smile and ask what kind of tea you like. That takes strength most people don’t understand.
I can see the sweetness under the surface. The glimmer of someone who used to laugh loud and feel big. She reminds me of a few of my favorite patients—brilliant, fractured souls who just needed someone to sit beside them while they figured out how to navigate life.
I’d love to be that for her someday. Set out paints and clay and let her make a mess. Let her say the things she’s not sure she’s allowed to out loud. I could do it. Not as Beau’s girlfriend. Just as me.
But not today. Today isn’t about fixing. It’s about showing up and sipping tea and trying not to stare too hard at the familiar storm in her eyes.
So I smile instead, getting comfortable in my seat. “Tell me about little Beau.”
Her lips twitch. She glances at him sitting stiff beside me.
“Whitley,” he mutters under his breath, a warning that only makes me grin harder.
“What?” I say innocently, bumping his shoulder. “I want to know who I’m dealing with here. Was he one of those kids who lined up his toy trucks?”
His mom snorts, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard all day. “Oh, he was particular, that’s for sure. Hated sticky hands, wouldn’t eat anything that touched something else on the plate.” Her eyes go soft. “But he had a heart way too big for his own good. Used to sneak his snacks we could barely afford into his backpack for a classmate who didn’t always bring lunch.”
I glance sideways at Beau, who’s staring into his tea like it might save him. My chest goes all warm and fuzzy. “Of course he did.”
