She didn’t hear him in the TV room, and he wasn’t in the kitchen, thank God. He was probably in one of the many “off-limits” rooms in this stupid house that was way too big for one man to live in alone.
There were two mason jars in the refrigerator neatly labeled BUTTERNUT SQUASH SOUP. Soup was just what she needed tonight. Had Michaela known it would rain today? Probably. She had magic powers like that. Or, you know, she’d checked the weather, unlike Izzy. Either way, Izzy was grateful. She poured some of the soup into a bowl, stuck it in the microwave, and checked the Post-it note Michaela had left on the jar.
Garlic bread in freezer; reheat in toaster oven—400 degrees for 5 min.
God bless that woman. How had someone as terrible as Beau Towers gotten someone as great as Michaela to come work for him? Izzy slid the foil-wrapped bread into the toaster oven and pressed start.
“You’re right.”
Izzy jumped and turned to see Beau Towers in the doorway. Again. Had he come to kick her out of his house finally?
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I guess I have a habit of doing that.”
“I guess you do,” she said. She turned back to the toaster oven. And then she turned back around. “I’m right about what?”
Beau took another step into the kitchen. “About me. You’re right about me. That I’m spoiled and selfish and don’t think enough about other people and all those other things you said.”
She just stared. That had been the last thing she’d expected him to say to her.
He kept talking. “Well, except for that thing about torturing you for sport—I wasn’t doing that on purpose. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun of you today. Or last night. I think I’ve forgotten how to talk to people. It’s been a while. I only laughed today because I didn’t even know you’d left the house, and I opened the door expecting it to be UPS or something, and there you were, soaking wet, and you looked so…I just laughed because it was so unexpected. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that you’re right about me. Why do you think I’m having such a hard time writing this book?”
Izzy turned all the way around and looked straight at him. “I don’t know,” she said. “You wouldn’t tell me.”
He shrugged. “I know. Well, it’s because of that. And, I guess, some other stuff, too. But how do you write a memoir about your life when you know your whole life was a lie and you’re cursed to be a privileged asshole forever? What am I supposed to write? I have nothing good or uplifting or meaningful to say. I read those memoirs you recommended, and they all had some hopeful message at the end, and I just don’t have one. But I tried—I listened to what you said the other day and I made myself sit down and write something and it all felt wrong and I don’t know how to do it in a way that’ll feel right.”
He’d actually listened to one of her pep talks? And did what she’d suggested? She hadn’t expected that at all.
Wait. Something else he’d said clicked.
“You read the memoirs I recommended? Snack Foods Month! You did read my emails!”
He grinned at her for a second. “Yeah, I read them all. They got kind of funny, you know. I almost started to look forward to them. I almost said that last night, but then…” He trailed off and shook his head. “Sorry that I never responded to them. I just…couldn’t.”
This conversation was quickly disproving most of what she thought she knew about Beau Towers.
“I know you all want me to use a ghostwriter,” he said. “If I was smarter and less stubborn, I’d probably just do it and get the stupid book over with. But I want to do it myself and tell the truth about everything, and in order to do that I’d have to—” He stopped and looked down. “It would be really hard. And I’m stuck. That’s…why there’s no book.”
There was so much pain in his voice when he talked about the book. He was genuinely upset. He really did want to write it. She’d had no idea.
The microwave dinged, but Izzy barely heard it.
She opened her mouth and then closed it.
Beau laughed. “Oh, come on. Just say whatever you were going to say.”
Izzy smiled. “It’s just…I was going to ask, but this is a kind of sensitive question….” Beau made an impatient motion at her. “I was just wondering if maybe you’re depressed? Because—”
Beau let out a bark of laughter so loud that Izzy took a step backward. “Of course I’m depressed! I’ve been in this house with no one to talk to—other than Michaela, I don’t know how she puts up with me—for over a year! It would be a miracle if I wasn’t depressed. But that doesn’t make any of what I just said untrue.” He stopped and looked at Izzy. “Wait, I’m sorry, I did it again. That sounded mean. See, I don’t know how to talk to people anymore, if I ever did. I’m being an ass again.”
This whole conversation was so unexpected.
“It’s okay,” Izzy said. “I…I didn’t realize you really cared about the book, that’s all.”
He took another step into the kitchen. “I just don’t know how to write it. I don’t want to give up on it, but I might have to. I don’t know what to do, and it feels so overwhelming, and I’m already so late on it that every time I think about it, it feels harder to do, and I freeze up.”
He really did care about his book.
He really did need help.
The toaster oven timer went off. He went over to the cabinet, took a plate down, and slid the bread onto it.
“Anyway.” He set the plate in front of her, then turned and walked toward the kitchen door. “You should eat. I just wanted to say that. And that I’m sorry. Again. I’ll tell Marta that you tried as hard as you could with me, but there was nothing you could do.”
He took a step into the hallway. Suddenly, she didn’t want him to walk away.
“Beau.”
He turned around. “Yeah?”
Izzy took a deep breath. “Will you let me help you? With the book. Really help you, I mean.”
Beau looked at her. “Why would you do that for me? I’ve been terrible to you.”
She didn’t really know how to answer that question. She thought for a second. “You seem like you really want to write it. I didn’t realize that before. I want you to get there. I can stay—if Marta lets me—and work with you on it, if you’re willing to do the work. I’m not an expert at this, or anything. But…I’d like to help.”
“Yeah,” he finally said. “I’d like that.”
He smiled at her. He looked a little nervous. Almost friendly. She suddenly…liked him?
She smiled back. “Can I ask you one more question?” she asked.
The smile faded from his face, but after a beat, he nodded. “Sure, okay.”
“Can you please, please, tell me where the wine is in this house? I know it exists, there was some that first night, but I haven’t seen any since, and after the day I’ve had, I desperately need some.”
He laughed out loud. A real laugh.
“Wine is a great idea. And yes, there’s plenty. Hang on, I’ll grab something out of the cellar.” He turned to leave the room, then stopped. “Actually…you don’t have to say yes to this, if you want to have dinner yourself up in your room, I get it, you’ve had a long day. But…do you want to have dinner with me? I’ll get the wine and we can watch a movie or something and I promise I won’t make you give me a pep talk or talk to me about writing or your job or anything else. But it’s okay if you don’t—”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’d like that.”
Beau disappeared in the direction of “the cellar,” wherever that was. This house had cellars and gardens and a moat and a seemingly magic kitchen and probably a dungeon she hadn’t seen yet. She put the other chunk of garlic bread in the toaster oven for him, poured his mason jar full of soup into a bowl, and put it in the microwave to heat up. This had been the strangest day.
She couldn’t believe she’d really volunteered stay here longer and work with Beau Towers on his book. Why had she done that?
Because of that look on his face. That look of shame, and longing, and pain when he’d talked about his book, and how hard it was for him, and how he didn’t think he could do it. That look, and everything else he’d said, made her think he really cared about it and had something he wanted to say. And suddenly, she wanted to help him say it. When she’d first gotten here, she’d been so focused on escaping from the office and proving that she could do this job—to herself and to Marta—that she hadn’t cared at all about the actual book. But now she did.