But the depth of his remorse after the words left his mouth, how he’d reached for me, revealed much of his nature. Beau Winston was impossible to dislike.
After substantive deliberation, a certainty I rarely felt settled deep in my bones, and I spoke the truth. “I don’t think Beau Winston would purposefully hurt anyone.”
9
“Educating the mind without educating the heart is no education at all.”
― Aristotle
* * *
*Beau*
I did a lot of googling on Friday night instead of going to the jam session.
Cutting.
Specifically, why people do it.
The search results returned a whole lot of scary stuff, and basically added up to the fact that folks cut themselves as a way to gain a sense of control. Often because at some point in their life, control was taken away without their permission. Which didn’t make much sense to me.
But okay.
Sure.
I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept seeing Shelly’s scars, her face after I’d yelled at her, kept picturing the woman slicing into herself, lying in a hospital bed in our library downstairs. I called her name. She looked up from her bleeding arm. Instead of being Shelly, it was my mother, and she couldn’t reach the morphine button.
And then I woke up with a racing heart, feeling sick. The nightmare was reminiscent of the weeks leading up to my momma’s death. I shoved it away.
Sleep was elusive from that point forward.
After much debate, I decided to talk the situation over with Duane, even though I’d scaled back asking my twin for advice these last few months. I needed to get used to his absence, grow accustomed to making decisions without considering his thoughts first. But this situation with Shelly seemed serious. Thus, I decided to make an exception.
I’d also thought about asking his opinion on Christine St. Claire’s request for a meeting, but decided against it. The thing with Christine was something I’d ultimately resolved to settle on my own. Drill had been texting and calling every other day over the last week. He’d originally said I had a month to think the matter over. Apparently, he’d lied.
Intent on the coffee I could smell coming from downstairs, I closed the door to the room I shared with Duane, careful to be quiet. Even though he and Jess were planning on traveling the world together come November, they hadn’t moved in together. She still lived with her parents, and he still lived with us.
Nevertheless, sometimes Duane slept at the house, sometimes he didn’t. I didn’t know where he slept when he wasn’t at the house, and I saw no reason to ask.
None of my business.
Then I saw Cletus strolling down the hall toward his room. He was in a towel and his hair was damp. Which meant he’d just showered. Which was unusual. Cletus preferred to shower at night, saying he didn’t want to slumber with the dirt from the day.
I stared at his door, now closed, for several minutes, deliberating.
Did Cletus know about Shelly’s scars? Was that why he was forgiving of her rudeness? What else did he know about Shelly and not seen fit to share?
And why was he showering early in the morning? Why was he even up? Cletus was never up early.
Was it for this woman? The one he’d been fixating on? And who was she anyway? He’d been acting squirrelly since . . . since . . .
I blinked.
A shadow of a thought inserted itself in my brain, growing, until it emerged as a fully formed suspicion.
The timing fit. Cletus wasn’t big on forgiving, but he was forgiving of her . . . of Shelly. Hell, one might even say he was partial to her, in a sense, and insomuch as Cletus was capable of being partial to anyone.
Damn.
My feet were moving, carrying me to his door before I’d made up my mind, trying to leave behind the sour turn to my stomach as I thought of Cletus and Shelly. Together.
I knocked, deciding that my sense of discontent was about wanting my brother to be happy. What if he didn’t know about the scars? What if he was half in love already and he didn’t know? What then?
Not waiting for him to answer, I stuck my head in his room, and spoke around the spike of discomfort in my chest. “Hey, Cletus. I was thinking about—”
I was unable to continue, because the sight of my brother in suit pants and a fancy new suit shirt was so confusing, I wondered briefly if today was Sunday.
Meanwhile, Cletus was looking at me funny. Like he’d been caught, or he felt guilty about something.
“What?” He glanced down at himself then back to me.
“Today isn’t Sunday,” I said, 99% sure it wasn’t Sunday. Not unless I’d slept through Saturday.
“I know that.”
“Then why’re you dressed up?”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” I walked into his room and stood behind my brother as he inspected himself in the mirror.
He was dressed up. He’d put effort and thought into his clothes and Cletus never put effort and thought into his clothes. On Sundays he always wore black pants and a white shirt. He called it his Sunday uniform.
Cletus was dressing fancy for someone.
The discomfort in my chest swelled tenfold and became dread. “Who are you going to see?”
He shrugged. “No one.”
“Is it Shelly?” I asked, unable to stop myself. “Are you two involved?”
Cletus shrugged. “I’m not involved with Shelly. At least, not yet.”
A shock of something unpleasant raced through me, causing me to tense, stand straighter. Hoping to cover the unexpected reaction, I crossed my arms and worked to keep my voice even. “What does that mean?”
“It means, eventually, I’ll see to her. She and I are suited.”
Oh. Hell.
The rubber band around my ribcage squeezed, making breathing a chore.
Damn.
I stared unseeingly at nothing in the mirror. Cletus had been with women, but he’d never admitted to being interested in a person or brought any of his lady friends around the house. This was a big deal.
He turned and walked past me to his bed, sitting on the edge, and put on his shoes.
Still facing the mirror and looking at nothing in particular, I asked, “You think you two are suited?”
“Yep.”
“How long have you, uh, felt this way?”
And also, slightly off topic, why does the idea of Cletus and Shelly together make me feel like shit?
“Since I met her and determined ours would be an ideally placid union. Why?”
“Because I—”
Shit shit shit.
What could I say?
If he knew about the scars, then me bringing it up wouldn’t go over well. It might even upset him, and no one wanted Cletus upset. Life was hell for everybody when Cletus was upset.
But if he didn’t know about the scars, and I told him, well . . . it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. When Cletus made his mind up, there was no changing it. But then he’d definitely get upset.
And besides, was it my place? To tell him? Was it even a big deal? Eventually, he’d find out when they . . . they . . .
Damn.
Now I really felt like shit. And I’d waited too long to answer. Cletus’s stare was heavy and I needed to speak before he grew suspicious.