Wherever It Leads(87)

“Make it all go away. Make me not lose my phone in the bananas. Make my brother listen to me and not go to Africa.”

“Has Fenton called you at all?”

“Nope.” I lean against the counter, my shoulders slumping. “Not that I wanted him to, but . . .”

“But you wanted him to,” she finishes. “It’s okay, Brynnie. It’s normal to feel like that.”

“But I shouldn’t. I should want to gouge his eyes out with a fiery poker.”

“Well, if his poker was as fiery as you say . . .”

“Now’s not the time for jokes, Pres.”

She laughs anyway, almost making me crack a grin. “Maybe you should call him.”

“And say what?”

“I don’t know. Say whatever you’re thinking.”

I walk by her and into the living room. “That’s the problem, Pres. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I have no freaking clue. One minute I’m over here,” I say, motioning to my right. “And the next, I’m way over there. Like in the kitchen over there. I can’t get a grip.”

I sink onto the sofa and let my head fall in my hands.

“You want to know what I think?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really,” she laughs, sitting in the chair across from me. “I think you feel so confused because you fell in love with him.”

“No,” I say, jerking my face to hers. “I’ve decided that I couldn’t have fallen in love with him.”

“Right,” she laughs sarcastically. “Think about it. If he was just the stepping stone from Grant to whomever, then you’d have the loathing of Cashmere that you’re trying to have.”

“I’m not trying to have it.”

“You are, Brynne.”

I try to keep my features smooth, to not let her know she just pegged me. Because it’s true. I’ve been trying to hate him and as the days go on, it just gets harder. I think back to him saying he loved me and to the way he held me, looked at me, felt against me, and it’s just so hard to hate him. Nothing I experienced when I was with him makes me think he’s hateful or careless or distrustful. Except that he is who he is.

But how can I trust him? How can I trust anything he said?

“What if he really didn’t know who you were,” Presley says, feeling me out.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to you now because you have feelings for him.”

“So you’re taking his side now?” I blurt.

“No, I’m on your side always. I’m just saying . . .”

I rise off the couch, my irritation with her higher than it should be, and I know it’s just because I’m a mental case at the moment. “I gotta get ready for work.” I march down the hall and shut the door to my room behind me.

Blanking everything out other than what I have to do, I open my closet to grab something to wear to work. The first thing I see is the yellow dress I wore to dinner with Fenton. I can’t help it. I sit on my bed and let the tears flow.





“You look like shit.”

“Thanks, Pres,” I say, not bothering to even look her direction. I keep my eyes trained on the television, to some redhead that is figuring out whether the baby she had tested was her husband’s or not. It’s oddly entertaining. I feel bad for her husband; he seems like a nice guy. The other potential DNA donor is a complete douche. Of course she blames the husband for her affair, which makes me want to pull her hair out. People need to own up to their own mistakes, even if it doesn’t make any difference.

The television switches off and Presley stands in front of it, hands on her hips. “Seriously, Brynne. Get in the shower and let’s do something.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Damn it, Presley,” I groan, getting off the couch and knocking over an empty carton of Ben & Jerry’s. “I just want to be left alone.”

“You’ve been left alone more or less for a week now. How you’ve managed to eat nothing but ice cream and look like you’ve lost ten pounds is beyond me, by the way,” she rolls her eyes. “But I’m done watching you wallow.”

“I’m not wallowing.” I toss my tangled hair over my shoulder and head into the kitchen. I rummage around the freezer for more ice cream, but we’re out.

“You are wallowing, and I’m sorry to tell you, it’s pathetic.”

The freezer slams shut. I glare at her. “Bite me.”

“I’m not really into that, but the guy I saw last weekend would probably work a threesome.”

My eyes narrow. Hers widen.

“Brynne, seriously, get a grip.”

I sink against the refrigerator, the cool stainless steel rippling through my robe. It’s oddly distracting and more than welcome. I play with the elephant charm around my neck, still unable to take it off. Like Fenton said, when I feel like I’m going to break, I touch it and try to find something calming in the charm. Strangely, it works a little.

“You’re being hateful,” Presley points out. “I can be a bitch too, but it’s not going to get us anywhere. So just stop it.”