Bring Down the Stars (Beautiful Hearts Duet #1)(58)

You mean, to him.

Connor was staring at me, eyes wide. “Dude…”

Disgust flooded me, slugged through my veins—thick and cold—dousing the warmth I’d had with Autumn on the phone.

You didn’t have anything with Autumn, you selfish asshole. You tricked her…

“Wes?”

I blinked and gave my head a shake.

“That was awesome, man,” Connor said. “You said everything right. Perfect.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Perfect.”

Connor frowned. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Overthink it. It’s not a big deal,” he said. “When she started to cry, my mind went blank. It’s so much easier to shut up and hug a girl when she’s upset, you know? I’m better with that. Over the phone, it’s rough. But you knew just what to say. To make her feel better.”

To make her happy. That’s all that matters.

I clung to that thought, fighting the rising tide of wrongness for deceiving Autumn. Again.

“She’ll come to Boston for Thanksgiving,” I said, my Southie accent coming back after being carefully locked up for the phone call. My jaw ached.

“Thanks, man,” Connor said. “That’s awesome. You’re a miracle worker.”

“Yeah.”

He cocked his head. “You’re good, right?”

“What? Yeah. Fine. Just tired. And sore from the track spill.”

He nodded. “So. Can I have my phone back?”

I realized I was still holding it. “Oh, right.” Reluctantly, I handed it back.

Handed Autumn back to Connor.

“Thanks, man.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

No problem at all. Except that I’ve dug us in deeper. Dug Autumn in deeper to Connor. Dug myself deeper into lies, and she’ll never forgive me…

A little more than a week later, Autumn surprised him by flying home and coming directly over to our place.

“Hi,” she said softly, dropping her bag.

“Hi,” he said.

They kissed deeply at the door, and then he took her to his room.

That’s why she can never know. Never.

I took a run. Faster and faster, until exhaustion hollowed me out. Hopelessly trying to burn out what I felt for Autumn, and pretending I was filling myself back up with their happiness. Both of them, the two people I cared for most in the world.

The two people I loved.





Autumn



Friday before Thanksgiving, I went to the Panache Blanc to pick up my paycheck. It was the first time I ever dreaded a payday. It wasn’t going to be enough to get me out of the hole from spending ten days in Nebraska.

Dad was released from the hospital and Mom had set him up in the downstairs den. It had an adjoining bathroom so he wouldn’t have to deal with stairs. He insisted I go back to Massachusetts before I fell further behind in my classes and work. I hated to leave. He still looked so pale and thin. Things were bad at the farm and getting worse with every day he had to stay in bed.

“There’s nothing you can do here,” he told me. “If you want to do something to help, get back to school. Pursue your dream.”

“I don’t know what my dream is, Daddy,” I’d said.

“You will. It’ll come to you, and when it does, you’ll wonder how you never saw it there, waiting for you all this time.”

At the bakery, Weston was at his usual table in the corner, head bent over his work. His pen moved quickly over a page, his jaw hard, his eyes nowhere else. I said hi to Phil, slipped into the back room to get my paycheck, and slipped out again. I tore into the envelope, wanting to face the disaster head-on.

I stopped short, mouth falling open and tears flooding my eyes as I read the amount on the check—an extra five hundred dollars that had no business being there.

God, Edmond…

“Are you okay?”

From his table, Weston stared at me, the angular lines of his face drawn down with concern. I wiped my face and slumped into the chair opposite him. I set my paycheck on the table.

“Edmond’s kindness is making me emotional. He’s giving me a ‘Thanksgiving bonus.’” I made air quotes around the word. “Only there’s no such thing. He’s making up for the pay I lost while I was in Nebraska.”

“Sounds like Edmond. But you don’t like taking charity,” Weston said, not quite a question.

I shook my head. “Pride is a weird thing. If the situation were reversed and someone I cared about needed money, I’d give it without a second thought. Why is taking it so much harder?”

Weston nodded. “Yeah, I know how that is. But are you going to be okay?” He gestured to the envelope. “Money-wise, I mean.”

“I don’t know.” Dread lay heavy in my stomach. “I really don’t know if I’m going to be able to stay in school. Or if I even should. It feels selfish when my family is suffering so much. I feel like there’s nothing I can do to help, and I’m so far away.”

“How bad is it?” he asked.

“Not great. Dad was already shorthanded before the heart attack. He was probably working himself harder to make up for it, but it’s the planting season. The most important part of the year, and my brother says that we owe the bank money from an old loan. Dad’s going to have to sell off some acreage to make up for it.”