Brynne

He’s hiding something.

Like an old friend that was never really gone, wariness creeps into the back of my mind.

Every scenario that goes through my head only makes it worse.

I didn’t hear much of Kane and Blake’s conversation, but the look on both their faces said, whatever they were hiding, was bad.

Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. It’s what I do. What I’ve always done. Especially with Kane. But I can’t help but play his words over and over again in my head. If Brynne finds out about this.

Whatever is going on, he doesn’t want me to know.

Noah whimpers in my arms, and I realize that I’ve been standing, staring at the closed door for over a minute. He’s hungry and I’m being an idiot. Kane said he’d tell me everything when he got back, and since I’ve moved in with him, he’s given me no reason not to trust him.

I try to ignore the cool pinpricks of premonition that tickle the back of my neck as I warm up the bottle Kane had already started making.

But as the minutes and hours pass, the initial knot in the center of my throat turns into a golf ball sized lump.

After I lay Noah down for his afternoon nap, I go to the room where Kane set up all my art supplies. Multiple finished and unfinished canvases lay scattered around.

Trust him, my heart cries out.

He’s going to destroy you, my head warns.

There’s a constant battle between the two.

I pull out a blank canvas and prepare my paints, then sit down to sketch the images that pop into my head. And I paint, using all my pent-up emotions to push through the self-doubt and insecurities.

I get lost in the work, only breaking when Noah wakes up from his nap.

But still, Kane isn’t back. And when I check my phone, there’s no message from him.

He has a practice today, which means he’ll be going to the arena soon, if he’s not already there.

My phone buzzes, with Felix’s name popping up on the screen.

He’s called twice in the past couple of days, and I haven’t answered, which makes me a really shitty friend, I know.

“Hello?”

“I was starting to wonder if you were ignoring me.” There’s an edge of hurt to his tone, despite his attempt at humor.

“Just really busy. Trying to finish a piece for the exhibit. I can’t believe how quickly-’

“About that…”

The lump in my throat drops to my stomach.

“You were supposed to have your pieces delivered to the studio two days ago. That’s why I’ve been calling.”

“Shit.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. I’ve never been good with deadlines, but I could have sworn I had another week. “I can have a courier pick them up this afternoon-”

“They cancelled your spot, Brynne.”

“What? But I can get them-”

“It’s too late. I asked Lynne to hold off, but she already gave it away.”

I sit down on my stool. “Can we re-book? There’s another one in a few months, right?”

“I can talk to her, but…”

“But what? You know how much I wanted this. I’ll do anything-”

“Why don’t you come over for dinner next week? Bring Noah. And we can talk about it.”

An uneasy feeling settles in my gut.

“Nothing has changed, Felix.”

“So, now that you’re living with Mr. Hotshot Hockey Player, you can’t have dinner with a friend? Unless…” He snorts on the other end. “Unless you’re already sleeping with him.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Right,” he says sarcastically.

“Felix, I-”

“Listen. I didn’t want to be the one to have to tell you this, but your boyfriend isn’t as golden as everyone seems to think he is.”

“You don’t know him.”

“God, you are fucking him, aren’t you?”

“That’s none of your business even if I were.”

“I thought you were smarter than this. But then, you did get yourself knocked up with the asshole’s kid.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“Goodbye, Felix.”

“Wait.” His voice is desperate.

“What?”

“Just take a look at the article I’m sending you.”

“Fine,” I breath out in frustration, hating what our friendship has come to.

“And Brynne. If you need me, I’m here for you.”

I hang up.

A couple seconds later my phone pings with a text message. I stare at the link, not sure if I want to open it.

With a deep breath, I tap my thumb on the link and a page opens. It’s some trashy online gossip magazine.

A quick glance at the article title and I know I’m going to regret opening it.

Kane Madden, Not So Golden.

I know this magazine. Ninety-nine percent of everything it reports is false, or some fabrication of the truth. But as I scroll through the bullshit and get to the incriminating photos, that damn lump returns to my throat.

The pictures are black and white and a little fuzzy, marked with a time and date stamp at the top. A quick glance and I know they were taken from the security camera just outside Kane’s apartment by the parking garage entrance. They’ve been zoomed in, enough that Kane’s features are slightly recognizable.

The first photo is of him getting out of his car. The second, him approaching a woman. She’s tiny, wearing a hoodie that covers half of her face. But the half that is visible holds a look I’m all too familiar with - hollow eyes, sunken cheeks.

But it’s the third picture that sends a cold shiver down my spine. Him handing her money. Not just pocket change like he might give a homeless person, but a wad of cash.

I pace the apartment, hating the way I feel. The paranoia. The anxiety. The fear.

The logical part of my brain, even the part that’s always wanted to see the worst in him, screams that there’s more to the story. That there’s some type of explanation. That he wasn’t doing what the article said he was doing – buying drugs.

This is the shitty part about caring about someone.

Because you either have to trust them, or walk away. There’s no in-between. Unless you want to drown in your own suspicions.

If this thing between Kane and I is going to work, then I have to trust him, or I should do us both a favor and end it now.