Drew

Two weeks. Two long, agonizing weeks of pleading, begging, wallowing. The only thing keeping me from having a complete breakdown at the lack of contact from Brooklyn has been my daughters and doing everything to protect them from what Carla and Skylar have done.

In all the drama surrounding Brooklyn’s attack, I somehow had the wherewithal to send Alice the voice recording I’d made of Skylar’s admission. She reached out to Carla’s lawyer to see if he had any knowledge of what Skylar alleged, only to learn he’s no longer representing Carla, that she retained new counsel. It feels like for every step forward, we’re forced two steps back. This time, I’m not going to agree to anything without a judge telling me I have to. I can feel good about that, at least. That still doesn’t help me with Brooklyn.

I’ve tried to talk to her every day. I’ve called, texted, and even stopped by her place and Wes’, unsure what her status is. She’s yet to answer her phone or open the door for me. My luck was no better when I dropped by her office. They informed me she was on a leave of absence until further notice, which I expected.

Molly’s tried to find out if she’s still with Wes, but Brooklyn hasn’t returned any of her phone calls, either. She’s shut out all of us, and for what? Because she’s worried we might talk some sense into her? That doesn’t sound like the Brooklyn I know. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn her father’s controlling her communication with us, considering he turned away Molly and Gigi when they tried to visit her in the hospital.

Refusing to settle for the silent treatment any longer, I decide to drive to her place in Medford after walking the girls to school on a Tuesday in June. Her street is quiet as I head up the walkway and climb the steps to her small porch, waving at a neighbor I’ve seen occasionally. I reach into my pocket and retrieve the key, inserting it into the lock. I’d tried to be respectful of her space over the past several weeks, not wanting to barge in on her, but that time has passed. It’s time I get answers. Time I hear her tell me she wants nothing to do with me.

When I push the door open, I fully expect to be met with Brooklyn’s heated glare as she berates me for letting myself in without knocking. Instead, I’m met with emptiness. No furniture, art, life…anything.

Turning a slow circle, I stare at the empty walls that were once covered with framed prints and photos. The only sign that Brooklyn ever lived here is the dust outline from where the frames once hung. I blink, my heart pounding in my chest at what this could mean. Did she pack her things and leave town? Or did she move out of her house because of a different reason?

I continue into the townhouse that once smelled of lavender and baby powder but now reeks of cleaning supplies and chemicals, searching for any clue. Just like the living room, every room I walk into is empty…except her bedroom.

Boxes are stacked against the far wall, all labeled — donate, destroy, storage…Wes.

Wes.

My heart shatters in my chest, my lungs unable to expand and draw in oxygen. I don’t want to believe it, don’t want to admit what my eyes are seeing, that this makes it appear as if she’s moved in with him.

I walk toward the boxes, a morbid curiosity brewing inside me. A voice in the back of my mind tells me to walk away, but something else pushes me forward, wanting to confirm my suspicions. Any number of these can hold what I’m looking for, but one calls to me more than the others. Grabbing one of the boxes labeled destroy, I bring it to the center of the room and place it on the floor.

I lower myself beside it, the seconds stretching as I lift the lid. When my gaze settles on the contents, I close my eyes, the lump in my throat becoming even more painful. I reach into the box and grab two pieces of a ripped photo, one that Brooklyn once displayed prominently in her home but now discards, along with the rest of this box of memories I hold dear.

I connect the pieces, staring at a faded photo of us from our last summer before I left for college. The first time I saw it, I couldn’t hide my surprise, not realizing Molly had taken our photo. From an outsider’s perspective, it was just two lifelong friends staring out at the ocean. But it was more than that. My arm is draped along Brooklyn’s shoulders, my chin resting on the top of her head, my expression heavy with contemplation. I can almost feel the sun on my skin, the salty sea air blowing around me, the softness of Brooklyn’s hair—

“Holy shit!” a voice exclaims, startling me.

I whip my head up, staring at an equally surprised Ana standing in the doorway, her hand over her chest, gray eyes wide. I scramble to my feet, uncertain how to explain my presence in Brooklyn’s bedroom to the woman dating her father.

“Ana. I’m sorry. I know this looks bad…”

She blows out a breath, then smiles, walking toward me. “Relax,” she assures me, placing a hand on my bicep. “It’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting to walk in on anyone.” She pulls away, analyzing me. “Actually, I was wondering how many more times you were going to stop by here before you just barged in.” She smirks, then her light expression falters, her gaze darting to the boxes.

“She’s still with him?”

She closes her eyes, pinching her lips together as she nods. In that one gesture I can see she’s not happy about it. “She is.”

“The wedding?” I ask, unsure I want to hear the response.

“Proceeding as planned.”

My shoulders fall as I shake my head, my heart heavy.

“I’ll tell you one thing. That girl is stubborn. Gets it from her father.”

I roll my eyes, the mere mention of that man making my stomach tense.

“He means well,” she says.

I narrow my gaze on her, my brow creasing. Her words are laced with a thousand possible meanings, piquing my curiosity. “What do you—”

“Reece.” She pulls her short blonde hair into a small ponytail at the nape of her neck. “He’s…protective.”

I snort out a laugh. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“He’s a good man, albeit misguided.” She meets my eyes, then adds, “Just like Brooklyn.”

My pulse quickens, her words giving me the hope I’ve been searching for since I was escorted out of the hospital by Mr. Tanner. I thought her father was my last chance of clearing up the misunderstanding of our youth. Maybe I was wrong. Gigi always says, “You get to the man through the woman in their lives.” Maybe Ana can help me get through to Mr. Tanner.

“You think she’s misguided?”

She ponders my question for a moment, her arms crossed over her stomach, then nods. “I think she’s confused. I think she’s so tired of having her heart broken that she’s done fighting. She doesn’t smile anymore. There’s no life in her eyes, like she’s—”

“Dead inside,” I finish.

“Exactly.”

I pull my lips between my teeth, unsure what to say, unsure what Ana knows about my relationship with Brooklyn, both past and present. I want to shout that I’ll mend her heart if she’d just give me the chance. Instead, I remain mute, allowing Ana to continue.

“Little does she realize the person responsible for all that heartache is the man who brought her into this world.”

My eyes widen, my breath catching as those words linger in the air between us. They could mean so many different things, but I know that’s not the case. Not now. Not here. Not after everything.

“You know?” My chest rises and falls in a quicker pattern, desperate for confirmation.

She studies me a moment, then nods. “Reece told me the night Brooklyn was attacked. He was torn. Still is. I think a part of him wants to believe Brooklyn will be happy with Wes. That by keeping you from her, it will bury whatever happened in the past.”

“And the other part?”

She inhales a deep breath, her brows furrowed in concentration. “I think the other part of him is petrified of losing the last piece of his wife he has left.” A small smile forms on her lips. “It’s hard to understand if you haven’t experienced the loss of a spouse. It changes you, makes you do things you never thought you would. You cling to every last memory you possibly can, often at the detriment of everything else. And you’ll do everything to protect that memory. In Reece’s eyes, Brooklyn is that last memory. He’s spent the past few decades of his life clinging to it, protecting it, refusing to let go.”

“So he’d rather watch her marry a man she doesn’t love than tell her the truth?”

She ponders my question for a moment. “I think he’ll do whatever’s necessary to ensure his daughter’s happiness.”

“Except tell her the truth.”

She shrugs. “In his mind, I think he truly believes that Wes does make her happy, that he’ll love and cherish her for the rest of his life. You have to admit, your track record doesn’t exactly help your case.”

“But I told him how much I love her!” I interrupt, throwing up my hands in frustration, tugging on my hair. “When he kicked me out of the hospital room and I begged him to come clean, I—”

“But have you ever shown her?”

I open my mouth, about to protest and argue I have, but not a single instance comes to mind, even though I can list dozens of occurrences that demonstrate how much she loves me. How she didn’t even hesitate to help me with the custody request. How she selflessly agreed to be at my side when I shared the news with the girls. How she stayed with me that night because she knew I was hurting and needed comfort. I always thought it was just in Brooklyn’s nature to put other people’s needs ahead of her own and that’s why she always did these things for me. But that’s not it at all. Every decision she’s made is because she loves me. And how did I return that love? By putting her in harm’s way.

“Sometimes it’s better to show someone our hearts, our feelings, with actions rather than words,” Ana’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “If you want to win her heart, you need to put yours out there, too. If you do that, I have a feeling you’ll get the girl.”

She heads toward the far wall and grabs one of the boxes, then passes me, about to disappear down the hallway.

“How do you know?” I ask, snapping out of my stupor.

The corners of her lips lift slightly, a knowing smirk crossing her mouth. “Want to know what song she’s been listening to every time I’ve stopped by to check on her?”

“What’s that?”

Her eyes brighten. “‘Crash Into Me’. Something tells me it’s not a coincidence, that it has something to do with you. Am I right?” She arches a brow.

I run a finger over my lips, the ghost of her mouth on mine making them tingle. “It was the song playing the first time I kissed her before I left for college.”

“There’s a part of her that hasn’t let go of you yet. You need to do something to bring that part of her back.”

She allows her words to sink in, then turns, continuing down the stairs.

I process what she said, my mind racing. A plan forming, I run after her. “Ana!”

She stops, leaning against the doorjamb, about to step onto the porch, a brow cocked.

“Think you can do me a favor?”

A sly grin crosses her mouth. “If it involves snapping that girl out of this funk, I’ll do anything.”