I missed Bronn.
Badly.
My chest ached with the loss of him.
I hadn’t spoken to him in over a week. It had been nine days since I’d last seen him, that disaster of a day playing on a loop through my head.
I’d tried to stay busy, and really, I had been consumed with things to get done. Between the sale of Nana’s estate, speaking to attorneys about my father, and Riley’s constant need to keep me busy, my days had been filled.
But nights were tortuous as I laid in Riley’s guest bedroom. When I was alone my brain refused to shut down. I couldn’t stop seeing Bronn’s face, the surprise that turned to hurt. Like a scene from a movie, I played the conversation in the stairwell over and over, dissecting it, trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong. Should I have just let him go instead of pushing him to stop and talk to me?
Maybe if I had just let him go, given him time to process the information that he’d been blindsided with, maybe he would have called by now.
The longer I laid in bed each night, going over the what-ifs and maybes, the angrier I became.
None of this was my fault.
So why was he blaming me? Why was he taking it out on me?
Did he really love me the way he said he did? If so, why the hell hadn’t he called me by now? How could he possibly need this much time?
What was he doing every night? Was he lying in bed thinking about me, too? Was he wishing that he hadn’t been so cruel, hadn’t said the vile things that he’d said?
If so, what was he waiting for?
I’d warred with myself daily to not call him, not text him, but it had been long enough.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, the glow of the clock indicating that it’s nearly midnight.
I don’t care.
Me: Nine days is long enough.
I press send and then clutch the phone to my chest, praying that he responds. Maybe I should have told him how much I missed him. How badly my chest hurt with the loss of him. How I’ve barely slept without him.
My phone vibrates, a text incoming, and I jump.
Bronn: Long enough for what?
I roll my eyes. He knows what I mean, he’s just being an ass.
Me: To go without you. I miss you.
Bronn: I miss you, too.
My stomach flips. Thank God!
Me: Then why haven’t you called?
Bronn: Do you still think your dad is innocent?
Over the last week I’d spoken to my father twice more.
Our first visit had been spent getting to know each other. We never once talked about that day at the gas station. Instead, I told him about my childhood, my mother, college, and my career. He told me that he’d finished his high school diploma while in prison, had studied law a little, and that even though he knew he was never getting out of prison, still held out hope that he would see me again.
We’d both cried at times, the sadness of what we missed out on overwhelming each of us. But we’d laughed, too. We’d talked about some of the happier times and laughed at the silly memories I’d shared.
It had been an amazing visit, more than what I could have hoped for, but it had been too short. When the guards had told us it was time to leave, my father had asked me to come again, and I had reassured him that I would.
And I had come back, but not alone.
On my second visit, I’d come with an attorney, the best defense lawyer in the state. The retainer fee had been mind-boggling, but thanks to Nana I’d not even blinked as I wrote the check.
I smiled as I wrote my father’s name in the memo, knowing that Marie Monroe was probably rolling over in her grave.
Good.
Because it was a legal meeting we’d been able to meet in a room, just the three of us, and I’d listened for nearly two hours as my father told us the events of the day and what had led up to them.
My heart had crumbled as I’d listened to how my father had ended up in that convenience store that day, but I was determined to make sure that the truth came out.
The attorney I’d hired had assured us that he was going to do everything possible to get a new trial, to provide the defense that my father deserved but hadn’t gotten the first time, and I’d left feeling relieved and even a bit excited.
My father was going to be freed, I was sure of it.
But now, I needed Bronn on my side. I wanted to tell him what I knew, explain to him how it changed everything.
More than that, I wanted Bronn to know that my father was not the monster that he believed that he was. And he deserved to know the truth of that day, the same way I did.
I stare at my phone, trying to think of the best way to respond without saying something that will cause him to shut down and pull away. He’s talking to me, something I wasn’t even sure would happen, and I don’t want to ruin it now.
Me: I need to see you. To talk to you. Please, meet me tomorrow.
It’s not the answer that he wants though.
Bronn: You didn’t answer my question.
Me: No, I don’t still think he’s innocent.
Bronn: Good, ‘cause he’s not.
Me: But there’s more to the story. Meet me tomorrow.
He doesn’t respond for an agonizingly long three minutes. My eyes begin to water, staring at the brightly lit screen in the dark room. Just as my vision begins to cross, I see the text bubble appear.
I hold my breath while he types out a response that I hope says he’ll meet me.
Bronn: Where?
Air leaves my lungs and I smile, my heart leaping at the promise of seeing him tomorrow.
Me: I’ll come to you. I can be there by noon. Your boat?
I don’t want to ask him to drive here, plus I know that he won’t want to meet at Riley’s house. And I have nowhere else to go, Nana’s house having sold. I figure he can’t say no if I offer to do all the work.
Bronn: Okay, Grace. See you at noon.
Me: Okay.
I want to tell him I love him.
But I don’t.
I put my phone away and sink further into the covers. I close my eyes, and with a smile on my face, falling asleep almost instantly.
The sun’s shining brightly, the temperature perfect for driving with the top down. The leaves on the trees are still green, fall not coming in the south until nearly November, but the nights are beginning to cool off, and the sun isn’t nearly as blazing as it had been during the humid summer months.
I take it as a good omen, the perfect weather and lack of traffic as I make my way to the coast. I’d slept better last night than I had in nearly two weeks, and my body thanked me for it. I hadn’t realized just how exhausted and run down I’d been until I awoke this morning, feeling good.
Maybe it was the prospect of seeing Bronn that has me so upbeat and positive, but whatever it is, I’m glad for it.
I’m tired of being tired. Sick of being sad and heartbroken. I’d been sad for a lifetime. I just want to go back to the happiness, the way I’d been over the summer with Bronn. I know that it’s foolish to think that this one visit would solve everything, but I can’t help holding onto that hope.
As I drive into town, I rehearse what I’ll say to him and how I’ll start the conversation. I know that he isn’t going to be receptive to what I have to say. I can only pray that he’ll hear me out, that he’ll trust me to be honest with him.
Of course I want my dad in my life.
I want him out of prison. I want to believe that he’s a good man, one incapable of doing what he’s accused of.
But I’m not naïve. I’d accept it as truth if he told me that he was a cold-blooded killer. Even though it would have been devastating, I would have taken that knowledge and moved on with my life.
I’m not too proud to admit if I’m wrong. Especially when it comes to Bronnson. I would have admitted to him that he was right, that my Nana was right, that I was the one that didn’t know what I was talking about when I had professed my father’s innocence.
But I wasn’t wrong.
Not completely.
And now I need Bronn to hear me out.
Taking a deep breath, I push my car door open and climb out before making my way down the familiar dock.
Bronn’s waiting for me, leaned against the doorframe of his boat, and my stomach somersaults at the sight of him.
He’s wearing his standard t-shirt and jeans, his posture relaxed, but his face is tight, unsure. His eyes scan me, starting at my toes and making their way up my body. I stand rooted in place, fighting with myself to not run to him.
When his gaze finally stops on my face my palms begin to sweat, the nerves of seeing him again making my stomach flutter.
It doesn’t make sense, this reaction to seeing him. Not since the day that I almost ran him over have I been nervous around him. But it’s different now, there’s something between us, and I don’t know how to react.
His eyes search my face, his gaze intense, and there’s a wariness that hurts my heart. I don’t want him to be suspicious of me, but it’s obvious that he is, and that unease saddens me.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be between us.
He pushes off the doorjamb and comes to the edge of his boat, holding out a hand to help me aboard. The simple gesture gives me hope, and I smile at him before taking his hand.
The moment our fingers touch my heart begins to slam in my chest, the familiar feeling of his calloused hands offering a comfort that I haven’t had in days. He squeezes my fingers, a movement barely perceptible, before he drops my hand and turns to go inside.
We don’t speak a word as I follow him into the familiar boathouse, a warmth spreading in my chest as I breathe in the comforting smell of the salt air mixed with the scent of his cologne. This sparsely furnished space aboard this dingy old boat feels like home, and I realize in that moment that I needed this. To be in his space again, surrounded by everything Bronn.
Bronn perches on the edge of the bed and I stand awkwardly in the kitchen, unsure of whether I should sit with him or continue to stand.
He clears his throat and then motions for the bed. “Sit.”
I waste no time doing as he commands, grateful that he doesn’t expect me to stand while we talk.
“You look good,” I tell him, settling in beside him, not nearly as close as I would like.
The corner of his mouth tips up and he lifts a chin. “Not as good as you.”
My cheeks heat at his compliment. I’d taken extra time this morning getting ready. Not that Bronn liked me all dolled up anyway, but I didn’t want him to see the dark circles that ring my eyes, evidence of the fact that I hadn’t rested well in a while.
“I’ve missed you, Bronnson,” I whisper, my fingers creeping across the bed to where his hand rests in his lap. I want to touch him again, to hold onto him, for him to want to hold me.
Praying he doesn’t reject me, I skim my fingers over his thigh, his muscles bunching under my touch. He turns his hand over, palm up, and I place mine in it.
His fingers lace through my own and he holds my hand tightly.
My belly somersaults at his touch, but I try not to read too much into it.
“Listen,” I start, “I’m sorry.” His wary eyes snap to mine. “I shouldn’t have pushed you in the courthouse. I was just so desperate to talk to you.”
He lifts his chin. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I haven’t stopped replaying that fight in my head.” He squeezes my fingers. “I’m sorry, Grace. I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry for pushing you away. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be a fucking man.”
I nod. I haven’t stopped thinking about that day either. We’d both said terrible things to each other. What he said had hurt, my heart still aching from his refusal to admit that he loved me. But I wouldn’t hold it against him. He was blind-sided just like I was.
“You said you wanted to talk?”
I press my lips together, my heart hammering in my chest. I want to explain everything to him, but I don’t know if he’ll want to listen. I squeeze my eyes shut and nod once more.
“Okay, then,” he murmurs. “Let’s talk.”