“I’m going to be real honest with you, Brynnie. I didn’t expect you to look like this when you got home.”
“Shocker.”
“I expected a post-coital glow, maybe a permanent smirk from all the sexy times. Not . . . this.”
I huff, stirring the sugar into my coffee. “Yeah, well, this wasn’t on my list of to-do’s either.”
Presley clasps her hands together and sits them on the table in front of her, which is across the kitchen table from me. Her bracelets rattle off the wooden planks, jingling through the room.
“I’m sorry, Brynne. I know what happened with Brady.”
“Yeah,” I exhale, lifting the warm mug to my lips.
“Your dad told me last night when they called here looking for you. I called them this morning to check on them. Your poor mother. I almost drove to their house just to try to offer some support or something.”
“I called her before the plane left Vegas and she just sounds numb this morning. I guess we all are in our own way.”
“Do you want to go see them?”
I’ve considered it. It’s just a couple of hours drive from here and if I left now, I could be there before dinner. But when I proposed it to my mother, she demanded I stay home and go through the motions of my day.
“Nah,” I say, sipping the coffee. “I have to work. And really, if I were there, I think they’d feel torn about spending time with me and focusing on him. At least if I’m here, they can do what needs to be done, if that makes sense.”
“It does.” Presley watches me with narrowed eyes before speaking. “You’re pretty calm about it. Calmer than I thought you’d be.”
“I think I cried myself out last night. Today, I just feel . . . dull. I don’t know how to explain it. There’s nothing I can do, Pres.” My jaw tenses as I think about the assholes who won’t go get him and how they’re having breakfast with their families today, sleeping in their beds tonight.
“Did he even know who he was going to work for?” I ask, tossing my thoughts into the universe. “Did he know how dangerous it would really be—not just the generic ‘I’m going out of the country so there’s a level of danger involved’? Maybe they let him be taken—”
“Whoa,” Presley interrupts. “You’re pissing yourself off. That’s not going to do anyone any good.”
I roll my eyes. She’s right, of course, but screw that. At least when I get pissed off, I care, and that’s more than anyone besides my parents have done since day one.
“Let’s change the subject,” Presley proposes. “What happened with Cashmere?”
“Well, he whisked me away on his private jet. He fucked the sense out of me. He was kind and sweet and playful and it was just amazing.”
She beams.
“He took me away to Lake Las Vegas and chartered a private yacht,” I feed her. “We screwed on the balcony as the sun set, drank a lot of frozen drinks, ate the best hamburger I’ve ever tasted, and he told me he wanted to see me when we got back to California.”
“For real? How awesome! I’m not jumping ahead, and I know I said he was just a rebound, but—”
“And then,” I cut her off, “he got a call from work and, whatever it was, really perplexed him. And then Mom called and I think he realized how much he needed to focus and what a hot mess my life is.”
We exchange a sad smile. Presley’s lips twitch before she finally bites the bottom one to keep from talking.
“So, here I am a couple of days early. But,” I sigh, looking at the ceiling, “it’s not even that, Pres. It’s like he let me down easy. He tried to make it seem like we might see each other again, but I really don’t think he means that. And while I appreciate the gentle brush-off, the ‘hold’ part of ‘on hold’ feels pretty damn permanent.”
“Oh, Brynne . . .”
My spirits sink. Again.
“Yeah. So that’s that. It was a great few days and I have enough material to masturbate to for a few months. It’ll all work out.”
She shakes her head, still in disbelief. Watching her work through the emotions is somehow cathartic. I follow her as the disbelief switches to sadness and then, ultimately, to anger. Her eyes blaze.
“Fuck him,” she says. “Fuck him and his cashmere voice and his big cock. I mean, I’m guessing he was packing.”
“Of course he was.”
“Shit.”
I giggle at her, the way she takes my side and keeps it real is so entertaining. “So that was my vacation. What did you do?”
“Went on a couple of dates. Ate some sushi. Did some hot yoga which, for the record, you should not try. It’s like asking for someone to contort you and asphyxiate you in the process. Horrible.”
“Noted.”
“And then I got to see Grant. So that was a good time.”
I groan and get up and refill my coffee. “What did he say?” I sigh, leaning against the counter.
“He said he wanted to see you. He was just sitting on the steps, Brynne. So weird. But when he saw me coming, he jumped up and wanted to know where you were. I just . . .” She blows out a breath and stops herself from finishing the sentence.
“But he’s okay. Like, nothing bad happened to him? He didn’t look strung out or desperate?”
“Not really. Not anymore odd than he has been the last couple of times I saw him. I wouldn’t give him your number since you changed it and I wouldn’t tell him when you were coming home. His number is under the Cosmo magazine on the coffee table if you want it and don’t have it.”
I’m too exhausted to exert any energy on Grant and tie myself up in whatever he has to say. It’ll just be some bullshit and what he won’t say—the truth about what happened in Zimbabwe—is the real kicker. It’s the reason when it’s all boiled down as to why I won’t see him.
“I’m going to grab a shower,” I say, pushing away from the table.
“Go wash that hot man off of you,” she winks. “And I’ll make us some brunch.”
“You’re making us brunch?”
“Well, I’ll order us brunch. You haven’t been gone that long,” she laughs.
I give her a thumbs up and leave. I walk through the kitchen, assiduously ignoring the Cosmo magazine, and into my room.
Reset button has been pushed. Let the chips fall.