29
BRYN
Holy hell, my head. It’s like someone has taken a pickax and driven it right into my temple. When I sit up, the room tilts to one side, my insides twist, and I have to hold myself steady to keep my body from flopping forward.
The curtain has let a sliver of light in, and it’s blinding. Eyes blinking to accommodate the change, I see my clothing bunched on the floor. The acrid taste of last night’s beer lingers in my mouth.
And the memories rush back.
Groaning, I cover my face with my pillow.
Right. Last night was awful. After my confrontation with Mitchell, I set a meeting time with the Dunfords through text, then came home with my sister, Ellie, and Joel. Later, after Joel left, my girls enabled my complaints with white wine. Furious about what happened, I told them everything and bared my soul about this supposed fake arrangement, our haircuts, the kisses, the sex. And now, the Dunfords’ chicken move to take back some of Paraiso.
What is it they say? Beer before liquor? Last night, it made me emotional. This morning, I have the hangover from hell to show for it.
Trudging down the stairs in bare feet and pajamas and with one eye open, I turn on the kitchen lights, only to turn them right off. Nope, too bright. The clock on the microwave says it’s 9 a.m., and today’s meeting has been set for ten.
Crap, how the hell am I going to do this? Without my sight and sense, apparently, because I reach for the can of Barako in the pantry and, with the dexterity of a bear, spill the contents onto the floor. Little black beans scatter on the ground and spread over tile, the sound panic inducing. But all I can do is watch.
“Dammit,” I whine.
My first thought is to grab coffee from Mitchell, even if it’s the crap kind. The next? I’m pissed off all over again. Because this issue is way more than the stipulations of the lease. It’s the knowledge that Mitchell didn’t come to me first, didn’t seek my feedback. I naively held our relationship to a higher standard. Despite our agreement that we shouldn’t interfere with each other’s businesses, I assumed we’d still look out for each other’s best interests.
I was wrong.
Back upstairs I go. I pop open the door to the guest room, where Vic stays between trips. A quilt covers half her face, so I only see her forehead and eyes. My voice cracks when I speak. “You’ve got to get up. Folks will be here in an hour, and there’s no coffee in the house. Want a latte from Golden Café?”
She mumbles something incoherent, then flips around and throws the cover over her head.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
My sister. She’s even grumpier than me in the morning. I rummage through my closet and grab yoga pants, a long-sleeve top, and a baseball cap. After pushing a large pair of sunglasses onto my face, I throw the front door open.
To Mitchell.
My body reels back at the strong smell of java, at the spice of Mitchell’s body wash, at the bright sunlight. “Mitchell.”
“I was just at Golden Café with Granny and I thought . . .” He raises two extra-large coffee cups in a carrier.
Oh, it’s tempting. The coffee calls to me like a sinful temptation, and from the look on Mitchell’s face, he knows it. The coffee is his olive branch, and the weak part of me is touched by the gesture.
Damn. I really should have just ground the dirty coffee beans. I need every bit of my strength and mental acuity to deal with this drama, because, God, I know he’s sorry. He doesn’t have to say a word, because I know Mitchell’s insides. He would never do anything behind my back, not on purpose anyway.
But that’s the thing: just because it’s not done on purpose doesn’t mean it’s not damaging or hurtful.
Taking the coffee would be conceding.
Bottom line: I don’t want to accept it.
The bottomless bottom line: I need coffee.
I wrap my fingers around the foam carrier. I pull out a cup and take a long, glorious sip. It renders me grateful—another flash of weakness—and I tamp down the feeling. Nothing is going to deter my focus.
“Can I come in?” Mitchell shoves his hands into his pockets.
“I don’t think so. I’ve got to get myself ready for our meeting.”
“Ah.” His eyes dim, as if he hoped I’d forgotten all about today’s agenda. “About that. I’m here to cancel the meeting, Bryn.”
My eyebrows scrunch downward. “Really?”
“After you left, we had a conversation, my brothers and me. Levi should have never spoken to you as if the plans were set in stone. Because they aren’t.”
I wait for more. For something meaningful. An apology, a reassurance that Paraiso won’t be thrown under the bus. “Is that it?”
He stutters. “Y-yeah. That’s it.”
I pause. I wait.
I listen for the magic words. That he should have spoken to me first. He should have told the truth. He was sorry to have not come to me the moment Paraiso was in the discussion. To say because I matter to him, Paraiso matters to him, too.
But he looks to me, as if it’s my turn to speak. I clear my throat. “I won’t have to worry about losing any of my leased areas?”
“Nope. You have my word.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. His vibe shifts so his stance relaxes. “Can we make up now?”
My insides plunge at Mitchell’s ignorance and I put a hand on the door, brace myself at this failed expectation. “Sure, yeah. Thanks for coming to let me know.”
Mitchell’s mouth opens like he has more to say, and he raises his hand as if to stop me. But I close the door before he can tempt me more, before I can fall into his arms and into what I thought was something real.