It’s not that easy.
But I haven’t tried. Brett is worth trying for. And it may not be that easy, but I’m always telling her that the best things in life aren’t easy.
What kind of role model have I become for my impressionable young daughter?
“I guess I can be.” I sigh. “I just have to figure out how.”
She seems to ponder that. “Well, Uncle Jack said that Brett really likes you. So you should just tell Brett that you like him, too.”
I smile. “That sounds easy enough.”
“And he’s nice so you don’t have to be scared of him.” Her face breaks out in a bright, hopeful grin. “Uncle Jack says he really likes it when girls tell him they like him.”
I burst out laughing, partly at her innocence, partly at the obnoxious look I can imagine being on my brother’s face when he said that. “Night, Brenna.” I shut off the light and duck out. And find myself staring at my living room wall as I replay that conversation from every angle, wondering if I said the right things. If I should have handled it differently.
Wondering what kind of example I’m offering my daughter.
A mother who has perpetually sad eyes.
A mother who hides behind her fear.
A mother who has forgotten how to let herself love.
A mother who everyone keeps touting as brave but who isn’t, really. Not at all.
And with that, the last threads of uncertainty that held me back today, while sitting with Brett, snap.
My hands are trembling as I type out a message:
My 5 yo said I should tell you I like you.
I can’t keep my fingernails from my teeth as I wait for a response.
It comes almost immediately.
I like hearing that.
I breathe a sigh of relief and let out a small giggle.
She said you would.
She’s smart. Takes after her mom.
Is that what I am? I take a deep breath . . .
I wanted you to kiss me today.
And I let myself plummet.
Chapter 22
Have you been to Philly lately?
I’m half smiling, half frowning at Brett’s cryptic text as I punch in a food order.
Not in years, why?
Watch the game with me this Saturday?
My heart does a flip.
What game?
Have you heard of a sport called hockey?
I roll my eyes.
But your team isn’t playing.
We’re cheering for Toronto now.
I smile with understanding. Of course. His dad is Canadian, after all.
Where?
Well, seeing as you’re too embarrassed to be seen in public with me, I guess my place.
I struggle not to giggle as I deliver three coffees to Table Twelve, replaying the text conversation that ensued after I finally found the nerve to reach out last night. Brett has a playful sense of humor, and I was treated to it into the early hours.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I’m waiting for my food.
Is that a no?
Sorry, some of us have to work.
I follow it up with a smiley face and:
I’d love to. Let me see if I can find a sitter.
Bring Brenna. My dad will be here.
Are you sure? She talks a lot.
I think I can handle one chatty little five-year-old girl.
I remember Jack and sigh.
What about a chatty, giant nineteen-year-old boy who will kill me if I don’t let him tag along?
Bring him. Donovan will pick you guys up.
He wants to send a car all the way to Balsam for us? I shake my head with a chuckle.
We peasants can drive ourselves.
He knows how to get in and out of the building without people noticing.
I sigh, somehow having let the situation slip my mind. The media has moved on to the next juicy piece of gossip, thankfully, but that doesn’t mean a tip or picture wouldn’t pull them back to Balsam. Plus, I get the sense that Brett thinks I’ll bolt like a skittish cat the second I see a camera pointed at me again.
Leroy bangs on the bell that announces a ready food order, and I jump. Five plates sit on the ledge in front of me. I hadn’t even noticed him putting them there.
“Better not let Lou catch you with your head in the clouds.” Leroy gives me a knowing smile. I haven’t said a word about Brett, but I guess it wouldn’t be that hard for them to figure it out. I’m relieved that Misty isn’t working. I haven’t decided how I’ll handle telling her that we’re talking, or if I will. After the way she blabbed to Keith last night, I’m just not sure she can keep something like this to herself.
Fine. Gotta get to work. Let me know how your doctor’s appointment goes.
I drop my phone into my pocket and plant my feet firmly back in reality.
It’s almost ten when I hear the front steps creak. I assume it’s Jack or Keith.
Until a knock sounds.
Through the blinds, I spy a single figure leaning against crutches, waiting.
A wild rash of butterflies flutters in my stomach. I haven’t heard from Brett since lunchtime, before his appointment. And now he’s standing on my doorstep.
Wrapping myself in a blanket—not for warmth but rather to cover the threadbare nightshirt I’m wearing—I throw open the door. “Hey, what are you doing here?”
Brett stares down at me through glossy, intense eyes for a long moment before giving his head a slight shake. “I had to see you.” He’s not smiling.
I peer past him to the front yard. Donovan’s SUV is parked out there, blocking the view for any possible lurkers behind Rawley’s. But, just to be safe, I usher him inside, the faint scent of beer trailing. “Is everything okay?”
He hesitates for a moment, and then reaches up to twirl a wayward strand of my hair, damp from my shower. The rest of it is piled on top of my head. Finally, the smallest smile curls his lips. “I was always partial to Piglet.”
It takes me a moment, but then I let out a small giggle, realizing that I’ve wrapped myself in a Winnie the Pooh fleece blanket. Of course Brett, even in a pair of jeans and a plain gray T-shirt—fitted just enough to settle over the curves of his broad, sculpted chest—looks like he could be on his way home from a cover shoot.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, I couldn’t sleep.” I was worried when I hadn’t heard from you, I don’t add, afraid that would make me sound clingy. I hesitate. “How was the doctor’s appointment?”
The hard line of his jaw tenses. “Okay.” He reaches up, tentatively, to unfasten my hair clip, releasing the long, damp tendrils to tumble and settle against my bare neck. A shiver runs through me as his finger skates over my skin, as his eyes flicker to my lips. I sense him leaning forward and I inhale sharply.
He freezes, then shifts away.
And I’m left dizzy with anticipation. It takes a few moments to calm my breathing. “Come and sit.”
“Good idea.” He hobbles over and practically falls into the love seat, pushing his crutches to the side with a quiet “I hate these fucking things.” They land on the floor with a noisy clatter.
I wince, my eyes darting to my bedroom, where Brenna sleeps.
“Shit.” He closes his eyes and drops his head back. “I’m sorry.”
Yeah. Brett’s been drinking, and by the looks of it, drinking a lot.