“It matters to you now because you have feelings for him.”
“So you’re taking his side now?” I blurt.
“No, I’m on your side always. I’m just saying . . .”
I rise off the couch, my irritation with her higher than it should be, and I know it’s just because I’m a mental case at the moment. “I gotta get ready for work.” I march down the hall and shut the door to my room behind me.
Blanking everything out other than what I have to do, I open my closet to grab something to wear to work. The first thing I see is the yellow dress I wore to dinner with Fenton. I can’t help it. I sit on my bed and let the tears flow.
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks, Pres,” I say, not bothering to even look her direction. I keep my eyes trained on the television, to some redhead that is figuring out whether the baby she had tested was her husband’s or not. It’s oddly entertaining. I feel bad for her husband; he seems like a nice guy. The other potential DNA donor is a complete douche. Of course she blames the husband for her affair, which makes me want to pull her hair out. People need to own up to their own mistakes, even if it doesn’t make any difference.
The television switches off and Presley stands in front of it, hands on her hips. “Seriously, Brynne. Get in the shower and let’s do something.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Damn it, Presley,” I groan, getting off the couch and knocking over an empty carton of Ben & Jerry’s. “I just want to be left alone.”
“You’ve been left alone more or less for a week now. How you’ve managed to eat nothing but ice cream and look like you’ve lost ten pounds is beyond me, by the way,” she rolls her eyes. “But I’m done watching you wallow.”
“I’m not wallowing.” I toss my tangled hair over my shoulder and head into the kitchen. I rummage around the freezer for more ice cream, but we’re out.
“You are wallowing, and I’m sorry to tell you, it’s pathetic.”
The freezer slams shut. I glare at her. “Bite me.”
“I’m not really into that, but the guy I saw last weekend would probably work a threesome.”
My eyes narrow. Hers widen.
“Brynne, seriously, get a grip.”
I sink against the refrigerator, the cool stainless steel rippling through my robe. It’s oddly distracting and more than welcome. I play with the elephant charm around my neck, still unable to take it off. Like Fenton said, when I feel like I’m going to break, I touch it and try to find something calming in the charm. Strangely, it works a little.
“You’re being hateful,” Presley points out. “I can be a bitch too, but it’s not going to get us anywhere. So just stop it.”
My best friend’s face falls and so do my spirits. Although I didn’t think it was possible for them to sink any further, the depths at which they now sit is remarkable.
I feel like shit. It’s not Presley’s fault I’m in this state of despair and I’m making her pay the piper. So not fair.
“I get it,” Presley says. “You’re lashing out at me because I’m the closest person to you. But I’m done with taking it lying down. This entire thing needs to be dealt with.”
“How?” I sigh. “That’s the problem. I don’t know how to deal with it. There isn’t an acceptable answer.”
“Being acceptable is a matter of perspective. There is no right or wrong answer, Brynnie.”
“No, there is,” I groan, heading back to the sofa. I hear her steps behind me. I step over the empty carton and curl back up on the cushions. “The right answer is that he lied to me.” I watch her unfold in a chair. “You know, the first time I had dinner with him, he offered me money to go away with him. I wonder now—did he know who I was then? Was that some kind of weird way of making it up to my family?”
“You’re really stretching this.”
“Am I? Maybe him finding my phone was an odd coincidence, but then luring me away, offering me money, making me fall in love with him?”
“Ah,” Presley breathes, leaning back in her chair. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”
“No, we aren’t.”
“No, we are.”
“What does it even matter?” I sigh. “He betrayed me.”
She bites her bottom lip and gives me her best pensive face. “I disagree.”
“Of course you do.”
“Think about it. What if he was just too scared to tell you who he was? What if he felt so strongly about you that he knew you’d walk away and he was too scared of that?”
“So that makes it okay?”
“I’m not saying what he did is okay. He should’ve told you, Brynne. There’s no two ways about that. But he messed up. We all do it. And maybe he did it for the very best, romantic reasons.”