Looking back, that was always the way Brooks operated. He was incapable of meeting in the middle. The man wanted what he wanted, and he always seemed to get it, one way or another.
The night of the cake fight, he apologized for being a “groomzilla” and insisted it was only because he cared and wanted our day to be perfect. His mother had already invited some five hundred guests, and that didn’t account for the Rosewood side. Brooks kissed the tops of my hands that night, apologized again, pulled me into his embrace, and described the most beautiful winter wedding I’d ever imagined.
And I forgave him for being an ass.
For the hundredth time.
Like a fool.
Chapter Eight
Demi
“Thanks for coming with me today.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and grab the passenger door handle of Delilah’s car before she’s shifted into park. She leaves the car idling in my driveway and turns my way.
“Want me to go with you tomorrow?”
“You don’t have to do that. I can get myself there. You’re welcome to stop in and see him anytime you want though.”
Delilah puts her hand on mine. “We’re all worried about you. Mom and Dad. Everyone.”
I’m sure.
I put them all through quite a scare after Royal left.
Don’t have to be in the same room as them to feel them watching, waiting for me to crumble apart again.
“Are you eating?” she asks.
“Of course.”
“Why’d you throw up last night? You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“God, no.” Thank God. “Probably stress.”
“Mom and Dad are coming by tomorrow, I think. Derek’s coming too. He’s bringing Haven. He’s got her for the weekend.”
There’s a glimmer of something to look forward to in all of this, and her name is Haven. My niece is my world, and I rarely get to see her ever since Derek split from his ex.
“I don’t think they allow kids under twelve into the ICU,” I say.
“Between all of us, we can work something out. Derek really wants to see Brooks though. I think he’s taking it harder than we realize, and that’s why he hasn’t come to visit yet.”
An unlikely friendship spawned between Derek and Brooks the last couple of years. I blame it on a fateful golf game three Memorial Day weekends ago. They’ve been tight ever since.
“Daphne texted me earlier,” Delilah says.
“Yeah. Me too.”
“She feels awful for not being able to come right away.”
“She’ll be back at Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah, but if anything happens to Brooks, she’ll never get to say . . .” Delilah blinks and turns away. “I don’t even want to finish that thought.”
My head pounds, and I eye my front door. As soon as I’m behind it, I can shut out the rest of the world for a few hours. Make the day fade away with a hot bath and an Ambien. Tomorrow, I get to do it all over again. Put on my brave face. Pretend I’ve got it all figured out. Allow everyone to think I’m stronger than I’ve ever been. Ignore the flood of guilt coursing my veins every time I look at Brooks and feel resentment. And in the back of my mind, wonder when Royal’s going to show up at my door again.
Because no matter what, that undercurrent remains.
Chapter Nine
Royal
As soon as I get home, I toss Brooks’s pajamas into the garbage, where they belong. It killed me, fucking killed me, to wear those pants.
The scent of clean laundry fills my tiny studio above a noisy laundromat. It’s the only good thing about living in this dump. It’s like I live in the inside of a dryer. The place is perpetually warm, which works out nice in the winter, and the place always smells good, even when the floors need cleaning and the bedding’s due for a wash.
Whipping the fridge door open, I grab a carton of milk and chug it straight from the container before putting it back. I can taste the fact that the sell-by date was yesterday.
I grab a shower, scrubbing the scent of Demi’s white-washed house off my skin but refusing to release the image of her from my mind. Watching her from afar has never been a substitution for the real thing, but it was the only option I had. And as painful as it was to stand there and let her shoot daggers my way this morning, I hope someday she’ll understand.
And forgive me.
***
“Morning, Royal.” Pandora swipes a credit card and hands a set of Corvette keys to a middle-aged man trying desperately to pull off a cracked-leather bomber jacket. “Twenty minutes early today. What’s gotten into you? Couldn’t wait to see me?”
“You know it.” I don’t look at her, my words dry and flat.
I grab my work shirt from a hook behind the reception desk at Patterson Auto Body. My name is stitched across the breast in royal blue cursive thread. The very same color I’ll be painting my Challenger as soon as I get the funds saved.
The bells on the door jingle when the customer leaves, and our parking lot sits empty.
“We’re getting an Escalade in about an hour.” Pandora smacks a piece of neon pink bubble gum. Probably watermelon. Her tongue always tastes like watermelon. “Real bad shape. Front and back. Thing’s totaled, but the owners want to fix it anyway. Bet it’s got a huge backseat.”
She winks.
I punch in and glance toward the back office, where Pandora’s father sits at a computer, his classic rock turned way too loud. The man’s covered in tattoos, he served two tours of duty, and he has a smile filled with gold from one too many bar fights. That old son of a bitch is tough as nails and rough around the edges, but he gave me a job when no one else would.