* * *
Dear Mr. Carson,
* * *
We’ve been trying to reach you for weeks in regards to the estate of Bryce J. Renner as you have been named a beneficiary. Please contact my office at your earliest convenience so we can ensure a timely distribution of your portion of the Renner trust.
* * *
V/r,
Liam Greenbrier
Attorney at Law
* * *
Encl: Copy of Personal Letter from Client to Beneficiary
* * *
Tossing Liam’s note aside, I grab the envelope with Bryce’s handwriting and hesitate before ripping it open. All I want to do is move on from all of this. The sooner I read his stupid letter and meet with his attorney, the sooner I can move on with my life.
* * *
Rhett,
* * *
If you’re reading this letter, it means I’m gone. And it also means I failed you as a best friend and never had the balls to tell you in person. You were like a brother to me, the only true friend I ever knew. You were the only person who put up with my shit and stuck around anyway, and I repaid you by being a selfish bastard who secretly resented living in your shadow.
You did everything better than me ... hockey, women, friendship, life ... the list goes on.
The truth is, I didn’t deserve your friendship.
I’ve betrayed you. I’ve lied to you. I’ve done things I’ll never forgive myself for, and I wish I had a compelling reason for all of it, but I don’t.
So I’m leaving you forty percent of my estate. It’s yours, brother. Do with it what you want. If you want to give it all away, go for it. If you want to wipe your ass with it as a giant “fuck you” to me? By all means. I know money can’t change what I did in this lifetime, but you’re the closest thing to a brother I ever knew, and you weren’t only like family to me—you were family to me.
I’m sorry.
* * *
Bryce
* * *
PS—I have a half-sister. I never told you about her for reasons I won’t get into in this letter. She’s also getting forty percent of my estate. Just an FYI in case you’re wondering who the hell she is when you see my will. Her name is Ayla Caldwell, and last I knew, she was living in Los Angeles.
* * *
I’m clutching the paper so hard, it shakes. The letters on the page blur and my vision goes black.
Her name is Ayla Caldwell…
“Rhett?” Allison’s voice squeaks from behind me. “Everything okay?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t speak—I physically cannot speak.
My jaw clenches tight, and I let the letter fall.
“Rhett. You’re scaring me,” Allison says with a nervous laugh. “What’s going on?”
Lifting my hand to my temple, I draw in a long breath.
“Allison, I need you to leave,” I say. “Just… give me space. Please.”
She gathers her papers and bags and scurries out the door which bangs against the frame but doesn’t shut.
Goddamn it.
My fist throbs a moment later. I glance down and see that I’m bleeding, and when I look up, I realize I’ve punched a hole in the wall.
“Hey, your door was open.” I turn around to see Ayla standing in my doorway dressed for our trip, her suitcase by her side. “Everything okay?”
“No,” I seethe. “Everything is not fucking okay.”
Her face falls when she sees mine, and her body tenses.
She knows.
She fucking knows.
And she’s known all along.
That’s the clincher.
“Rhett.” Her voice is broken, and she takes a tentative step in my direction. “I was going to tell you.”
“When?” My voices booms, startling her. “When?!”
“Soon,” she says, her hand on her chest. Her mouth is stuck open, like she’s searching for the right words to say, but nothing she says is going to change any of this.
“You betrayed me.” The words are grit and sandpaper on my tongue, and they taste bitter, sour. This is worse than a punch to the stomach. This is kicking me when I’m already down.
“I know.” Ayla hangs her head, eyes shutting gently.
“How could you?” I grab the letter from the floor, crumpling it in my hands and shoving it at her. “You knew what happened. You don’t think at some point you probably should’ve mentioned I was fucking Bryce’s sister?”
“I tried to tell you, early on.”
“Clearly you didn’t try hard enough.”
“You shut down the conversation. Every time.” She lifts a pointed finger in the air.
“So this is my fault?!” I release an incredulous laugh. “You’re out of your goddamned mind if you think for one second that you can justify what you did.”
“I liked you,” she says, moving closer. “A lot. I didn’t want to lose you. I was going to tell you. I swear to God I was going to tell you. I just needed more time. I wanted to prove that my feelings for you were genuine, so that when I told you who I was, maybe you’d be able to forgive me.”
“You’re delusional if you think I can forgive this.”
“Rhett.” Her eyes water, and her voice is breathless. “I’m so sorry.”
“Get the fuck out.” I rest my hands on my hips, and I have to force myself to look at her. “I never want to see you again.”
Thirty-One
Ayla
* * *
I didn’t think he’d show up today—I honestly didn’t.
Coach Harris rambles on at the head of the table in the Spartans’ conference room. I’m on his left. Rhett is somewhere halfway down the table, boring holes into the back of my head. I’ve glanced his way a couple of times, and each time his stare pierces through me. He doesn’t blink. His jaw clenches. At one point he snapped the pencil he was holding in two.
He hates me.
I’m not sure Coach Harris is the most organized or the best at conducting meetings because we’ve been sitting here thirty minutes while he yammers on about the upcoming season and training schedules. He appears to be saving the check for last. Maybe he forgot? Or maybe he’s one of those people who talk so much they lose track of time.
“All right, Ayla, come on up here, will you?” Coach finally motions for me to stand several minutes later. My heart is rapid firing and my stomach turns.
Coach slips his arm around my shoulders.
“Guys, you remember Bryce’s sister, Ayla,” he says. “She’s the president of the newly established Bryce Renner Foundation.”
Shane smiles and nods in my direction. It’s good to see a friendly face in the crowd.
“Hi,” I give the group a small wave, my gaze passing over Rhett.
My eyes are still swollen from all the crying I’ve done this week. I tried to ice them before I came, but I couldn’t hide the bloodshot whites or the red rims.