“Demetria.” Brenda’s never called me by my full name before. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last night.”
She doesn’t ask if everything’s okay, and I know immediately that’s not what this is about.
“Delilah said you were sick, but I was with you just before that, and you were completely fine. Ugh. I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life,” she whines. “You should’ve been there, speaking to the donors. I don’t think it would’ve killed you.”
In four years, Brenda’s never once lectured me or spoken down to me. I let her rant and rave, let her get it out of her system, and I sit quietly on my end of the line and take it.
“I know exactly what this is about.” Brenda’s voice turns into a snippy huff, and my heart thumps. I glance at sleeping Royal across the room, and he rolls to his side, smashing his pillow with his muscled arm. “I know all about you and your trampy ways, Demi.”
I cough, choking on my spit, and turn away from Royal. “Wh-what?”
“That’s right,” she says. “Your neighbors have told me all about the mystery beau in the black sports car who comes to your house every night.”
Fuck.
“I’ve known about it since last week, and the only reason I covered for you was for Brooks’s sake. I couldn’t have my son waking up to find that his dutiful fiancé was entertaining another man in her free time.” Brenda’s tone is hurried, impatient. She’s been harboring this, holding on to this information and waiting for just the right moment to dump it on me.
That explains a lot.
“My son, my beautiful son, was in a coma, Demi, and you were screwing around on him like some floozy.”
“Brenda, I can assure you, it was nothing like that. I know how it looks, but the truth—”
“I’m not interested in your version of the truth, Demi. I trust my source a hell of a lot more than I trust you right now. Besides, that evening I stopped over . . .” She stops, sending my stomach into a freefall. “Well, let’s just say I wasn’t born yesterday. And his car was parked in the street. Don’t think I didn’t put it all together.”
“Do you have any interest in the truth? At all? Because I’d love to let you in on some factual details before you hurl any more insults my way. I know you. You’re saying things you’re going to regret.”
Royal stirs from the bed, and I glance his way. We lock gazes, and I swat him away, mouthing that everything’s fine. He rolls his eyes, not believing me, and struts his naked ass toward the bathroom.
“Brooks told us this morning that you left him.” Brenda’s voice is wavy, shaken. There’s a quiver that tells me, despite the first couple of minutes of our conversation, her heart is broken just as much as I thought it would be. “He was so distraught, we could hardly comfort him. Do you have any idea how it feels, as a mother, to see your son in so much pain? Not just physical, but emotional?”
My jaw hangs. “Wait . . . who’s ‘we’?”
“Your parents. Robert and Bliss showed up this morning. They brought Brooks homemade cinnamon rolls and a copy of the Wall Street Journal. So thoughtful of them. And when they asked where you were, Brooks couldn’t hold it in anymore. He was so upset, Demi. And I didn’t have the strength to tell him the truth.”
A reserved sob filters from her end.
“You have it all wrong.” I close my eyes, slicking my palm along my thigh. “I didn’t leave Brooks. He left me. The night of the accident, he called off the engagement and left to be with her.”
“With whom?”
“Afton. The reporter from the Herald.”
Brenda scoffs from her end. “This is preposterous. I refuse to believe any of this.”
“She’s pregnant,” I say. “You’re going to be a grandmother.”
“You’re making this up.”
“Brooks isn’t perfect, Brenda. He’s made mistakes, and he’s done terrible things, and I suspect the only reason he wants you to think I left him, is because it makes him look like the victim here.” I massage my temples. “When he was in the hospital, I came across some credit card statements. They were all cash advances, taken out in my name. Almost two hundred grand worth.”
“Oh, good grief. How convenient. You’re trying to extort us, aren’t you?”
Groaning, I set the phone down, take a deep breath, and resolve to end this conversation the way my father taught me.
“Brenda, please tell Brooks he’ll be hearing from my attorney.” With that, I end the call.
Two warm hands curl over my shoulders, followed by lips pressing into the curve of my neck. Spinning me around on the bar stool, Royal gifts me a toothpaste kiss and a dimpled half-smirk.
“What was that about?” he asks.
Sliding off my seat, I brush past him and locate my clothes from last night.
“I have to go home,” I say. “Got a whole lot of fires to put out now, thanks to Brooks.”
“Yeah? What kind of fires? Need help?”
I shake my head, and the sheet falls to the floor. I find my bra and fasten the hooks behind my back. My dress is crumpled over the back of his sofa. I fluff it out and step into it, shimmying it up my hips.
“Not only do I now have to explain the entire Brooks situation to my parents, but I should probably worry about finding a new place to live. Oh, and getting my job back.”
When I’m dressed, I check my reflection in a wall mirror and cringe when I see the streaks of mascara under my eyes and the pallor of my bare complexion. I look like I was screwed three times, hit by a train, buried, and then reborn.
Royal slinks his hands around my belly, standing behind me in the mirror. I’m all Walking Dead over here, and the man still can’t keep his hands to himself.
“You really should come home with me next week,” I meet his gaze in the mirror. “For Thanksgiving.”
“Demi . . .” He exhales slowly, spinning me to face him. “They don’t want to see me. Trust me.”
Royal kisses my mouth, more than likely an attempt to silence my pleas. A successful attempt. I’m rendered speechless for a few moments, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
“Besides,” he says. “I’m spending Thanksgiving with Mona.”
I jerk away. “Mona?”
“My biological mother.”
My expression softens. I never did know her name, and he never once spoke about her growing up.
“Just the two of you?” I ask.
Royal bites his lower lip with his perfect teeth and gives a quick nod. “I’m all she has. Not going to leave her alone on Thanksgiving. Not when I know how that feels.”
I lift my hand to his cheek, letting his five o’clock shadow tickle my palm, and get lost in his stormy eyes for an extra minute or two. He’s a good person. I feel it. I know it when I look at him.
Whatever he did . . . couldn’t have been that bad. Or maybe I’m still too blinded by love to be able to read between the lines.
“I’m going now,” I whisper.
He kisses my forehead. Lets me go. Watches me leave.
I refuse to believe that he’s done anything so wicked and vile that it could keep me from loving him the way I always wanted to.