“Fuck,” he whisper-shouts. “It was you.” Now both hands pull on the back of his neck and his eyes dart at mine. “Were you ever going to fucking tell me? Or were you going to just continue to play both roles?”
“Are you really playing the victim card right now, Brig?”
“I’m trying to fucking understand what’s going on? Christ, Ruth. A month and a half ago you were just the girl handing me coffee—”
“Exactly, Brig. I was just the girl handing you coffee. It wasn’t until I practically threw myself at you that you saw me as someone worth spending time with.”
“That’s not fucking fair,” he says, his anger startling. “I spoke to you. I struck up conversations, or at least attempted to. But you never engaged. Even when I took you to see the Parlor for the first time, it was like I was dragging you out against your will. How am I supposed to react when the person I’m trying to have a conversation with doesn’t want to talk to me?”
“I—”
“Hello, you two,” Mrs. Knightly says, coming up to us while placing a kind hand on both of our shoulders. “Whatever’s happening between you, can you maybe wait until tomorrow? You’re starting to draw attention.”
My face blanches and my heart sinks. People can hear us? That’s the last thing I wanted. I glance toward the ballroom where I see a few people looking down the hallway.
Crap.
“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Knightly,” I say quickly.
“It’s okay. Rogan and Harper haven’t noticed, but thought I’d stop you two before it got out of hand or ended up . . . with your clothes off.”
“Jesus, Mom,” Brig groans, as I feel my face turn bright red.
“Well, there’s a lot of heat over here.”
“I assure you, no heat,” I say, stepping away. “I apologize again. I’m going to say goodbye to Rogan and Harper and then take off.”
“Oh honey, you don’t have to leave,” Mrs. Knightly says.
I glance at Brig. “Yes, I do.”
“Ruth. We’re not done here,” Brig says through clenched teeth.
I give him one last glance and say, “We really are.”
And then I leave to find the happy couple. I’ve stayed long enough, it’s time to go wallow in my apartment. It’s time to burn some letters that were simply a fantasy.
A dream.
Exciting while it lasted but devastating when I woke up.
Chapter Eighteen
BRIG
Head against the steering wheel of my car, I take a deep breath.
Fuck, I’m hung over.
After Ruth left the wedding, I spent the rest of the night only a few feet away from the open bar, trying to erase the memory of the last twenty-four hours.
Note to self: alcohol erases nothing, just makes you feel worse the next morning.
Griffin and Reid both tried to talk to me last night. Probably because every time I looked up, I saw my mom’s eyes locked on me, a disapproving look in her stare. I turned both my brothers down though, told them I was fine, and if they came near me again, I’d start screaming and cause a scene.
Thankfully they know me enough to understand that was not an empty threat.
Head still on the steering wheel, I twist just slightly to take in the house I grew up in. Old worn shaker shingles cover the outside, while a bright teal door welcomes visitors into the house. Right against the harbor. I have so many memories from this house that it’s comforting just to see it.
But I’m dreading going inside today.
The brunch after the wedding. Just our family and Harper’s dad, and yet, I know it’s going to be unpleasant, especially because of my mom. I’ve never seen that look shot my way.
I wanted to text Ruth last night. I wanted to ask her to talk, but would you believe it, we NEVER exchanged phone numbers. Ever.
What the hell is that about?
And I was ready to walk over to her place to confront her when Reid and Eve shoved me in their car and took me home. Reid tucked me in bed, patted my face a little too hard for my liking, and then left. The warmth of my comforter and mattress sucked me into an alcohol-induced coma and left me feeling wretched this morning. Especially from the scent of Ruth all over in my bed.
Total fucking nightmare swirling between my head and my stomach. I’ll be lucky if I can keep anything down this morning.
The only goal for today? Don’t puke at the after-wedding brunch.
Retrieving my keys from the ignition, I take one more deep breath and slowly ease my way out of my car, shutting the door behind me.
I forced myself to take a shower this morning to wash off the booze and put something decent on. And when I say decent, I mean a step up from sweatpants. I make my way down the stone walkway that leads to my parents’ house, but I pause at the door, hand on the handle.
You can do this. Just keep to yourself and don’t draw any attention.
I open the door and the hairs on the back of my neck rise, because instead of laughter and obnoxious bantering, I’m met with complete silence.
Shit . . .
Don’t freak out. Maybe they’re outside on the deck.
Then again, I would have heard them when I was outside.
Cringing, I step inside, slide my shoes off, and look to the left where I spot my family in the living room, sitting in a half circle. Quiet . . . waiting.
Oh hell.
Jen greets me at the door, a deranged smile on her face. “Brig, you’re here.”
I glance toward the living room again. “Why are you talking psychotically like that?”
She reaches out and grabs my arm, gripping it securely, leaving me no room to bolt. “Right this way, brother.”
Guiding me with more mustard behind her grip than I care for, she sits me on a single chair in front of everyone.
Eve is sitting on Reid’s lap. Mom and Dad share the loveseat. Griffin and Ren are next to them, and Harper is sitting on Rogan’s lap.
I shift in my seat, rubbing my hands on my pants. “What is this, an intervention?” I ask, trying to inject some humor into the somber room.
“Yes . . . it is,” Mom says, folding her hands together. “Brig, we love you, but we have all come to an agreement.”
“On what?” I ask, my head pounding, the need for a drink overwhelming.
Dad puts his arm around Mom’s shoulder and says, “We agreed that you’re an absolute moron.”
Oh.
Well, what a fucking delightful thing to be told by your family when you feel you’ve been run over by a ten-ton truck.
“Is this about Ruth?” I ask. “Because if it is, I don’t want to talk about it. I have a wicked hangover and I just need some bacon.” I sniff the air. “Is there any bacon cooking? My stomach is rolling and something greasy would really help.”
“This is about you being a moron,” my dad repeats, with more . . . gruff to his voice this time. It’s the seldom-used ill-tempered tone that makes you zip your mouth and listen.
Sweat trickles at my temples. My mouth waters. I hold up a finger and say, “I’m not trying to be a drama queen, but I’m . . . uh . . . really not feeling well.”
“You’re not getting out of this,” Mom says. “This has gone on long enough.”