Dakota choked on a laugh then bit her lip. I studied Rhett’s face, trying to decipher the context of the situation.
Freya frowned. “Rhett’s not just my boss, he’s my brother-in-law. We’re family. Aren’t we, Rhett?”
“Freya is Amy’s sister,” he said. “She was my assistant back in Ohio. When my assistant here quit to relocate, I brought her in. She’s excellent at what she does.”
“I bet,” I replied. “I hope you pay her extra for the shopping.”
Chapter Twelve
Rhett
Dakota took Bronte across the room to meet Sam’s sisters, Vanessa and Venetia, giving me an opportunity to visit the restroom and regroup. I paused at the sink to splash water on my face. Bronte’s comments about Freya had put the relationship with my sister-in-law into a different light.
Things had always been complicated between Freya and me. Maybe it was abnormal for her to be so involved in my life, but she’d integrated herself into the fabric of my day until I no longer noticed her intrusion. After Amy passed away, I’d been in a fog and grateful for her help. She’d managed the funeral arrangements and guided me through the intricacies of closing the estate, when I really wanted to avoid reality. After the funeral, she’d visited a few times a week to cook or clean. Once things had settled down, she continued to drop by. Although I no longer needed her assistance, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings after she’d been so nice.
When I opened the bathroom door, Freya hovered in the corridor. The corners of her mouth turned down.
“Something on your mind?” I asked.
“I can’t believe you brought the donut girl to this party.”
“Why? She’s sweet. I like her.” Freya’s negative tone put me on the defensive.
“Really, Rhett?” Her eyebrows arched. “She’s a little bizarre, don’t you think?”
“I’d call her quirky,” I said, intending to brush past her.
“It’s disrespectful. I mean, Amy hasn’t been gone all that long. Have you forgotten her already?” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the wall, waiting for my answer.
I stopped, drawing a long breath before turning around. Her words hit the tender spot where Amy still lurked. I already had enough guilt over my wife’s death to last a lifetime; I didn’t need Freya adding to the mix. “I’ll never forget Amy. And this isn’t a date. Bronte’s a friend. I don’t think Amy would have a problem with me trying to live my life.”
“Are you going to see her again?”
“I don’t know. Sure. Maybe.” I had no idea where my relationship with Bronte was going, and I didn’t like being questioned about it. My temper began to simmer. “What do you care?”
Freya studied me with eyes just like Amy’s. The similarity sent an ominous shiver down my back. It was like looking at a ghost. “I don’t think Amy would approve. I mean, what would she think about this girl? Or the way you’ve replaced her so soon? It’s an insult to her memory.”
“Why are you acting like this?” My self-control snapped. I slapped a hand against the wall above Freya’s shoulder and leaned in close. “Look, you can say whatever you want about me, but I don’t want to hear one word about Bronte. Not one word, do you understand? She’s a great person.” Freya’s eyes widened. “As for Amy’s opinion, she doesn’t have one. She’s dead, Freya. I can’t live my life trying to please her, because she’s not here, and she’s never coming back.”
I’d been holding back a shitload of emotions for the past two years. I was angry at Amy for betraying me before the accident. I was furious with her for dying, for leaving me to face life without her, even though I knew dying wasn’t her fault. And I felt guilty for playing a part in the events that had led to her death. We’d had an argument before she’d stepped in front of that bus. I’d said things I hadn’t meant. Now, I’d never get the chance to retract those hurtful words, and things would forever remain unresolved between us.
A tear slid down the slope of Freya’s cheek. Her jaw dropped, and her lips began to quiver. “I can’t believe you’d say something like that.”
Guilt rushed over me. Freya sprinted down the hall, leaving a trail of tears and sobs in her wake. I straightened and passed a hand over my eyes. When had I become such an asshole? None of this was her fault.
I found Freya in the study. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You—you—you hurt my feelings,” she said between sobs.
“I know. But you hurt my feelings, too.”
“I’m scared, Rhett. I miss her so much. And every day, her memory gets a little more faded.” She turned a tear-stained face toward me, looking so much like Amy that it stole my breath.
“I know. Me too.” My heart broke again for the thousandth time since Amy’s death. I pulled Freya into my embrace. She wrapped her arms around my waist. I stroked her hair and let her cry on my shoulder until her sobs stopped.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling back to look at me. “I know you miss her. I just don’t want to ever forget her, and I feel her slipping away. Now, you’re slipping away too.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I’d started out the evening feeling optimistic for the first time in a long time. Being with Bronte was easy. She didn’t judge or ask questions or remind me of how fucked up my life had become. Freya reminded me of who I was and of the debt I owed her and her family. I’d been a fool to think I could ever move on.
Chapter Thirteen
Bronte
As the evening progressed, the size of the party doubled. Dakota drifted away to mingle, leaving me alone. People spilled out of the living room, down the hallway, and into the grand foyer. Laughter and conversation buzzed in my ears like locusts. I couldn’t take a step in any direction without brushing into someone. The walls began to close in on me. My ribs tightened, making it impossible to draw a full breath.
“Excuse me.” A woman jostled my back.
“Pardon me.” The sleeve of a waiter brushed my bare arm as he passed through with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
“No problem,” I murmured, but it was a problem.
The edges of my control began to fray. No, no. Not now. I hadn’t experienced a meltdown since the broom closet at the coffee shop last month, and I sure as hell didn’t want to have one now. I searched the room for Rhett, but he’d disappeared. I needed an anchor, something familiar to latch onto. Desperate to regain control, I fled toward the patio. In my haste, I bumped the elbow of an austere, bearded gentleman. The contents of his highball glass splashed over my chest, staining my dress and splattering his shoes.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Watch where you’re going, young lady.”
“Sorry. I’m so sorry,” I said and dove headlong into sensory overload. Too many noises. The scents of spilled liquor, food, floral perfumes, musky colognes. Laughter, talking, music, my heartbeat. The press of the crowd, stealing my breath and hemming me in. The wet, cold sensation of liquid seeping through my dress and onto my skin. “Move. Please. Let me through.”
I shoved a path through the crowd, fighting my way to the foyer. I exploded through the front door and landed on the porch. The cold September air rushed over me, cooling my cheeks.
“Bronte?” Dakota’s concerned voice hovered on the periphery of my consciousness. At the touch of her hand to my shoulder, I flinched and backed away. “Are you okay?” When I looked into her eyes, they were filled with compassion. “What’s wrong? Are you having a panic attack?”
“Yes. No.” I pressed a hand to my chest, fighting to regain control, hating myself for the way I was. “I just needed some space. It’s so crowded in there. So many people. I couldn’t breathe.”
“Here. Come and sit down.” With gentle hands, she guided me to a chair near the door. “Focus on your breathing. Slow and easy. In and out.”
A shadow fell across us. I cringed, sensitive to the change in light. Sam stepped into my range of sight. “What’s going on?”
“I should never have come here tonight.” I shook my head, feeling the threat of tears, hating my lack of control. The buzzing in my ears grew louder. “I’m sorry for ruining your party.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re fine. Nothing’s ruined, except maybe your dress.” She squeezed my hands. “I could care less what those people in there think. I’m worried about you.”
The genuine concern in her voice eased my panic. Her calm capability reminded me of my mother. My heartbeat began to regulate. She truly was a sweet person, and I appreciated her efforts to put me at ease. In my experience, most people either avoided me entirely or used the opportunity to make fun of me.
“What happened?” Rhett barreled onto the porch, Sam on his heels, and screeched to a halt at my side. He kneeled down on one knee. His gaze searched my face, and I felt even smaller for worrying him. “Bronte? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Or I will be. I just—I lost it in there. I couldn’t find you, and there were so many people.” My voice trailed away. I ducked my head to hide my shame.
“It’s okay,” he said. One of his hands touched my cheek, but his voice sounded flat. “I’m ready to go anyway.” Taking my hands, he pulled me to my feet. “Sam, Dakota, thanks for your hospitality.”
“Our pleasure,” Sam said.
“We loved having you,” Dakota said. “Bronte, don’t forget. We’re having lunch on Wednesday. I’ll text you.”
“Yes. That’ll be great.” Things were returning to normal. My vision sharpened, and my thoughts began to clear. Cool, clean air filled my lungs. “Thank you for being so kind.”
An uncomfortable tension consumed the drive home. Rhett said nothing, refusing to meet my gaze. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white and straining. I bit the inside of my cheek to hold back the dozens of thoughts and questions racing through my head. Finally, when we reached my street, he parked the car in front of my building and broke the silence.
“I’m not going to be able to make lunch this week,” he said.
“We have lunch every Tuesday and Thursday.” My mind fumbled to wrap around his words. He was trying to break our routine. First the party, and now this. I thought he respected the sanctity of a schedule. “But you can’t. It’s on my calendar.”
“Just because you write something down doesn’t make it a given.”
“But I wrote it down.” I heard the words come out of my mouth, recognized the glitch in my thoughts but was powerless to stop them.
He sighed, like he was out of patience, and unclenched his fingers from the wheel. “I can do whatever I want, Bronte. I’ve got a lot going on next week. You’re just going to have to deal with it.”
His sharp tone erased the last bits of mental fog. Frustration rolled off him in waves. This wasn’t the easygoing, fun guy I’d left with three hours earlier. The abrupt reversal of his moods sent me into a tailspin, but in a different way from the events of the party. Rhett was familiar, safe, and I felt comfortable enough with him to speak my mind.
“Why are you doing this? Are you angry with me?” I asked.
“No. I’m angry with myself. The party was a bad idea.” He shoved a hand through his hair and stared out the windshield. “I shouldn’t have invited you.”
“That’s a shitty thing to say, Rhett Easton.” For the first time in my life, a spark of indignation ignited inside me. I’d spent my entire twenty-eight years being ridiculed and pushed around by the so-called “normal” people, and I was over it. “Because you knew how I was before we went to your stupid party. I told you that I don’t do crowds, that I don’t do well in new situations. I’m sorry about the meltdown or if I embarrassed you, but you can’t be angry with me for being the way I am.”
The furrow between his brows intensified. When our eyes met, anguish filled his blue-gray irises. He was hurting. Deeply, judging by the twist of his mouth. Well, tough shit. I was hurting too. “Look. It’s been a long night. Let me get your door.” Even during an argument, he remained a gentleman. “I’ll walk you up. We can talk about this another time.” He reached for his door, but I jumped out onto the sidewalk, slamming the door behind me.
“Don’t worry about it.” Our shouting roused the neighborhood dogs. A chorus of howls and barks echoed down the quiet avenue. Upstairs, the light snapped on in 2B.
“Bronte, don’t be that way.” His footsteps slapped the pavement behind me. “Goddammit. Wait.” He reached the front steps as I crossed the threshold of the building. “Hang on.”
“I don’t have anything more to say.” I turned, blocking his entrance, and slammed the door in his face.
Once inside my apartment, I stripped out of the ruined dress and tossed it in the garbage can. I went straight to the bathroom and into the shower. The whiskey, or whatever the man had been drinking, had left a sticky residue across my chest. I scrubbed until the scent and feel disappeared, but the water couldn’t erase the knot in the pit of my stomach.
When I was clean and dry, I tried to tie together the fragments of my usual Saturday night routine. I brushed my teeth and prepared for bed. Unable to sleep, I walked around the living room two times counterclockwise and twice clockwise, counted the number of books on the bookshelf and divided the number by eight. On a bad day, these things soothed my nerves, but tonight I wrestled with the agitation. Then I realized I hadn’t locked and unlocked the door eight times. I hadn’t counted at all. No wonder my day had turned to shit.
I went back to the door and completed the ritual. I should’ve felt better, but I didn’t. The events of the evening had sent me into a complete and utter tailspin. Rhett’s behavior had unraveled the final thread of my self-control. I played the night over and over in my head, running our conversation on a loop, to dissect where it had all gone wrong.
In the morning, I took the bus to the coffee shop and sat on the counter in the kitchen. While my sister prepared an assortment of bakery items for display, I briefed her on the events of the night. She listened in silence, brow furrowing deeper by the second, until I finished. Once she’d completed her work, she wiped her hands on her apron and took a seat next to me.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I asked.
“Oh, I’ve got plenty to say. I’m just trying to figure out how to say it without going off.” She covered my hand with hers.
“Well, I’m not getting any younger.”
“First, I think Rhett’s an ass, and I plan to give him a piece of my mind the next time I see him. And he’d better have a damn good excuse for acting the way he did,” she said. She lifted two fingers into the air. “And second, I think you need to call Dr. Mortensen.”
“No.” My whirling thoughts slammed to a halt. “I’m fine. I just need to work through things.”
She slid off the counter and took both my hands in hers. “Pickle, you’re not okay. You’ve been counting non-stop since you got here. Under your breath, but I heard it.”
I hung my head, not wanting to admit that she was right, but I knew it was true all the same.
Chapter Fourteen
Rhett
The next afternoon, Carter appeared on my doorstep. When I opened the door, I found him lounging against the opposite wall. Two ugly bruises circled his eyes, and his nose was twice its normal size. He breezed into the apartment and walked directly into the kitchen.
“You look like shit,” I said, closing the door behind him.
“Well, you’re no raving beauty yourself,” he replied. “Got anything to eat in this place?”
“I don’t know.” My appetite had disappeared after the disaster at the Seaforths. I’d spent the night staring at the ceiling, hating myself for upsetting Freya and Bronte. “Why do you come here to steal my food? You’re a freaking millionaire.”
“Don’t be a hater.” He continued to bang through the cabinets. “No potato chips? Hasn’t your sister-wife been to the grocery lately?
What’s going on? She’s slacking in her duties.” He rummaged through the cabinets until he found a box of cereal. “Tell her to get Cap’n Crunch next time. You know it’s my favorite.”
“Tell her yourself,” I said and flopped on the sofa. “And don’t call her that. It makes my skin crawl.”
“I call things like I see them. If you want someone to kiss your pretty-boy ass, you’re going to have to look elsewhere.”
“Just stop.”
“Damn, someone’s in a pissy mood today. Was your date a flop?” With the box of cereal in one hand and a beer in the other, he took a seat in the recliner across from me. He flipped up the footrest and stretched back.
“It wasn’t a date.” I surfed through the channels on the television, avoiding his pointed stare.
“Okay, how was your non-date?” He pointed to the TV. “Wait. That show is awesome.”
“My non-date was fine. It had to be better than yours.” To deflect his questions, I turned the conversation in a different direction. “What happened to your face?”
“Ah, well, interesting story.” He shifted to a more comfortable position, settling in to tell his tale. “Got a call last week that a girl missed her court appearance. She’s got a hundred-thousand-dollar bond on her. That’s a lot of money, right? And I sure as hell don’t want to pay it, so I tracked her down. Found her doing yoga at some gym in Indianapolis. She had the nicest ass I’ve ever seen and the best left hook.” Through a mouthful of cereal, he said, “When I went after her, she beat the shit out of me.”
“A girl did that to you?” A little of my funk lifted. I sat up, cocking my head. Carter wasn’t as tall as me, but he was more fit. He spent his spare time at the gym, lifting weights, and kickboxing. I’d seen him drop a man twice his size with one punch.
Pretty Broken Hearts: A Pretty Broken Standalone Page 7
