by Emma Renshaw
“Definitely not,” Brae says. She takes a big bite of her waffle and stabs one of the breakfast potatoes from my plate with her fork. I gasp and my hands clutch at my sides. A wave of nausea rocks through me, and distant berating comments fill my ears.
“I’m sorry,” Brae says, putting the potato back on my plate.
I try to swallow and clear my throat. My trembling hand reaches for my glass of iced water. I take a long sip, beating back the wave of horror that was just triggered.
“It’s fine. I’m sorry, that was about something else,” I lie. “Take as many potatoes as you want, or I’ll end up eating them all.” My fake laughter sounds exactly that—fake.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.” The sweat coating my palms starts to dissipate, and the nausea isn’t as overwhelming as it was even a couple minutes ago. The anxiety flare ups have gotten better over the years, but sometimes something out of the blue brings everything roaring back into my head and shocks me to my core.
Pierce was rigid about manners. I thought since I was his wife, he wouldn’t mind if I took a sliver of the chocolate cake he’d ordered. His large hand wrapped around my wrist, bending it in the middle of a crowded restaurant. When a gasp left my mouth, he pinched the inside of my thigh under the table and warned me in a low tone to keep quiet. To anyone watching, we could’ve been in a couple’s embrace and the tears shimmering in my eyes could’ve been from something sweet he said in my ear. No one ever suspects the rich, successful, and powerful man to be abusing his wife. He taught me another “lesson” in manners that night.
“So, how does Texas compare to Chicago?” The conversation now feels awkward, whereas before everything felt natural, like we’d been hanging out for years. The tension between us slowly morphs back into easy banter by the time we arrive at the mall. I park at Nordstroms. “Do you have a dream dress?”
“What do you mean?”
I grin, linking my arm through hers. “A dream dress. The dress you really want to wear, no matter the occasion. For me, it was the red dress in Moulin Rouge. It was low cut, sexy, and so feminine with a corset tie up the back. The dress is tight through the torso then flairs into an amazing skirt. As soon as it came on screen, I knew I needed to wear that dress one day.”
“Did you?”
I don’t let my smile fall. “Not yet. I’m not sure I’ll ever have an opportunity to wear a dress like that, but maybe one day. I don’t see any fancy balls in my future though. Do you have a dream dress?”
Brae rubs her lips together and keeps her arm linked with mine as we walk to the entrance of the mall and she thinks. “I don’t think so.”
“Let’s find you one then. You’ll know it when you see it.”
Brae and I are scanning the racks, folding dresses over our arms for her to try on. I grab anything that’s in her size, flattering for her skin tone, and wouldn’t make Callan turn into a raging monster before keeling over from a heart attack.
As I’m swiping through the dresses hanging on the rack, a green dress appears that I quickly cover and force my mind away until the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Every sense I have is screaming for me to run and not look back, but I have to. I turn toward the aisle and bile rises in my throat. Pierce—my ex-husband, my ex monster, is walking down the aisle with his focus on his phone. He’s pristine as ever, but I know the devil that hides behind the Armani suit. Sweat breaks along my brow line and my heart pounds against my ribs. I drop the dresses on the ground and run for any available hiding spot before I can even summon words to tell Brae I’ll be back.
Chapter 15
Callan
My fingers twirl a bottle cap. I’m in the oversized leather chair with my legs stretched out and my feet on the ottoman in front of me. Brae is curled into the corner of the couch with a fleece blanket covering her. One of her fists is wrapped around the edge as she holds it under her chin.
She’s been quiet since getting home from shopping with Iris. This sullen mood isn’t what I expected. I thought she’d waltz in the door, riding the same cloud she left floating on. I’d picked up her favorite pepperoni and olive pizza from the joint down the street, wanting her to have a good day for even a few minutes longer.
I’d bought enough pizza for Iris to join us, but she didn’t. She went home after walking Brae to the door with barely a wave goodbye. I stood in the doorway stunned for at least a minute after Iris walked into her apartment and locked her door.
I thought I’d have to force a smile while my baby sister tried on her dress for me. Instead she handed me the leftover cash and walked straight to her room, holding the dress a few feet off the ground. She came back out and grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge and a plate for the pizza. We ate in silence. I tried to broach the shopping trip but got little more than a few words and noncommittal noises.
Silence and Brae don’t really go together; she can fill in empty noise with chatter about anything. She’s been that way since she was born. Before she could speak actual words, she filled the silence with baby gurgles and once she learned to speak, she spoke with anyone about anything. If I took her to the grocery store, the cashier would know our life story before they finished ringing up our items.
Light and color flick from the TV into the living room while Brae flips through channels mindlessly. She hasn’t settled on any channel for longer than thirty seconds, she’s scrolled through all of our options. Twice.
Mom was a waste of space. We’re better off without her, but in these moments—the moments when Brae is so very clearly a teenage girl—I fuckin’ wish that woman gave more to us.
Savannah and Ava have girls. But I don’t think their one-year-old and seven-year-old will be much help for my teenage-girl dilemma.
I take a swig of my beer and brace for the reaction as I ask her a question. “What color is your dress?”
Brae adjusts herself on the couch. Her eyes slice to mine. “Ice blue.”
I wait for her to say something else, but she doesn’t. She remains completely silent and sullen. I take another slug of my beer and lick my lips before trying again.
“Do you love it?”
She starts to shrug but stops mid-movement and nods. A smile crosses her face; it’s so small I almost miss it. Fuck yeah. Progress.
“Is it appropriate?”
She groans and whines, “Callan.”
And a step back again. My free hand curls into a fist on the arm of the chair as I search for any patience I can muster. I think of another question to ask her. Brae watches clothing shows all the time that I try to tune out. I rack my brain for any word I’ve heard used.
“Is it… long?” I ask. Long. Long is what I come up with. Then the perfect question pops into my mind. “Does it have a sweet tart neck?”
I take a victorious pull of my beer, proud of myself for remembering that and even prouder when Brae chuckles. “Sweetheart neckline. Yes, it’s long and does have a sweetheart neckline.”
I chuckle along with her and shrug. “I’m not supposed to know about that shit anyway.”
She pulls the covers closer to her and snuggles back under them, without saying another word. Another step back.
“Brae.”
Her attention comes back to me.
“What’s going on with you?”
She turns her focus back to the TV for a minute and doesn’t answer. I’m about to press when she sits up and crosses her legs like she’s in a kindergarten classroom. Her hands fidget above the blanket then tug through her hair forcefully.
“I don’t know if I should say anything.”
What the fuck.
“You should always tell me. I’m open to listening to whatever you have to say. Anything you need, we’ll figure it out together.” I can’t promise her that I’ll always want to hear what she has to say, but nothing in this world would stop be from being the brother she needs. If that includes listening to boy problems, female time of the month issues, or about what color
shoes she should wear—I don’t care, I’ll listen to any of it and figure it out with her.
“It’s not about me,” she says.
“Who is it?”
“Iris.”
The blood pumping through my veins and to my heart freezes. Did something happen today? Did she make Brae uncomfortable? I have trouble imagining that little bird doing anything to harm anyone. Or even saying anything rude to anyone.
She curses using breakfast foods.
“What happened? Did she say something to you?”
“Nothing like that.”
Brae hasn’t looked up at me once. She’s picking at the polish on her fingernails. Her face changes shades with the changing glow of the TV, but the deep crease between her brows and trembling lip let me know something is seriously wrong.
“Brae,” I whisper when her hand comes up, wiping her eye.
“I don’t even know what happened, but I know something did. That sounds crazy. It’s why I didn’t want to say anything, but...I just know.”
“Give me something, Brae.” I lean forward and plead with her to tell me something. God damn anything.
Her breath hitches as she breathes in, and finally her eyes are on mine.
“At brunch, I stole a potato from her plate. She froze.”
I cock an eyebrow and hesitate before speaking slowly. “Some people don’t like to share food,” I say. “I let you pick whatever the hell you want off of my plate, but not everyone is like that, especially if they don’t know each other well.”
“It wasn’t that. Her eyes glazed over and she was gone. I put the potato back.”
I want to laugh when she pauses. I can see Brae returning a piece of potato that she stole from someone else’s plate. Her next words take all the amusement out of me.
“She looked terrified. She was shaking and her hands were trembling. She tried to act normal after, but it was weird.”
Every interaction I’ve had with Iris flashes through my mind. The mirror hanging outside her door. The way she shrank away from my anger. Her flinching in the parking lot when I raised my hand.
I don’t know if she’s been abused, but it’s what I’m thinking. Carmen makes it seem like she has no one in this world. Was it her parents? Did she have a shitty upbringing like me and Brae?
“That’s not all.”
Fuck. I reach forward, grabbing the remote from the coffee table, and mute the already-quiet tv.
“What else, B?”
“When we got to the mall and were picking out dresses, she gasped and dropped all the dresses she was holding and ran. It took me a few minutes to find her. She was hiding in a dressing room with her feet up. She didn’t respond to me at first, but when she opened the door, her face was so white and scared. Her face was red and splotchy like she’d been crying and her breathing wasn’t normal.”
Brae swallows. I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees, waiting for her to continue. Everything else has faded away, and the information I’m getting from Brae is the goddamn carrot dangling from a stick that I’ll do anything to snag.
“Again, she was shaking and scared. When she finally came out of the dressing room, she kept her head on a swivel, constantly watching her back and looking around for someone. I tried to ask her about it, but she played it off as something else.”
“What’d she try to play it off as?”
“She said she saw a bug.”
“A bug?”
“A bug.”
“How’d the rest of the day go?”
Brae sighs, settling back into the cushions, and crosses her arms over her chest. “She acted like nothing happened. We found a beautiful dress she insists is made for me, we found the perfect shoes to go with it, and I worried about her all day.”
I’m worried about her too. I look at the wall separating our apartments. I find myself wishing for the ability to see through walls. There hasn’t been a peep from her all night. She’s never been as loud as those first couple of days, but the walls aren’t the highest quality—I can usually hear her moving around.
“We’ll help her out,” I promise Brae.
Brae settles back down on the couch. I stare at the wall for a few more minutes before standing up and dumping the rest of my beer down the sink.
“B, I’m going next door. I’m locking up behind me. I won’t be gone too long.”
“Make sure she’s okay.”
I fucking plan on it.
I stomp to her front door and knock. I stand back with my hands in my pockets, giving her plenty of room to open the door. A minute passes by and nothing.
I knock again, this time a little louder.
A second later, I can hear her footsteps. Her shadow appears at the bottom of the door. I stare at the peephole, knowing she’s looking through it.
Open up for me, birdie.
I swallow a groan when she opens the door. She’s barefoot, and there are tiny speckles of paint on her skin. I follow her bare legs up to the hem of the large button-down shirt she’s wearing. The shirt has caked-on paint, some of it stiff from age and some of it still dripping wet.
Dark pieces of hair are falling from the bun on top of her head. I save her face for last. As always, her eyes are huge and open, not hiding a damn thing. A man like me could get lost in that gaze. Paint is splashed across her high cheekbones and smeared along her forehead.
Fuckin’ cute.
“Callan.”
“Birdie.”
I didn’t think I would ever be disappointed not to hear my nickname come out of her mouth, but I am. I point behind her. “Can I come in?”
Iris’s eyebrows rise, but she steps back and allows me past her. She shuts the door once I’m inside and engages the locks and the chain locks.
She fears something. I know it. And, I silently vow to do everything to take that fear away. I lived my life in fear of something happening to Brae. It’s not a life, it’s an existence. Iris deserves to be free from the chains that are holding her down. The sassy, confident, fiery girl I see glimpses of needs to shine. I need to know her.
Chapter 16
Iris
Callan strolls past me to the living room, looking around the space. I survey everything in the room, trying to see it as he does. Poppy’s paintings are hanging on the walls. There’s a white bookcase, in the corner of the room, filled with paperbacks of some of my favorite books—mostly romance novels. My couch is covered in soft fabric in a warm gray with teal throw pillows propped in the corner. The rug beneath the wood-and-metal coffee table is a swirling pattern of pinks and turquoise. A similar shade to his eyes, but not quite as dynamic.
Callan stands in front of the painting. Snowcapped Rockies are in the background, and in the foreground is an old abandoned chapel nestled into the mountainside. I wish I knew if that place existed and where Poppy found it. I never had the chance to ask him or the courage to ask Grams.
“Did you paint this?”
I snort. “Definitely not. My grandpa did. He painted all of these.”
Callan faces me, scanning me from head to toe, pausing on the paint spots along my shirt and legs. “Definitely not? Looks like you paint.”
“My paintings are nothing like that. Compared to this, my work is like a toddler’s finger painting.” I shrug. “Even if they’re not beautiful, I still love the feel of the brush in my hand.”
That’s the honest truth. A truth so deep in my soul, I can’t believe I said it aloud in front of Callan. I look down at my feet, dragging my toe over the rug. After seeing Pierce for the first time in years, I painted through the pain of my hand. I tried to paint away the worry and doubts that swirled in my mind. I wanted to come home from the mall, pack my bags, and leave without a goodbye to anyone. I got as far as the front door and hearing the low murmur of Callan’s voice through the thin walls.
I know why he’s here. Brae must have told him I acted like a crazy person, and now he’s going to tell me I can’t see her. My friend count will b
e halved about as fast as I could snap my fingers.
Callan’s bare feet come into my view. His heavy hands fall on my shoulders and slide to my neck. His thumbs lift my chin and tilt my face up to his. Tears pool in my eyes at the gentle gesture. With the barest touch, my soul knows his.
“Are you okay?” Concern fills his eyes. This close I can the see the different hues to blue. His calloused thumb sweeps over my cheek wiping away the lone tear that fell. My breath hitches and I bite my tongue until the threat of tears leaves me, but my nose is still tingling. One sentence, three words. A simple question.
“Yeah.” I try to look down again, but Callan keeps the pressure on my chin.
“Look at me, birdie.” His whisper is as rough and calloused as his hands against my skin. Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m sorry Brae had to see that.” I don’t deny that she saw something, and I won’t act like it didn’t happen. He’s here standing in front of me. Worrying about me. I can’t lie to him.
“What happened?” His voice is still soft, but I hear the demand underneath those words. He won’t let me walk away from this without answers from me. I’ve watched Callan and learned the kind of man he is since I move in, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that he’d never leave behind someone who is in trouble. And, I know, in trouble is written all over me.
“Saw someone I didn’t want to see.”
“The person who is responsible for you shrinking away from me when I go to run a hand through my hair?”
