by Layla Frost
It was very Instagrammy.
And it didn’t even need a filter.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dupes
Briar
For compliments
“WHAT DO YOU think Brand’s like?”
“No idea,” Alexander said from my couch. “Want me to hack his phone to see what I can find?”
“Can you do that?”
“Like taking candy from a baby.”
“I’ve never understood that saying. Why is robbing a child the measurement for…” My words trailed as something occurred to me. “Did you hack my phone?”
His gaze darted from the TV to me. “I plead the fifth.”
I wasn’t surprised. Secretly, waaaaay deep down, I also wasn’t upset. Just like I wasn’t upset about the fact the cameras kept magically reappearing in my living room. I didn’t share that twisted fact. “I’m going to Google movies with the worst hacking scenes, and those are all we’re watching for the next month.”
“Ouch. You’re a cold woman, Briar Dillon.”
My phone buzzed, but when I looked, it was a text from Jenna.
Ever since our group dinner, she texted daily. Usually it was to get my feedback on what I’d do or wear or say in some situation. I got the feeling she didn’t have as many friends as she let on, so I made sure I always answered.
Jenna: Hey, what do you think of this outfit?
The pic loaded to show a pair of ripped black jeans and a cropped black hoodie. From what I could tell, it wasn’t her usual style. She seemed to prefer the brighter colors of the rainbow. But it was still a cute look, so I told her the truth.
Me: Super cute. Do you have plans?
Jenna: Maybe!
Me: That sounds exciting. Fill me in later.
Jenna: I will. Wish me luck.
Me: I wish you a rabbit’s foot, four leaf clover, and Lucky Charms cereal’s worth of luck.
I exited out of my thread with her and checked my other messages, waiting for Aria to text she’d arrived.
Not just Aria.
Aria and Brand.
“I always thought she’d end up with some bland guy who wore sweater vests and was a workaholic like her. But being a firefighter isn’t bland. And Brando definitely doesn’t sound like the name of someone who wears sweater vests.”
“You also think I don’t look like a tech nerd. You know what they say about judging a book by its cover.”
“That’s another saying I don’t get. People work hard to design good covers. Those artists must feel like chopped liver every time they hear that.”
“Come kiss me,” Alexander said suddenly.
I stopped pacing. “Why?”
“Because seeing you happy and alive makes me hard as hell. And since I don’t have time to fuck you right now, I’ll take what I can get.”
I did one better.
Straddling him, I pulled his head to mine and gave him the kiss he’d demanded.
With excitement.
Anticipation.
Desire.
No, need.
And aliveness.
Rocking my hips, I asked, “How fast do you think you can be?”
My phone dinged on the couch next to us.
“Not that fast.” He spanned my hips and lifted me off him.
“Are we sleeping here or at your place?” I asked as I hooked Muppet’s leash to his collar.
“Whichever.”
Unless Aria was picking Muppet up late, we usually headed to Alexander’s. Beyond the obvious of his house being a million times nicer, his kitchen was better, his internet was faster, and his bed was bigger.
And, after seeing how stupidly startled I’d gotten thanks to his toaster, he’d upgraded to a fancy one that slowly lifted the toast. It was a huge, thoughtful gesture that made me happy every time I used it. As did the jaunty tune it played.
“Well,” I started when I was at the door, “do you wanna drive all the way home, cook the salmon, and then have sex? Or do you wanna stay here and have sex as soon as I get back in and then order Chinese?”
The door closed behind me but I still heard him shout, “That one!”
My grin faded as I walked Muppet down the hallway. Someone had doused themselves in perfume and it gave me an instant headache. It clung in my nostrils, making my stomach churn.
The privacy, no shared walls, and no shared common areas were even more reasons to prefer Alexander’s. His house smelled like him, not the scent of five different dinners mixing unappetizingly with someone’s cloying perfume.
I walked Muppet out to where my sister always parked. One of these days, I would invite her in to see my apartment, but not when I was already doing something as big as meeting her new man. And definitely not when it would mean her meeting mine. I wasn’t ready for that yet.
Ripping the Band-Aid off may have had its perks, but there was something to say for baby steps.
Approaching a big ass SUV, my steps slowed when my sister got out with a man. They looked like an expensive advertisement. She was all athletic body, gleaming hair, and professionally chic. Her chic may have come from fashion dupes, but she wore them better than most wore the real stuff.
And him?
My sister had done well.
Maybe not as well as I’d done with Alexander. I was biased, but still. Brando was a good representation of tall, dark, and handsome.
There was an edge to him that was a little scary, but I didn’t think that was a bad thing.
After the life we’d lived, we probably needed someone with an edge. Definitely more than we needed someone with a sweater vest.
“You smell awful,” Aria complained when I got within sniffing distance.
“Wow. Hello to you, too.”
“Did you shatter a perfume bottle?”
“No, the hallway is a delightful plethora of scents.”
Even though I stunk, Aria pulled me into a hug that I returned with one arm. Her brows were practically in her hairline when she pulled away, but before she could say anything, Muppet stole the show.
Way to help your auntie out, genius boy.
Jumping and barking, he greeted Brando like a long-lost pal he hadn’t seen in years.
I already like Brando because Aria liked him. But I trusted him because Muppet liked him.
“Gotta get this dog into manner school, Doc,” Brando said, though that didn’t stop him from scratching Muppet’s ears.
“Eventually,” Aria evaded.
“Soon.”
“Those places cost an arm and a leg.” She crouched on her heels to love on her pup. “And unlike some people, the only markers I have are made by Crayola.”
I gave a low whistle. “You sprung for name brand markers?”
“No, you know I live the dupe life. I can offer store brand markers.” Gracefully standing like she was the one with years of pageant experience, she made her introductions. “Briar, this is Brand. Brand, this is my sister, Briar.”
I accepted his outstretched hand. Muppet must’ve felt left out because he jumped up to push his snout against our grasp.
“How was my boy today?” Aria asked.
“Perfection as usual.”
“You’re just as enabling as Aria,” Brand muttered, but there was no venom or condemnation in his tone. It was resigned.
And that made me like him even more.
Aria rolled her eyes then focused them on me. “You look tired.”
“First I smell and now I look like shit? The flattery.” I pressed my palm to my chest. “It’s too much for my already inflated ego.”
“You know what I mean. Are you okay?”
“Yes. My under-eye bags and I are awesome, thanks for asking.” When she just gave me an expectant look, I dropped the snark. “I really am good. Promise.”
“What’re you up to tonight?”
Getting fucked so hard and so well, I won’t be able to walk to the door to get our takeout.
Which is also why I’m
both tired and good.
“The usual,” I said. “What about you?”
“Brand’s going to teach me how to grill steak.” I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, she amended, “Try to teach me.”
“Good luck,” I told Brand.
Brand shook his head and shrugged. I had a feeling he knew his task was a big one.
Aria and me…
Blue eyes.
Unconditional love for each other and Muppet.
A preference for edgy men.
And zero, absolutely zero, cooking skills.
It was the Dillon sister way.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lucky
Briar
For being different
SOMETHING WAS WRONG.
Call it intuition.
Call it a premonition.
Call it paranoia, a pessimist’s mindset, or a knack.
Call it Great Aunt Sally for all I cared.
All I knew was I was right and something was wrong.
Walking through the lobby of Redmond Mental Health Center, the recycled air was stuffier and more claustrophobic than usual. There was a wired undercurrent.
And it was fucking heavy.
Once I was seated in the group room, the sensation didn’t dissipate. It grew.
Derrick looked sad at the best of times. But when he walked in after me, he looked clinically depressed. Like he should be sitting in the chair next to me and not leading the session. Another woman followed him in and lingered back, but it was Derrick who spoke. “I have some news to share.”
“Hold on,” Meghan said. “We have to wait for Jenna.”
But I already knew we wouldn’t be waiting. Because the specter of Death… he didn’t just haunt me.
Jenna was dead.
_______________
“I’M A GRIEF counselor here at the center. If anyone needs to talk, I’m always available.”
Jenna would need to talk.
Jenna fucking loved to talk.
Why didn’t she talk to me when she needed it?
“Because you can’t even help yourself,” the woman said.
“Rude,” I shouted. “I mean, yeah, true. But still. Rude.”
Except she didn’t respond. No one did.
No one would look at me. And for once, I wanted them to.
I screamed.
Until my throat was raw.
There was a heavy metal clank, and Alexander filled the opened doorway.
“Thank God,” I breathed, going to him.
Going through him, his body fading to a mist that made my stomach ache.
Then, he was gone.
They all were gone.
And I was tired.
So.
Very.
Tired.
“Briar.” Someone shook my shoulders. My lids shot open.
I was awake, but the dream still gripped my frantically beating heart. Not because Alexander was crouched next to where I was curled up on the couch and he was something out of a dream—though that was true.
But because I was scared my nightmare was just beginning.
Again.
No.
No, no, no.
I’d been rundown. Exhausted to the point where it felt like my bones were tired. My body ached, my mind was foggy, and I just felt off.
I recognized it.
I’d been down that road before.
Pushing down the panic—choking on it—I sat up and checked the time. “What’re you doing here? You’ve got that…” I moved my hand in a circle, “thing with the stuff.”
I barely remembered the surreal group session, texting Alexander, the bus ride home, or falling asleep. There was no way I’d remember his technical whosie-whatsit.
He didn’t even tease me about my impeccable understanding of his work. “It’s covered. How’re you?” His lips tipped, but it was a sad smile, loaded with concern. “Stupid question, I know, but it’s important.”
Well, someone in my group therapy killed herself.
If my cancer has returned, I may be dying, too.
And, for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to.
I want to live.
“I’m okay.”
It was a lie.
He knew it, too. I couldn’t fool him using my A-game. And right then? I didn’t have the energy or desire to bust out my Vegas bluffing skills.
Gathering my nerve—and unsure if I wanted to know the answer—I asked the question that had been hovering at the back of my mind. “This wasn’t you…”
He looked aghast at the insinuation. “No. Christ, flower, I don’t… No.”
“Well, I didn’t know. Before, with me—”
“Was different. You’re so fucking different, flower.”
There was weight to his words, a meaning far deeper than just discussing our past.
As was my response. “Good.”
For a lot of reasons, and not all of them sensical, it was good.
“Come here,” he whispered.
I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to sit or stand or go anywhere. I didn’t want to do anything.
I should’ve known Alexander would know what I needed because all he did was lift and carry me to my room to gently place me on my bed.
“Sorry, I just need a minute,” I said as he covered me up.
“Take all the time you need, flower. Did you eat?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll fix you some toast in a bit. Or get you enchiladas. Whatever you want.”
“Thanks,” I whispered, shakily running my fingers through my ponytail.
My beautiful hair.
Hair I loved.
Hair I rarely even cut because it’d taken so long to grow back after chemo.
Hair I might lose again.
A sob forced its way over the lump in my throat. It was the culmination of everything. But the fact the potential loss of my hair was even on my radar made me feel like the worst kind of bitch.
God, I’m a shit person.
Fully clothed, Alexander climbed onto the bed and hauled me to him. He held me tight as, through my tears, I told him about Jenna. I didn’t mince words.
She was annoying.
Narcissistic.
Immature.
But under all that, she was genuinely a good person. Kinda self-centered and fucked up, sure. But never cruel. Never a mean girl.
After a while, I fell into an old, reliable depression nap. It’d been a while since I’d had one. Only that time, Alexander was there to make sure I ate something and stayed hydrated.
And to keep the nightmares away.
_______________
LOCKED IN ONE of the shelter offices the next morning, I eyed the phone as though it were a coiled snake, poised to jump and attack.
You can do this, Briar.
Just pick up the phone and… do the phone thing.
God, I really do suck at this. Poor Aria, if I’m her hype man, she’s really screwed.
I needed to just get it over with, otherwise I’d have to use my cell. And I did not want to do that.
I wasn’t ready for Alexander to know.
I wasn’t even ready to know, but I kinda had to.
Finally working up the nerve to pretend I was braver than an inanimate object, I picked up the phone and dialed. It rang and rang and rang, the shrill noise like a taunt in my head. I was afraid they’d pick up and I’d have to voice my concerns. As if verbally unleashing them into the universe would make them real. But I was even more terrified they wouldn’t, and I’d have to find the nerve to call back. That I’d be left waiting.
Wondering.
Obsessing.
Finally, the call connected and a friendly voice greeted me. “Department of Oncology.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Fear had sucked it dry—as if gritty sand coated my tongue, cementing it in place.
“Hello?” the woman prompted when the silence stretched.<
br />
My chest was so tight, I wondered if anxiety and fear could wrap themselves around my heart until it stopped beating.
Closing my eyes, I found my strength and forced the words through the gravel in my throat.
I can’t believe I’m saying this.
“I need an appointment with Dr. Elio.”
“You’re in luck, he had a cancellation this afternoon.”
Yeah.
That’s me all right.
Lucky.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Band-Aids
Briar
For enlightenment
“I THINK WE should break up.”
There. Done. Band-Aid ripped off. And with it went my soul.
“No.”
I’d come home from the doctor, hoping to have time before Alexander arrived. I had to strengthen my defense because I knew I’d falter when I saw him. I needed to organize my argument because I knew there’d be one. And I wanted to freshen up because no one wanted to look exhausted and sloppy during a breakup.
Un-fucking-fortunately, when I’d opened my door, there he was, sitting on my couch.
I crossed my arms and glared at him. “Sorry, I misspoke. We are broken up. You can leave now.”
“Sorry, I also misspoke,” he shot back. “Fuck no.”
“You don’t really get a say in this.”
“The hell I don’t.”
“Things ran their course.”
He stood—tall, strong, and dangerous. I had to lock my knees. Not so I didn’t step away from him.
So I didn’t move to him.
“It was fun, but don’t let the door hit me on the ass on my way out? Is that what you’re saying?”
No.
I lifted my chin. “Yes.”
“And this decision would have nothing to do with the oncology appointment you had today?”
All the bravado I’d feigned vanished, and my shoulders slumped. “How did you know?”
“I always know.”
I was frustrated. Disappointed. Heartbroken. Pissed off.
And scared.
So fucking scared.
I didn’t deal with emotions well to begin with. My childhood hadn’t exactly equipped me with proper coping tools.
Not unless suck it up, shut up and smile bigger, or have some control were recommended in the new parenting books.
