She glances away, but I guide her back, meeting her glassy gaze.
“Because it was stolen,” I say. “No matter what anyone says, I didn’t do it, Demi. I didn’t do it.”
I’m overcome with a choke in my voice, so I kiss her before she senses I’m two seconds from falling apart. Men don’t fall apart. Men don’t cry. Men don’t get sad or weak. They brush it off and move on and pretend the parts that hurt don’t exist. If something becomes too painful, we fucking amputate that shit and don’t give it a second thought.
But I never could. Not with her.
Her lips warm mine, our tongues seeking one another’s. Demi’s skin is soft as silk beneath my fingertips, and I’m tempted to yank her hair out of that perfect little bun just so I can run my hands through it again.
My eyes burn, but I force it away.
I need to go before she asks more questions. I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her everything, because I know she has one foot out the door already, and if this is my only chance to come clean, I’ll do what I have to do.
But I want her undivided attention, because this isn’t the kind of thing you tell someone in passing. I don’t want her dressed to the nines, on her way out the door to some charity benefit for Brooks fucking Abbott.
“Call me when you get home tonight,” I say, cupping her face and taking my lips off hers.
“Royal . . .” She steps away, her words stuck for a moment. And then her shoulders slump. “I really need to get going.”
She steps into heels and motions toward the door. And with that, we go our separate ways.
Chapter 28
Demi
I follow Brenda like a shadow for the first hour, listening to her repeat the same things over and over again.
It’s really minor brain damage . . .
The doctors are very impressed with his progress already . . .
He’ll have a few months of physical therapy . . .
Yes, he’s talking . . .
His short-term memory seems to have been affected, but there’s a chance it’s only temporary . . .
“How are you holding up, kid?”
I turn to see my brother holding a plastic cup of hot pink punch and munching on a Madeleine cookie. His navy sweater is covered in crumbs, and he flashes me a boyish grin, the kind I rarely see anymore since he started practicing law.
He’s happy Brooks woke up.
Flinging my arms around his broad shoulders, I cling to him, not sure if I’ve ever been this happy to see him.
“What’s up with you?” he laughs. “You know we just saw each other, like, two days ago.”
“Just glad to see a friendly face.”
My back is to Brenda, and she’s yammering on to a group of women I’ve never seen in my life. She’s soaking this up, all this attention. And she’s good at it. People are drawn to her, and I’m not unconvinced that most of the women in Rixton Falls want to be her when they grow older. She’s unsinkable yet sweet, polished yet approachable.
“I don’t recognize anyone here,” I say.
“I overheard some people saying they came all the way from Oregon,” Derek says. “I think people were really touched by Brooks’s situation, and they’re coming in from all over. That’s the irony in tragedy. It’s beautiful like that. It unites us.”
“If they only knew . . .”
Derek chuckles. “What are you talking about?”
I swat him away when I see Delilah gabbing it up with a group of girls I vaguely remember from high school. I recognize their faces, but most of their names escape me.
“Jesus, everyone came, didn’t they?” I glance around the room in search of more familiar faces and come up mostly empty-handed. There’s the checker from the Quik-E Save, Father Batiste from Holy Trinity Church, and Sister Sapphire, but there’s nothing recognizable about any of the other faces here.
“Mom and Dad are on their way,” Derek says. “Haven’s with her mom this weekend.”
“I saved us a table.” I point across the expansive community hall. This is where most people have wedding receptions in Rixton Falls. There’s a stage, a dozen sparkling chandeliers, a parquet dance floor, and a catering-quality kitchen in the back.
“You’re not sitting with Brenda?” Derek scratches his temple.
“There aren’t assigned seats. This isn’t a wedding.”
Derek laughs.
“Sweetheart, now that the guests are mostly here, we’ll be making a speech in a moment. Stick with me, please.” Brenda’s voice in my ear sends a wicked zing down my spine.
“A speech?” I whip around to face her. “You didn’t say anything about a speech.”
“Just a few lines, dear. Speak from your heart. Tell the guests how you feel about my son, and how excited you are for your future together. How the money we raised will allow you to stay home and care for him as he recovers. They came all this way. You at least owe them that.”
Brenda’s sweet eyes darken for a second, but her smile remains relentlessly unshaken.
“I’m going to look for Mom and Dad,” Derek says, “and tell them where we’re sitting.”
So much for my quick appearance tonight.
I had no idea this was some kind of event-planned production, complete with a PA system and an open bar.
Rarely have I held a bad thought about Brenda, but in this moment, I resent her for turning her son’s tragic accident into a three-ring circus.
I untether myself from Brenda with an excuse about using the ladies’ room. She tells me to be quick, and I promise I’ll try. As soon as I’m inside, I shut myself in a stall and take out my phone.
I can’t wing a speech.
I barely passed speech class in college.
Had to take an Ativan before each one just to survive.
Stick me in front of a classroom of five and six year olds, and I’m golden. But public speech? In front of thousands?
My heart gallops in my chest, refusing to calm down.
And speaking about Brooks from my heart?
I highly doubt they want me to do that right now.
With eyes closed, I pull in three deep breaths and try not to choke on the cheap bathroom air freshener that invades my lungs. I try to focus on happier times. If I do that, maybe I can bullshit this enough to come out alive on the other end.
The beginning was good.
That boy swept me off my feet like no one’s business.
Those shiny blonde waves, swept into an expensive haircut. Those glimmering green eyes that took my breath away. That cocky smile that made all the girls in the campus dining hall do a double-take.
I was sitting alone, minding my own business in the cafeteria when Brooks took the seat across from me. He asked me for a napkin, saying please and thank you, and our fingers brushed.
He was so clean-cut. Neat around the edges. Preppy. Well-mannered.
He wore khakis and polos and boat shoes like they were his uniform.
He was studying finance and minoring in international business. He listened to NPR and stayed current on world news.
He could be charming and influential on his best of days, and at the time, he seemed safe.
Brooks Abbott was the anti-Royal Lockhart.
And maybe that was the best thing about him.
My broken heart was sold the first time I saw him, and I was convinced those green eyes were going to mend my broken heart.
“Ma’am, you about done in there? There’s a line.” A woman’s voice precedes a knock on my stall door. I’m occupying one of only three, and I’m sure Brenda’s outside freaking out that I’m not there when we’re about to take the podium.
“Coming right out,” I call back.
I wash up and stare in the mirror. My lipstick has faded, most of it left on Royal’s mouth after that earth-shaking kiss in the foyer. I rub them together, trying to redistribute the color, and head out.
The lights have been lowered, and a spotlight is pointed at the stage. A
man in a gray suit is fussing with a microphone behind a wooden lectern.
And I still don’t know what I’m going to say.
The room has grown louder. There are easily a couple of thousand people here, and it sounds like they’re all talking at once.
If I listen closely enough, I can pick out Brenda saying, “Where’s Demi? I need Demi.”
A cool sweat glazes my forehead, and my fingers go numb at my sides. I can’t stand up there, in front of all these people, and feed them some bullshit about the miracle of love and how I always knew Brooks would pull through and how I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with that amazing man.
I’m not a bullshitter. Never have been. Never will be.
Brenda floats through the crowd, her eyes scanning for me.
And this is when my fight or flight instincts choose to kick in.
Talk about timing.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m racing toward the exit, everything around me a blurred whir of people and drinks and sounds and lights against darkness.
“Whoa, whoa. Demi, where are you going?” Delilah snags my arm when I’m a good fifteen feet from freedom.
“Brenda wants me to give a speech.” I’m breathless. I don’t know if it’s the anxiety or the near sprint I just did in heels.
Delilah sticks her tongue from the corner of her mouth and wrinkles her face. “Ew.”
“I can’t stand up there, in front of all these people, and tell them how much I love Brooks.”
Delilah’s lips twist and scrunch at the corner. “All right. Go. I’ll cover for you. I’ll tell her you got sick.”
Throwing my arms around my little sister, I whisper, “Thank you” into her ear and bolt out the door.
Chapter 29
Demi
Brooks stares at the mounted TV in the corner of his hospital room. My heels click against the soft tile, and his head slowly careens in my direction. His face lights when he sees me, and his arms reach for me.
I place a palm up, and stop several paces away from him.
“Demi,” he says. “Aren’t you supposed to be downtown?”
His speech is better now. A bit slow and slurred, but it’s all there, becoming clearer with each passing day.
“You look pretty.” His gaze drinks me from head to toe and he smiles. “If only I wasn’t nursing a broken pelvis.”
I ignore his comment and take the seat by his bed.
“I wanted to ask you something,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“What do you remember about the week of the accident?”
I watch his face twist, like he’s trying to concentrate really hard, and he stares into his lap at curled fingers.
“Not a lot, Demi. I’m sorry,” he says, taking his time.
I place my head in my hand, resting my elbow on the arm of the chair. Crossing my legs toward him, I scoot closer.
“Really try to remember, Brooks. I know it’s hard. But I need you to try. If there’s anything . . .”
He shakes his head, licking dry lips. “I can’t, Demi. I’ve tried.”
“Our engagement is over. You ended it, and I really need you to remember so you can tell your Mom.”
Brooks’s crestfallen expression would break my heart in two if it wasn’t so focused on all the reasons I needed him to corroborate this.
“I remember us fighting a lot. About the wedding.” His forehead wrinkles. “I remember having doubts. But I don’t remember calling it off.”
“Doubts,” I say. “What kind of doubts?”
I’m hoping this will be some kind of portal or wormhole, something to lead us in the right direction.
Brooks shakes his head slowly, dragging in a long, slow breath.
“Normal doubts?” he says. “Cold feet? Nothing unusual.”
Defeated, I massage my temple and try again. “There had to have been a reason, Brooks, that you left me that night. Where were you going? Were you going to see somebody? You were just outside Glidden. What’s in Glidden?”
I study his eyes, hoping I can see some hint of something clicking. Wheels turning. Anything.
“Demi, my head is pounding, and I’m hurting, and I don’t have the energy,” he says. “I don’t care what happened a week ago. All I know is I want to marry you.”
This isn’t going to work.
No one’s going to believe me if the man who called off the wedding doesn’t remember doing it.
“Mom told me you never left my side,” he says, exhaling and trying to readjust himself. His face winces, and he blows a hard breath. “If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.”
Your Mom is lying to you.
“I’m going to marry you, Demi.” He reaches for me, the veins in his Ivy League rower’s arms bulging as he attempts to flex his tight hand.
“Brooks.” I clear my throat and close my eyes. I didn’t want to do this while he was still in the hospital, but I’m not sure I have a choice. “You cheated on me. The night you left, you were going to see her. In Glidden.”
His swollen face tightens for a moment, his upper lip becoming stiff. For a split second, I’m sure he’s about to come clean.
My palms sweat, and I wait, watching him breathe in and out and focus on the white flannel blanket covering his feet.
“I would never.” His eyes narrow. “I mean, I know I’m not perfect, and I’ve done some things I’m not proud of, but we can fix that. Life’s too short to focus on the past, Demi.”
Deny. Deny. Deny.
It’s the coward’s way.
“I get that your short-term memory is shot right now,” I continue, “but apparently you’ve been seeing this woman for over a year, and you can’t tell me you recall most of the last year with me, but you have no recollection of this woman.”
His hands lift and drop against his thighs.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Demi. I’m not going to admit to something I have no recollection of doing.” He turns my way, and it feels like he’s watching for my reaction. “I feel like you’re trying to play some kind of cruel joke on me. I’ve been out for a week, and I wake up and now you don’t want to be with me? God, Demi. If you don’t want to marry me, just say so, but don’t accuse me of cheating.”
I cover my eyes with the heels of my palm and fold over my knees.
Maybe I’m wrong? Maybe Royal was wrong? Maybe I’m the biggest piece of shit person in the entirety of Rixton Falls for doubting him?
Sitting up, my mind goes to the credit card statements. I need to see what was charged. Six figures’ worth of debt and there’s got to be some kind of clue. Fancy restaurants? Hotels? Flowers?
I rise, grab my satin clutch, and pop it open to retrieve my keys.
“Where are you going?” Brooks tries to sit up.
“I have to check something.”
He scoffs. “Come on, Demi, you know I hate when you’re vague with me.”
“There are some things back home that I’d like you to see. Maybe they’ll jog your memory.”
Brooks rolls his eyes. “No, just stay. You’re acting ridiculous. Let’s talk. I’m lonely here without any visitors. And I want my alone time with you.”
This twenty-eight-year-old man is still very much a spoiled, only child. He doesn’t want me to stay because he loves me. He wants me to stay because he wants company.
And control.
Everything’s always about him, all the time.
“I have to do this.” My heels make hurried clicks as I strut toward his door to leave. “Maybe when I come back . . . maybe then you’ll remember everything.”
“Demi.”
I’m gone, striding down the hallway toward the exit at warp speed, heading home to grab the statements.
And then I’m coming right back.
I’m going to settle this once and for all.
Chapter 30
Demi
I park outside the hospital, a stack of credit card statements
in my lap. I’ve pored over each and every one, expecting to find damning evidence. Some kind of trail. Irrefutable proof of his affair.
Nothing but cash advances.
Not even so much as a bouquet of roses.
A thousand dollars here, five thousand there.
Each card has hit its max, like he cycled through one after another, pulling money here and transferring it there.
And none of it makes sense.
Brooks Abbott has money. His family has money. He paid for our house in cash. His cars too. His essays on financial management and retirement planning have been published in Forbes and the Wall Street Journal.
I check my phone and find four missed calls from Brenda Abbott. I’m sure Delilah tried her best, but Brenda probably saw right through her. I’ll call her later tonight, after the charity gala, and apologize for running out.
I’ll come clean, hope she believes me, and put an end to this charade.
But first . . . Brooks.
My lungs fill with stale hospital air as I charge down the hallway toward the recovery unit, a stack of statements clenched in my fist. Stopping at the nurse’s station to sign in, I jot my name on a free space and scribble the date.
And then I stop.
Because it’s not my name filling the last spot under Brooks’s room number.
The name Afton Mayfield is signed clear as day, and today’s date is alongside it. I swear it wasn’t there before, so I check. Sure enough, my name from earlier is above hers.
Afton was here the morning Brooks woke up. She stopped by the following day for updates, which Brenda handled, and left again.
But she was never allowed in his room.
Brenda wouldn’t have it.
She wanted Brooks to be damn near “as good as new” before he made his media debut. She didn’t want photographs of him lying in bed, and she didn’t want any quotes that might make people mistake his short-term memory loss for permanent brain damage.
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