by B. Cranford
“No, son. You didn’t. You fell, and we had to bend a little to accommodate that. But break? No, we didn’t break.” His father’s smile was encouraging, proud and calming.
Sebastian had looked up to his father always, in all ways. As a father, as a husband, as an accountant. The thought of letting him down—then and now—was another reason he’d closed down and not talked to anyone.
It was a decision he thought he’d forever regret.
“Are you listening?” Peter took a large bite of his sandwich, chewing while Sebastian confirmed that, yes, despite his repeating reveries, he was listening. Once he swallowed, he said one final thing. “When the time comes, when you’ve made the future bright again, I have something to show you. When you’re ready.”
Knowing better than to push, Sebastian simply said, “Okay,” and started eating his lunch, all the while wondering—
Did he have what it took to make his future Bright once again?
Chapter Six
“I’m sorry, Mr. Figures isn’t in at the moment. Can I take a message?” The hair on the woman talking was mesmerizing to Brighton. A bright pink, it was shocking against the clean modern lines of the Figures Accounting lobby. She wanted to touch it. To ask this tiny thing where she’d gotten it done and if she could, perhaps, take her there right now.
Seeing Sebastian had made something inside her call for a change. Maybe pink hair would satisfy it?
Somehow, she didn’t think so.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” Soon, she hoped. Because the surge of courage that had propelled her out the door of her apartment towards him was slowly ebbing away. She was starting to feel deflated, like coming here was the wrong choice, talking to him was the furthest thing from what she should be doing.
“They said they’d be back in about an hour, but that was only about fifteen minutes ago.”
“They?”
“Mr. Figures left with his father,” a pause, followed by an amused smile, “the other Mr. Figures.”
Brighton liked this woman. Not just her pink hair, or the way she smirked at Sebastian’s last name, something she and their friend, Declan, had done often in years past, recognizing the humor in a man named Figures being in accounting. Instead, it was the warmth in her eyes, the kindness in her voice. It would be easy, she thought, for someone to be jealous of her; she was beautiful in a quirky way, her pink hair matched with piercings and a series of small tattoos on her left inner arm, all complementing her wide-set hazel eyes, ski jump nose and freckles that covered her face from top to bottom.
“They went for lunch, should be back in forty-five minutes, I’d guess.” She smiled brightly, adding, “Knowing Peter, they’re at Panera. You know it? It’s not far from here.”
Brighton’s cheeks colored, day-old humiliation creeping in. No way was she going back to the scene of the crime. She managed a small smile—after all, it wasn’t this woman’s fault that Brighton was now persona non grata at Panera. “Okay, th-thanks—”
“Jade Miller,” the woman offered as she stood and walked around the front desk, holding out a hand for Brighton to shake. “Are you Brighton?” Her tone was full of curiosity, which left Brighton wondering what, if anything, Sebastian might have told Jade about her. “I’m sorry, it’s just I’ve heard your name around here a lot these last couple days, and it reminded me . . .”
Reminded her of what? Brighton didn’t say anything, completely unsure what she could even say, giving a small nod of her head as she tried to work out why, now she was standing in front of her, Jade looked so familiar.
She was shorter than Brighton but not by much, and had the kind of body that spoke of yoga done in overheated rooms—liquid, curvy and, in Brighton’s opinion, sexy as hell.
“I read your books to my nieces and nephews all the time and I kind of love that panda. Plus, my mamma told me about you—Mrs. Miller?” Jade spoke her mother’s name as if it was a question, asking Brighton if she remembered the former receptionist.
“Oh, yes, yes. How is she? Is she here?” She was relieved that Jade knew of her not only because of her ex, but because of her beloved panda creation and the friendly woman who she’d spoken to on the phone and in person numerous times in her three years with Sebastian. She looked around as if Mrs. Miller was likely to pop out from behind the magazine rack in the far corner of the front office, feeling sad and a little silly that she didn’t know what had happened to a woman she was friendly with, if not friends with.
“She retired, late last year.” The news was shared with a smile, telling Brighton that it was good. “While she's still young enough to enjoy, she said.”
“I bet she did,” Brighton returned with her own smile, feeling her worries subside momentarily. If she could hurt when others hurt, then she could smile when faced with someone else’s fortune. Why only take on the bad? “I can absolutely hear her voice telling me that. So, is she?”
“Enjoying herself? Ah, yeah, if by enjoying herself you mean pestering me about settling down, then sure. She's having a blast.” Jade’s light tone was accompanied by an exaggerated eye roll, indicating what she truly thought of her mother's determination to see her child married and popping out kids.
Brighton thought briefly of her own mother, who'd seen her daughter find love, then lose love. On impulse, and probably due in part to the heightened emotions of the last couple of days—generously mixed with four cups of coffee that morning, all because of that stupid blinking cursor—Brighton stepped in closer to Jade and wrapped her arms around the bright woman. “I'm glad.”
Jade held herself stiffly for but a moment before returning the hug, seeming to sense that this stranger, this woman she knew only by association, needed to give it far more than she needed to receive it. “Me too,” she reassured Brighton, who took a step back and patted her cheeks, horrified to find she'd started to cry sometime between assisting a stranger with free hugs and picturing what life would be like now if her mother was still alive and Sebastian had never left.
Better, seemed to be the answer.
An answer she resented. Because her happiness and the quality of her life shouldn't be impacted by the actions of a man who took it away from her in the blink of an eye and the roll of a die.
Not ever, and absolutely not still.
With that thought in her head, she thanked Jade, apologized for the hug—an apology that was blown off with a spunky, “I've been told I'm very huggable” and accompanying grin—and left Figures Accounting.
A nearby car caught her attention as she walked back to her own vehicle. A bold yellow, the zippy-looking hatchback was adorned with a single bumper sticker. Like a sign from, well, somewhere, the sticker in question touted the feminist mantra that had begun cropping up everywhere of late.
Nevertheless, she persisted.
With an internal fist pump and an added external bounce in her step, she made her decision.
She'd come to Sebastian's office for her peace of mind. But it wasn’t up to him to give her that.
He'd had two years.
Now, it was up to her to take it. To make it for herself. So that's what she was going to do.
She was going to persist.
And whether persisting included forgiving Sebastian, forgetting Sebastian, or something else entirely, she was determined that she'd do it on her own terms, in her own time.
“Brighton was here.”
The words stopped Sebastian in his tracks. He'd stayed a little longer at Panera, grabbing a little something he hoped would make Brighton smile, then detoured by another store, a plan forming in his mind. Now, he was back and ready to set things in motion. But he'd barely made it three steps in when Jade brought him to a halt.
“When?” His voice sounded hopeful, even to his own ears. She'd reached out to him. That could only be a good thing, right? “Is she still here?”
“No. She got here, I guess about fifteen minutes after y'all left, and headed out not long after.” The look on J
ade’s freckled face was bordering on pity, which made him wonder what Bright had said when she'd spoken to the pink-haired receptionist, since Jade wasn't known for her acts of pity. She was a “buck-up-and-do something about it” sort.
“She leave a message?” Maybe she'd jotted down a note, something, anything to give him a clue.
Hell, he'd take a smoke signal or a ransom-style note made of cut up magazine letters if he thought it might mean he had a second chance with her.
“Nope,” Jade’s lips popped on the p, making him wonder what else she knew. “Your hot friend came in, too. He is still here.” She wiggled eyebrows at him before looking just over his shoulder and smirking.
“Seb,” a big hand and familiar voice greeted him from behind. Declan.
“Why aren't you in Atlanta?” Sebastian’s question was asked in mock exasperation, when the reality was he was glad his friend hadn't flown off just yet. From what he could tell from their conversation about Brighton, his friend and his ex had become close over the last couple of years.
Not that close, thank God. Sebastian was no slouch, but Declan had a couple of inches on him, and he ran with athletes. Some of the men—and fuck, some of the women, to be perfectly honest—on Declan’s client list could eat him for breakfast. It would make getting into a fight about a girl not only awkward, but potentially dangerous.
“Leaving tomorrow, actually. Before I do, though, I'm seeing Brighton. Tonight.” Declan raised his eyebrows in question, and Sebastian didn't need to hear the words to know the question.
How do you want me to play this?
“I have something for her,” he held his friend's eyes. This time, it was him asking the silent question. Will you deliver it?
“I'll wait.”
Sebastian breathed a sigh of relief and walked back to his desk, Declan hot on his heels. Rounding the corner, he set down the bag holding the gifts he'd just procured for Bright, yanked open the large lower drawer of his desk and pulled out a gift box. With deft fingers, Sebastian proceeded to set the items into the box—making sure Declan didn't see—and wrap it all up. Dark grey ribbon—the color reminding him of Brighton’s apartment walls—neatly tied around white with silver stars paper. Sharp, neat corners, ribbon perfectly centered.
“That's a hell of a wrapping job, man,” Declan snickered as he reached for the gift Sebastian was now holding out to him.
“Yeah,” he answered, wrapping one hand behind his neck and squeezing. “I like for it to be even.”
Declan nodded knowingly. He knew, after all, that order over chaos, logic over illogic, neat over messy was only one of the ways Sebastian approached his addiction and recovery. “Fair.” He didn't ask or say anything more, before nodding—more silent conversation between two men who'd been friends longer than they hadn't been friends.
Take care of it.
I'll make sure she gets it.
When his friend had left, present in tow and a sly wink offered to Jade who laughed as he walked out the front door, Sebastian fell back into his desk chair and thought about the contents. He had a feeling she was either going to love it or hate it.
He could only hope it would be the former. Because if it was the latter . . . well, that could derail everything.
Chapter Seven
“Hey, shit, sorry. Come in,” Brighton’s words came out jumbled as she flung the door open, then raced back to her little kitchen to turn off the stove. Water bubbled over the side of the pot, hissing as it hit the burner, making her drop her head in defeat.
“Bright?” Declan had followed her to the kitchen and was watching with the eyes of someone who knew her too well. He could tell she was stressed—and she had no doubt that he knew why, too.
“Ah, fuck it. Pizza?” Swearing wasn’t something Brighton was known for, though she’d picked up the habit more in the last couple of years. Apparently, when Sebastian left he took her sense of propriety along with him.
A simple nod confirmed that Declan was down for pizza so after placing their order, she dropped herself into her rocking chair as he took a seat on the couch.
Strange, just yesterday, he had sat there, and gave her an apology and a promise. It made her heart beat that much faster, her stomach give flight to a hoard of butterflies, as she let his words wash over her again.
I'm sorry, Brighton. I'm so fucking sorry.
It wasn't like Declan hadn't been a frequent welcome visitor over the weeks and months after Sebastian left, though his visits became fewer as his agency took off. Seeing him sitting on the couch was nothing new, shouldn't feel different, and yet . . .
His blond hair, the grey eyes, the clean-shaven face, even his preferred navy suit—neat and tailored—was different to Sebastian’s typical button-down and suit pants. She felt awkward, uncomfortable and unsure of herself.
For someone planning to persist, she felt like drawing her bent legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and resting her head on her knees. Declan opened his mouth to say something, likely seeing the turmoil on her easily read face, but before he had the chance, words began pouring out of Brighton’s mouth.
“I shouldn’t still care, should I? It’s stupid. So fucking stupid, that he can make me so damn crazy.” She speared her hands into her short hair, pulling at the strands like the answers would fall out any minute, before looking down at her feet, helplessness an emotional shockwave through her body. “I decided today that I wasn’t going to wait around for another explanation or for him to fix it. I don’t need that. I am a strong woman.”
A pause, before she raised her head and looked intently at Declan. Then, in a small voice, “Aren’t I?”
“The strongest I know.” His voice was reassuring, calm, like he had no doubts, and knowing what a good man and great friend he was, she was sure he didn't.
But she did.
“Ha, shows what you know. I went from ‘I am woman, hear me roar’ to burning fucking pasta and trying not to cry. Not to mention the little chit-chat I had with my mom today. Goddammit.” The force of her words caused the chair beneath her to rock a little, giving her the impression it was more than just her emotions at sea. She could be in the middle of an endless ocean, the way her body and her emotions rocked and rolled and boiled over.
“To be fair, you can’t blame the pasta on him. In the, what, five years I’ve known you, I think you’ve maybe, maybe produced two completely edible meals.” Brighton couldn’t disagree. “Cooking has never been your strong suit.”
“Okay, so you’re not wrong; my cooking skills leave a little—okay, a lot—to be desired, but you know what? If I wanna blame it on Sebastian, I will.” She nodded emphatically because, dammit, she’d earned the right to add to his charge sheet. And if that meant he was taking the blame for the pasta disaster, so be it.
No amount of logic or common sense was going to change her mind.
“I thought I was doing well, you know? And then there he was, on one of the most embarrassing days of my life, and I realized that I’ve been treading water. I'm at sea. I'm fucking drowning in stupid water metaphors, and I'm still not over it or him. It's been two years, Dec. Why?”
“Water metaphors?” Declan looked distinctly uncomfortable and more than a little lost, having always been more of the heavy-lifting, make-a-crude-joke, distract-with-takeout type of friend than someone she confided in. Except, with her mother gone, she didn’t really have anyone else to confide in. Of course she had other friends, female friends who would probably be better suited to the role of confidant, but none of them knew Sebastian. Not like Declan, and some of them, not at all.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, realizing that she should have stuck to the superficial and also that a lot of the water stuff was in her head. Declan might be a good friend, but a mind reader he was not. “I didn’t mean to dump all that on you. I just—”
He held up his hand, shaking Sebastian’s present in an effort to distract her. It worked, Brighton noting that it had been wrapped in white a
nd silver stars with a ribbon that looked to be nearly the exact shade of her walls. “I come bearing gifts.”
“You didn’t have to,” she protested, weakly. After all, she might be a ranting, raving mess but she also wasn't about to turn down presents.
She loved presents.
“I didn’t.” He smiled at her. “Sebastian did.”
“Oh.” Her excitement waned a little, but as she tried to imagine what he might be sending her, she couldn't help a thrill. He'd always been good at presents.
“Look, I know we don’t do this—” He waved his free hand around, in a sort of all this venting and girl-talk business gesture, before continuing. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t. So, before I give you this,”—he shook the box again—“let me say three things.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “One, you are strong. We all doubt ourselves sometimes, especially when faced with shit from our past. Two, you haven’t been treading water. You’ve, what, had ten books published in the last few years? Kids love that damn panda. Hell, I love him, too.”
That confession startled a laugh out of Brighton. It was the second time that day someone had mentioned her books to her, and it never failed to make her smile. Several years earlier she’d written about a panda named Patrick, drawn some basic illustrations, because her limited art skills made anything more elaborate impossible, and sent it off to agents and publishing houses all over. Months and months later, when she’d all but forgotten about Patrick and his hunt for bamboo, a letter came that changed everything. Her book was published and mild success meant that she could keep writing about her favorite little bear while at the same time dropping her full-time, work-from-home data entry job down to part-time hours.
Sebastian had been so proud. They’d only been together a handful of months by that stage—she’d written the book and sent the letters before she’d ever met him—but that didn’t stop him from talking her up to anyone and everyone who’d listen.