His brows furrow. “Evie—”
“Get out, or I will tell Jamie everything.”
I have never threatened to tattle on Brandon before. Never once did the idea of telling Jamie about our secret “situationship” cross my mind. If my brotherknew Brandon and I had slept together, it would destroy their friendship, and I’m not that selfish or cruel. But nothing else is working. Brandon won’t leave me alone, and he’s made his intentions crystal clear.
But I refuse to become his plaything again.
Brandon wipes a hand through his hair, frantically zhuzhing it at the back as he props his free hand on his belt. His gaze falls to the floor, and he stares at nothing for a moment before he meets my eyes again. “Okay.” He swivels on his heel. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll get out of your hair.”
My heart sinks at the crestfallen look on his face.
Darn him!
“Try and get some rest, Spitfire,” he says as he heads for the door. I should feel relieved when he closes it behind him, but I don’t. His goodbye sounded too defeated, too final. Like he’s lost hope.
I remind myself that that’s agoodthing.
He only wants your body, Evie. Not your heart.
Evie
Tuesday, July 12, 2022
WhenIopenedmyeyes and saw the sun poking through the curtains this morning, I was devastated. I thought I’d missed Brandon. He comes by once a week to have breakfast with me and Grandma, and it’s always the highlight of my week.
Heartbroken, I flew out of bed and raced down the hall, my heart pounding as I checked the time. Brandon usually leaves Grandma’s place by 7:30, and it was 7:32. But low and behold, he was still sitting at the kitchen table, ladling scrambled eggs into his mouth. He did a double take when he saw me, which was embarrassing. I totally forgot I was in my farm animal pajamas. I didn’t feel self-conscious about it until his gaze lingered a little longer than necessary. I looked down and laughed, crossing my arms over my chest as I asked where Grandma was.
He told me she was downstairs, turning over the laundry—while still looking at me in a way that made my skin prickle. But the feeling was short-lived. I ran to the edge of the stairs, worried about Grandma. Her diabetes makes her feet numb, and she shuffles a lot. I take care of the laundry for that reason.
Brandon grabbed my hand as I was about to hustle down the steps. We hadn’t touched since our hug on my would-be wedding day, so that simple form of contact sent tingles racing up and down my body, pausing me in my tracks. His hands settled over my shoulders, anchoring me in place. He told me to relax, that he’d watched her go down.
I just know she did it while I wasn’t around on purpose.
When I said that, Brandon just laughed and said, “You don’t think I know that?”
Begrudgingly, I followed him back to the kitchen. To distract myself from how nervous I felt around him, I set another pot of coffee to brew.
“Nice pj’s,” he teased when I joined him at the table a minute later, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. When he winked, I had to look away.
Grandma appeared then, thank goodness. I didn’t waste time telling her what I thought about her sneaking around behind my back. She only kissed my forehead and told me to “let her live her life.”
When I looked back at Brandon, he gave me one of those quelling looks that said, “See? Everything’s fine.”
Ever since Teddy was born and I moved in with Grandma, we’ve gotten a lot closer. I spend a lot of time at his place, helping out where I can. I’m so proud of him, but I can tell he’s struggling. The sleep deprivation coupled with the grief over his dad’s death—while adjusting to being a new dad himself—has been rough on him.
To do my part, I’ve made sure to bring him and Cora lots of freezer meals. When Rebecka had Isabelle, she said postpartum was one of the most emotionally isolating experiences of her life. People kept taking Isabelle from her, thinking she wanted a break from the baby, when really, all she wanted was to hold Isabelle while everyone else took care of the chores. So rather than taking Teddy from Brandon, I cook, clean, run errands—anything he needs. And I can tell he appreciates the help.
The only place I can’t help him is at work. Apparently, he’s drowning there, too. It seems like he’s always between help.
When Grandma asked if he’d managed to find a replacement for his last assistant yet, he said no. I asked him what happened this time, and he explained that he fired her for a “number of things.” But when I asked him to elaborate, he could only seem to cite that she was disorganized and took too much time off. Oh, and that he’ll allegedly be getting a bill from her optometrist one of these days because her vision was declining after staring at a screen all day.
Utterly ridiculous, if you ask me.
Grandma said exactly what I was thinking at that moment. “You sound like a bit of a tyrant at work.”
Of course, he staunchly denied it.
“He who doth protest too much?” I joked.
