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Chapter Five
Corinne
The Marsh boys are nothing but trouble.
I’ve been repeating this to myself for the past two days, reminding myself constantly of the pain and heartbreak that Jackson put me through two years ago. Pain and heartbreak I still haven’t recovered from.
So, why the hell am I driving myself insane with thoughts of another man with the last name Marsh?
Because he got under your skin, I realize. Because he isn’t the absolute jerk you thought he was, or the asshole you wanted him to be so you had a reason to despise him.
I made the mistake of telling Jenn about his business card after Brody left the office. I knew better, but I did it anyway, purely because I couldn’t comprehend what was going on fast enough to sort through it on my own.
“Cori, damn girl!” She’d clapped her hands with exaggerated glee. “That sexy hockey hunk gave you his number! Ride that pony, girl!”
“Did you really just say that?”
“Said it, and meant every word,” she confirmed, leaving me shaking my head.
I got nowhere trying to explain to her that Brody wasn’t someone I could see outside work, no matter what the capacity.
“Someone you can’t see, or won’t?” She’d pulled the card from my hands and stared at it like it held the secret to happiness in its embossed logo. “Brody Marsh Carpentry. Shit, Cori, not only does he know how to handle his stick, he’s good with his hands. You’re crazy not to at least call him.”
“And give him the chance to tell Jackson, so they can both laugh at my desperation together? I don’t fucking think so, Jenn.” I’d crossed my arms, glaring at the card in her hands, knowing I should have never mentioned it.
Jenn arched her brows, passing the card back to me. “Ah, so that’s what this is about,” she said. “It’s got nothing to do with whether or not you find him attractive, or whether he seems like a half decent guy. In your mind, he may as well be Jackson, not just Jackson’s brother. That’s not fair, Cori, and you know it.”
“No, what’s not fair is that Jackson cheated on me, Jenn,” I snapped back at her. “That’s what’s not fair.”
“But Jackson did that, not Brody.”
“Same fucking difference.”
“It’s not, though,” she says, softening her tone. “And the sooner you realize not every guy out there is looking for a way to hurt you, the sooner you’ll finally be able to move on from the one guy that did. And that guy was not Brody Marsh, Cori.”
After that, I steered clear of Jenn for the rest of the day, too vulnerable to have to take up such a soul-crushing conversation again. Sure, there’s a good chance she was right, that I’m being unfair—
Okay, fine, I’m being unfair, and she’s definitely right. And obviously Brody has already had his fair share of unfairness thrown at him, seeing as he’s a single daddy with an ex-girlfriend who didn’t give a damn whether she was being fair to him or not.
Even now, stretched across the beige leather sofa in my apartment, I can still see the appalling words scrawled across that page, handwritten by a faceless woman I have no desire to ever meet. And only one thing keeps replaying through my mind.
How can someone choose something—or worse, someone—over their own son?
But that’s exactly what Brody didn’t do. Instead, he took on the responsibility of his four-month-old son himself, asked his mother for help, and is doing whatever he can to keep that little boy safe.
And here I am judging him because of his brother’s actions.
I feel even worse, but I can’t stop the thoughts that war within me. The one glass of red wine I’ve had has done little to take the edge off my uneasiness, and it’s only intensified the mixed feelings I’m contending with. The same things swirl inside my head—Jenn is right, I’m being too harsh, Brody is not Jackson, Jackson is my past, it’s time to let go...
I’m still thinking about how I’m a horrible person who’s bound to spend the rest of her life bitter and alone when my cellphone rings. Which is weird in itself because the damn thing never rings. Anyone I know always texts me. The sight of my caller display with an unknown number on it makes it even odder.
“Hello?”
“I promise I’m not calling to discuss work,” a deep, familiar voice says easily, but I can’t place it.
“I’m sorry, who’s speaking?”
“Oh.” The masculine voice chuckles. “It’s Brody.”
