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18
Chris threw his phone against the cushions. The sixth time today. He was developing a twitch, every buzz alerted him to a possible message from Bronte, but each time, his irritation got the best of him when it turned out to be a text from Wes or some email with shit he didn’t care about.
For as thoughtful and kind as Bronte was, she was also really stubborn. It had been almost a week, and she still hadn’t returned any of Chris’s messages. She had to acknowledge him at some point, listen to his side.
Not that he had much of a side.
Wes once set him up with a therapist, who told him he had “destructive behavior.” It didn’t take a genius to figure that out, and Chris only lasted two sessions—he didn’t like the chair he had to sit in; it was too stiff—so that destructive behavior was still alive and well.
He’d barely given his relationship with Bronte a chance to get off the ground, and already, he’d lost her.
When he fucked up, he fucked up good.
Interrupting his bleak mental ramblings, Pattie knocked three times on his front door before opening it. He’d now picked up their habit of not locking his door during the day for such occasions.
“Hey, hon.” She smiled. “What are you up to?”
He was in sweatpants and a hoodie, cooking shows keeping him company. “Brushing up on how to bake the perfect apple pie.”
“Looks like you’re sulking to me.”
“I’m not.” He sat up taller to prove it.
“Sure you aren’t.” She took a seat next to him, her eyes on the television. “Hmm, he’s adding pear. Now that’s interesting.” When he didn’t say anything, she patted his knee. “I hope you’re still coming over tomorrow night.”
Chris wanted to go, his mouth watering merely thinking of turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes, and he hated the idea of ordering takeout for Thanksgiving dinner.
“We all want you there,” she said.
“Bronte doesn’t.”
“She’s upset with all of us, not only you.”
“Yeah, but she’ll forgive you. You’re her family. There’s no reason to forgive me.” He thought of her eyes, of how they’d been so cold when she’d confronted him. He’d never cared about a person as much as he did for Bronte, and seeing her hurt tore him in two. Like his own heart was broken.
Pattie offered him a solemn smile. “She will. She loves you. We all do.”
She loved him?
Did she?
Sure, she loved everybody because Bronte was like that. A good person.
But did she love him? It was hard to tell after their fight. “That’s debatable.”
“Hey!” She backhanded his arm. “We do love you.”
He edged away from her. “I meant it’s debatable that Bronte loves me.”
Pattie gazed at him with kind eyes, their color a lighter blue than Bronte’s. “I know my daughter, and she would only be so worked up over something she really cares about.”
He tossed the pillow from behind his head across the room to the other couch to let out some of his frustration. If Bronte was worked up, she had a funny way of showing it. “I don’t know. She’s gone completely radio silent.”
“That’s my Bean’s MO. She picks her words very carefully, and a lot of times when she’s upset, she retreats inward.”
He’d noticed that about Bronte. She always said what she meant, and she’d said she was done with him.
A positive outcome seemed more and more unlikely. He huffed. “Well, fuck me.”
