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In my dream, I knew Brie’s favorite authors. I knew she loved Chicago on Broadway.
There’s no explanation for that. I highly doubt she was spouting off her verbal autobiography as I lay dying in my mangled car that fateful night.
But there’s also no explanation for the missing tattoo.
She caught me staring at her wrists earlier, and on instinct, she covered them with her sleeves and said she had to get going.
That has to mean something.
My phone buzzes beside me. A text from Grant fills the screen.
GRANT: JUST EMAILED YOUR VEGAS TICKET. CAN’T FUCKING WAIT. YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW BADLY I NEED THIS.
I check my email, confirm the eTicket is there, and send him a thumbs’ up emoji.
GRANT: HAVE YOU SEEN HER AROUND YET?
He’s asked this on a daily basis, ever since I made the mistake of mentioning we had coffee together. I also casually mentioned she’s staying in the neighborhood. Now he’s hell bent on using me as his personal extra set of eyes, diligently checking to see if there’ve been any new sightings or developments.
I chew the inside of my lip.
Two weeks ago, Brie texted me. Two weeks ago Claire preached to me about the perils of playing with fire—not that I needed the sermon. And every fucking day for the past two weeks, Grant reminds me of his broken heart in some way, shape, or form.
For that reason, I ignored Brie’s text about the book. I’ve avoided Atlantis like the plague. And I’ve drowned out my thoughts of her with anything and everything—mostly work.
I convinced myself I was doing the right thing, even if it made my insides twist and knot, even if my thoughts pricked through at three o’clock in the morning without explanation.
ME: SAW HER ON THE SIDEWALK A LITTLE BIT AGO.
I wasn’t going to invite her up initially—until she mentioned she was going to see Chicago. It made me think of the dream. About all the things I knew about her that I wanted to confirm. I’d fully intended on working a few of those details into small talk, but I wasn’t expecting her visit to be cut so short.
GRANT: HOW’D SHE LOOK?
I huff. I imagine he wants me to tell him she looks hopeless and miserable and despondent, that she’s a shell of the woman she was when she was his. But the truth was, she looked fucking beautiful. Glossy dark hair, livewire green eyes, chunky sweater over skintight leather leggings, a guarded smile she wore only for me.
ME: IDK. NORMAL?
GRANT: BTW I TOLD HER YOU PLANNED THE VEGAS TRIP.
ME: WHY DID YOU LIE?
GRANT: BC I DIDN’T WANT TO SOUND LIKE A FUCKING LAMEASS. BESIDES AS MY FORMER BEST MAN AND LIFELONG BEST FRIEND YOU SHOULD’VE BEEN THE ONE PLANNING THE TRIP ANYWAY.
GRANT: DID SHE SAY ANYTHING ABOUT ME?
ME: NOPE. WE TALKED BOOKS THEN SHE HAD TO GO. SAID SHE’S SEEING A SHOW TONIGHT.
GRANT: WHAT TIME WAS THIS?
ME: MAYBE TWENTY MINUTES AGO?
GRANT: INTERESTING. I THINK SHE HUNG UP WITH ME SO SHE COULD TALK TO YOU …
ME: AND YOUR POINT?
My question is idiotic. I know his point. He’s still on that kick about me “wooing” her so I can keep tabs on her and ensure she doesn’t date anyone else while she’s in town.
GRANT: TEXT HER AND ASK HER TO HANG OUT THIS WEEKEND.
I place my phone aside, followed by my copy of The Alchemist, and I walk away. Grant can get really fucking persistent sometimes, and I’m not in the mood tonight.
Vegas is the antithesis of my scene, but the poor bastard is hurting and duty calls, even if I have to ignore the fact that he claimed Brie was the love of his life yet still had his hands down Serena’s pants while simultaneously scheming to fuck Brie over with the prenup. Multitasking at its finest.
I retire my judgement.
It’s not my place to play judge and jury.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy she dumped his ass.
Brie deserves better.
She deserves someone more like … me.
29
Brie
“Excuse me. I ordered this without mayo and it’s drenched …” A skinny blonde in a silk Boho duster and knee-high boots slaps her deli sandwich on the counter Tuesday morning. “Hello? Does anybody work here?”
She scoffs and checks her phone before rising on her toes and flagging down a poor deli worker slicing a hunk of turkey breast.
“Hey! You,” she calls to him. He pretends not to hear her. Turning to me, she rolls her eyes. “They act like their job is so damn hard. Maybe a—”
She stops speaking the instant our eyes lock.
“You’re Serena, right?” I ask. “From Cainan’s party?”
Her Alaskan-blue eyes size me up from top to bottom, but before she can say anything, a middle-aged man in a white apron approaches her from behind the counter. I stand back, averting my gaze as she gives him the what-for over her turkey sandwich on rye. He takes it back without a word, making a show of tossing it in the trash before instructing one of his minions to make her a new one.
