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Someone hands me ice wrapped in a washcloth.
Elay-fay-por-twah …
Elay-fay-por-twah …
Elay-fay-por-twah …
45
Brie
Megan’s on a plane back to home, and I’m folding the last of my towels Sunday night when a text comes through—from Cainan.
CAINAN: WE NEED TO TALK.
ME: LIKE I TOLD YOU LAST TIME … DON’T CONTACT ME AGAIN.
I’m two seconds from blocking his number and being done with this when his name flashes across my screen.
He’s calling me.
My thumb hovers over the red button, all the while my heart lurches into my throat. Half of me wants nothing to do with Grant or his connections in any way, shape, or form. The other half of me is drowning in a conflicting cocktail of ‘what if’ scenarios.
I tap the green icon and lift my phone to my ear. “Why are you calling me?”
“I just got home from Vegas,” he says. “We need to talk.”
“No thanks.”
“Brie, please. Five minutes is all I need.”
“Funny, you just spent a weekend with my ex and the first thing you do when you get back is check in on me …” I fold the last towel and place it on top of the stack.
Cainan exhales hard into the receiver and we wallow in mutual silence for a beat.
“Listen,” he finally says. “I’m not trying to harass you, and I didn’t call to argue.”
His tone is sincere. Believable. Then again, it always has been.
“I need to know if this phrase means anything to you … elay-fay-por-twah ….”
I collapse onto the foot of the bed, eyes wet and completely at a loss for words.
“Brie?” he asks. “You still there?”
A thick tear slides down my cheek. I wipe it away with the back of my hand.
“Yeah.” My throat is so tight it hurts to speak. “I’m still here.”
“Can I come over?”
I swallow and attempt to steady my breath. “Yes.”
46
Cainan
“Oh my God.” She gasps when she opens the door, hand clamped over her pretty mouth. And then she reaches for my eye. “What happened to you?”
“Grant. Grant happened.”
She frowns. “Why?”
“Because I called him out on his bullshit and he didn’t like what I had to say.” I give her the shortened, condensed version for now. “Can I come in?”
Brie nods and steps out of the way, closing the door behind me.
“Did you know he was cheating on me?” she asks before I make it halfway to the living room. “With that Serena girl. The whole time we were engaged. Did you know?”
“Yes.” I turn to face her, only to be met with the saddest green eyes I’ve ever seen.
She didn’t deserve what Grant did to her. Not an ounce of it.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” Her arms fold across her chest and her glassy gaze is pointed.
“I wanted to, Brie. But it was never my place.”
“Did you also know he was trying to convince my father to sign over his entire financial portfolio to Grant’s firm?” she asks.
“I had an idea, yes. But I didn’t know the extent of it,” I say. “At least not until this weekend.”
“You were drafting a prenup,” she says. “I saw the letter you sent him where you mentioned some clauses …”
“Unfortunately, I’m not able to share that with you. Attorney-client privilege.”
“Of course …” She sighs. “Must be nice to pick and choose when you want to be an upstanding individual.”
“You’re right.”
Her eyes flick onto mine.
“I could have spoken up if I wanted to. About the cheating. About comments he’d made. I didn’t. And I deeply regret the hurt it caused you to be on the receiving end of Grant’s antics.”
If I sound rehearsed, it’s because I spent the entirety of the flight home practicing exactly what I wanted to say to her, like a trial lawyer rehearsing his closing remarks. I didn’t know if she’d give me the time of day, but I sure as hell was going to try.
“Antics.” She huffs. “You make it sound like he’s some wayward juvenile delinquent and not a grown man playing God with other people’s lives.”
I take a seat in the velvet chair, rest my elbows on the tops of my thighs, and breathe into my hands.
“I was about six when Grant’s family moved next door to us on Copper Street in Jersey City,” I say. “First time we met, we got into this throwdown fight over whose bike was faster or some stupid thing kids argue about. I didn’t like him. There was something about him. But the feeling was mutual. Anyway, a week later my parents got into one of their infamous blood-curdling screaming matches. I grabbed my baby sister, went up to my room, and locked the door like I always did when that happened. But as I was sitting there, trying to distract Claire with a handful of stale Cheerios, someone was throwing pebbles at my window. I went to investigate, only there was nobody down below. Just a faded patch of dirt and weeds. But then I looked across—realized it was Grant. His bedroom window lined up perfectly with mine. He’d been throwing Legos, trying to get my attention. When I finally opened the window and popped out the screen, he tossed me a Star Wars Walkie-Talkie. Asked if I was okay. That was the day he became my best friend.”
