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I get another bottle from the pantry—this one Pinot Noir—and don his jacket—why not?—then slip into my dark brown Uggs and start off through the woods.
It’s cold as hell, which makes my head feel slightly cloudy. I trip on a stump and snag his jacket on a limb.
“Shit!”
But I don’t see a tear.
As I drift through the trees, my heavy feet feeling detached from the part of me that’s floating, I note how big his jacket is on me and feel the ghost of snow falling around me.
“Oh my God, you’re Jessica from End of Day!” I nod and set my items on the Breckenridge General Store’s counter. The cashier, a young girl, turns around, cupping her mouth before she bellows, “Come here, Silas! Jessica from End of Day is here, and she’s buying one of your dad’s gardenias!”
A high school guy plods up. He’s tall, with white-blond Justin Bieber hair. He sticks his thin hands in his pockets, cool and poker-faced, while the short blonde cuts her eyes at him. When he doesn’t fall down at my feet, she widens her eyes at him. “Can you believe it?”
Never meeting my eyes, he gives her a sideways smile and murmurs, “No.”
It doesn’t take an idiot to see this boy has my Abercrombie pool party stuff, or my Burberry nothing-under-the-jacket campaign bookmarked in his spank bank. Which means it’s time to change the subject before we all end up embarrassed.
“Your dad grows the gardenias you guys sell?” I ask him, hoping to put everyone at ease, as well as steer the subject away from the movie. I’m a singer, not an actress—although I am proud of the movie.
The guy nods and finally, he looks into my eyes.
“It’s a kind of insanity,” he says, revealing a retainer than makes his voice sound—well, like he’s got something in his mouth. “They won’t survive for long in someone’s yard. So they’re just house plants.”
I hover a fingertip over one of the satiny white leaves, mostly so I can break the stare he’s now aiming at me. “It’s probably insanity to buy one when it’s snowing this hard. I’m not even staying at my own house.” I smile at them before I realize my publicist would smack my mouth for giving details.
“Jessica,” the girl squeals, jumping up and down.
I tug Mr. Madison’s big black jacket down around my ankles before reaching in his huge pocket to grab my wallet out.
I stumble back a little, my gaze catching on Barrett’s porch light. Whoa…I don’t remember climbing up the stairs. I rub my forehead.
“Stupid Gwenna. No drinking with a TBI, you dumbass,” I murmur.
People who’ve had a brain injury are encouraged not to drink, but I’ve never really heeded those warnings, probably because I don’t usually get drunk. I look down at the wine bottle in my right hand.
I should leave.
I blink a few times at the door, and then, as if by my command, it opens.
SIX
GWENNA
My heart drops straight down to my feet and out my boot soles, and I wobble back a little.
Barrett stands there shirtless in the doorway, looking dazed in rumpled gray sweatpants, like he just rolled out of bed. My eyes wander down his legs before I jerk my gaze up to his face. I blink a few times, just to keep it there.
He blinks back, then frowns, his thick brows pinching. “Gwenna.” He sounds slightly hoarse; perhaps surprised.
I swallow. “Hi.” I laugh—this awful, awkward sound that’s not a laugh at all. I raise my hand but can’t manage to follow-through with an actual wave. I just stick it up like I’m taking an oath. I laugh again, a more authentic laugh that’s laced with panic and self-loathing. “Hey.”
My face is so hot now, I expect to catch on fire at any moment.
Barrett’s brows scrunch further as he peers down at me. “Are you okay, Gwenna?”
I nod, although it makes him tilt a little, back and forth, like the needle of a compass.
“I brought wine,” I whisper, “but…I think I’m going to go.”
