Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (47 page)

I stare at the floor for what feels like an endless amount of time, until I find the strength to pick up the books and envelope. One is my worn-down, dog-eared version. The other, I’ve never seen before. Opening to the first page, I’m hit with two things at once. Not only is this a first edition, but the free and flowing signature of my favorite author is etched across the page.

I can’t believe he did this.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to smile as wide as the ocean.

With trembling fingers, I open the white envelope.

Dearest Brooke,

My name is Adelina, and I’m the granddaughter of Francesca La Morre. I received a beautiful letter from what I can only assume is a man with a beautiful heart. He asked me, well, asked my grandmother to sign your copy of her book. The letter included several questions he had regarding the story and my grandmother’s life, as well as giving insight into how deeply this man cares about you.

Honestly, I don’t think he even realized he was rambling on and on about this wonderful woman he obviously adores. I think he only meant to talk my grandmother into signing your copy of her book, and answer a few questions.

But I guess that’s the funny thing about love.

When you love someone that much, it bleeds from every thought, every action, and every word. Even when you’re not meaning for it to.

He might have mentioned you are engaged to a man that isn’t him, but never once did he speak ill will. He only voiced how much he adored and cared about you, and how he wanted to give back some of the happiness you had given to him when you were together in Paris.

It was a lengthy letter, by the way. So, that’s probably why I feel like I already know you. And I hope I’m not coming across too forward and scaring you off.

Please keep reading because there’s more I’d like to tell you.

I’m sad to let you know my grandmother passed away several years ago.

But I’m happy to tell you she left this world a happy woman in the arms of the man she loves. You probably know this man as Philippe, but I know him as my Nonno Salvatore. He is a wonderful man who loved my grandmother with every ounce of his soul. Their love was pure. It was magical.

Her book had a lot of truth in it. It was, in fact, inspired by real events and moments that happened to her. It was her memoir, so to speak, dashed with a bit of fictional names and an ending that left the world wondering what happened.

That’s my grandmother though.

She always had a penchant for mystery and suspense, which explains why she left her readers on the edge of their seats and without closure.

Marcello was a real man whose name I will not disclose. His story is very real to life. He loved my grandmother but not in the way Philippe loved her. And, unfortunately, his fear of being ridiculed for his sexual orientation caused him to make choices that didn’t bode well for their friendship.

But she had always been a very forgiving and understanding woman.

A few months before she passed away, he was at her bedside, and they finally made amends. It was a tragically, beautiful moment and speaks volumes on the type of character my grandmother had.

She was a woman who cared deep and loved deeper. Dylan might have mentioned you and my grandmother are very similar in that aspect.

I’m sad she didn’t get the opportunity to read his letter. I know she would have loved it. There are parts that would have had her laughing in her loud, boisterous way, and other parts would have had a tender smile kissing her lips.

Although she wasn’t able to sign your copy, I wanted to give you this copy of her book. It’s a first edition, and it’s signed by her. I had to search her dusty attic just to find it, but I hope my efforts were worth the sneezes and coughs.

I hope this letter finds you well.

I hope it makes you smile.

And I hope it helps you realize you are a very lucky woman, with a wonderful man who would go to great lengths just to make you happy.

I know I don’t know you personally, nor do I know the struggles and life circumstances surrounding you, but I do know when you have someone who loves you the way Dylan clearly loves you, you don’t let that go. If my grandmother were writing this letter, she’d probably leave you with this quote.

It might be a little familiar…

“Love often sneaks in a door you did not think was open, but True Love will not only sneak into that door. It will find a way to catch your heart and settle into your soul. Although, True Love has a way of slipping in at the most unexpected moments, it isn’t easy, and it must be fought for. Because once you find it, it can never be replaced.”

I wish you the best, Brooke. The very, very best.

Sincerely,

Adelina

A sob escapes my lips, whooshing from my chest and resonating in the silent room. I grip the letter in my hands, eyes still searching the words and memorizing every detail. My vision turns blurry, but I can’t stop reading everything Adelina wrote.

I read it,
over and over
again. I read it until tears are slipping past my cheeks, accompanying my broken cries and hiccupping breaths. My eyes have to probe past the liquid emotion dropping to the page just to make out the words.

I read her letter until my tears run dry and the ink begins to smear.

Eventually, I’m sitting on the floor, my legs too weak to stand. Shaking hands clutch the letter to my chest, holding it close to my battered heart, as the realization of what I’ve done and what I’ve lost settles into my soul.

“Brooke!” Jamie’s voice echoes from the entry. “Baby girl, where in the hell are you?” His footsteps tap across the hardwood, urging my eyes to open.

My position since reading the letter hasn’t really changed. I’m still on the floor. Still clutching Adelina’s words to my chest. I’m just curled up in a ball, lying on my side.

I don’t even have time to pull myself off the ground, Jamie is kneeling at my side, face etched with concern. “Brooke, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I swat away the hands touching my face, pushing up so I’m no longer horizontal.

“Are you sick? I’ve been trying to call you for the past two hours.” Jamie searches my face. “You’ve been crying.”

“It’s just been a bad day,” I mutter, standing to my feet. He follows, gripping my elbow and supporting me. I move away from him, and towards the sink.

I know I should be happy he’s here. Thankful he’s fussing over me. Grateful he’s concerned. But I’m not. I’m just annoyed. And for the first time since I’ve known Jamie, I just want him to leave.

“Brooke?” he asks, standing behind me. “Is everything all right?”

“Yep.” I fill a glass with tap water and take a drink. My eyes stare out the kitchen window at nothing in particular. I can’t find the strength to turn around and face him.

“Seriously, tell me what’s going on. You’re starting to scare the hell out of me.” He’s closer now, arms grasping my bare shoulders.

I glance down at my attire, noting my white tank top, rumpled sleep shorts, and bare feet. I’m hardly dressed for company. But I didn’t ask for company, either.

His fingers grip my shoulders, forcing me to turn and face him.

Averting my eyes, I busy myself with setting my glass down on the counter.

“Why won’t you look at me?”

I force my gaze to his and wonder if my eyes appear as empty and cold as I feel inside.

His mouth turns down at the corners. Blue eyes fade to grey.

There’s my answer.

I’ve always had a hard time hiding my emotions. Millie used to say I wore my heart on my sleeve, but I’m don’t know what’s on my sleeve now. Considering my heart left the second Dylan sang
I’m giving up on you
.

“Brooke, what happened? Why did I find you lying on the kitchen floor? Why does it look like you’ve been crying for days?”

“I told you. It’s just been a bad day. Just drop it, okay?”
For the love of God, stop prying.
It’s taking all of my strength not to lash my anger and sadness and regret out at Jamie. Literally. Every ounce of will power I have is currently focused on maintaining control of my words. I’m afraid the second I let my guard down, I’ll word vomit everything I don’t want to say but Jamie probably deserves to hear.

I’ve already broken Dylan. What would be the point in breaking two people at this point, right? That would just be careless and cold-hearted.

“I better get dressed anyway. I told Ember I’d meet her for lunch,” I lie.

“It’s almost ten o’clock, Brooke. Lunch was hours ago. Hell,
dinner
was hours ago.”

I glance out the window again, realizing the sky is pitch black. Dusk has long past. The moon beams in the distance. “I meant dinner. We’re supposed to have a late dinner.”

“But I thought she puts Teddy to bed around eight?”

“I guess she’s letting him stay up tonight.” I shrug, moving past him and towards the stairs. My feet take the steps two at a time, trying like hell to gain some distance.

But, of course, he follows, his footfalls not far behind.

He sits on my bed while I rummage through my closet. His eyes stay on me the entire time. I can feel him staring holes into my back.

“You don’t have to sit there, you know. Feel free to go home. I’ll call you tomorrow,” I toss over my shoulder.

“
Brooke
,” Jamie sighs. “I’m going to ask you one more time, and I really fucking hope you’re honest with me. What’s going on? I know something’s happened. I know there’s something you’re not telling me. Why won’t you talk to me?” His pained voice stops me in my tracks.

My fingers linger on a random sweater, gripping it until it slides off the hanger and onto the floor. I exhale on a sigh. My shoulders sag, head falling in defeat.

“Would you stop acting like you’re looking for something to wear and just talk to me?”

Against my better judgment, I turn around.

Jamie sits on the edge of my bed, elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands. He glances up, eyes wounded. “Is it something I did?”

“I don’t feel like talking about this right now, okay?”

“What is it that you don’t want to talk about with me? Your
best friend
. The person you’ve
never
held anything back from since we were ten years old.”

I don’t respond. Can’t respond.

“Would you stop acting like this and just fucking tell me?” He’s getting frustrated, striving to hold back his anger and keep his voice low. His fingers slide through his hair, tugging at the ends. “Brooke, you’re killing me here. The last time I saw this look on your face was when Millie passed away.”

I still don’t respond, but I move across my room and sit on the opposite side of my bed, purposefully keeping my back to him.

The bed shifts as he turns towards me. “You’re keeping something from me. I can tell. I’m just not sure what it is you’re not saying.” His hand touches my back, gently pushing the hair off my neck. It falls forward, veiling my face. Fingers slide from my left shoulder to the right, stilling at the strap of my tank top.

Eventually, they resume their movement, tracing something on my skin.

“When did you get this tattoo?”

My back stiffens. “A while ago. Don’t you remember?”

“This was after we announced our engagement, wasn’t it?” His voice is calm, collected.

I nod. I never hid the tattoo from him. I never had a reason to. Until now. Until Dylan sang
Little Wing
on stage, after letting the audience know what that song really means to him, to us. And he did it the exact night Jamie managed to make one of their shows.

“What does it mean?”

“I’m not sure,” I answer, partially telling the truth. I’m still not sure what made me get this tattoo. Maybe it was wishful thinking about a time in the future when Dylan and I could be together. Maybe it’s supposed to be a reminder. Or maybe it’s supposed to be an albatross so I can remind myself of how badly I fucked up, of how much I’ve lost.

His fingers are tracing again. I know the instant they loop and swirl, that he’s moving across the two words entwined within the bird’s wing.

“Little Wing,” he says.

I stop breathing. My eyes close tightly in preparation of what’s to come.

“Little Wing,” he says again, voice getting louder. “Why does your tattoo say Little Wing?” His fingers drop from my back. He stands up from the bed and starts to pace behind me.

I’m still frozen to my spot, eyes closed and fingers gripping my comforter, holding on for dear life.

“What song did Dylan sing in Seattle?”

I don’t answer. What would be the point? He’s already putting the pieces together.

“What song did Dylan sing in Seattle, Brooke?”

“
Little Wing,”
I whisper.

“Wow, that’s one hell of a coincidence, isn’t it?” Jamie stalks across the room, looming over me. “So, when I asked you if something was going on between you two, and you said no, were you telling me the truth?”

I still don’t answer, but hold his accusing gaze. What does he want me to say?
Yes, I lied to you. Yes, even though I’m in love with Dylan, I still ruined everything because I’m too busy protecting you.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip, latching on until they pierce skin. Blood hits my taste buds. The metallic taste is the only thing that stops me from biting straight through my lip.

“Stop being a fucking coward, Brooke.”

Have you ever reached a breaking point? A
real
breaking point? It’s the kind of moment where your vision turns red. Blood, seething red. And you no longer care about what you say or who you say it to. You don’t care about anything. The second your mind realizes you’ve reached this state, it unleashes every single word and thought you’ve wanted to say, but held back because you didn’t want to hurt someone else.

Jamie calling me a coward is my breaking point.

I stand up from my bed, invading his personal space. “Fuck you, Jamie,” I shout. “I’m not the coward. You’re the fucking coward!”

His backward steps falter as he tries to put some distance between us, but it doesn’t matter, because I’ve officially lost.