Wherever It Leads (38 page)

T
he steam from my coffee billows from the top of my cup. The steam rises, making a quick rise and then disappearing into the air. Anyone watching me sit at the kitchen counter would think I’m completely enthralled with it. But, in reality, I’m not really even sitting here. I’m somewhere else, mentally, anyway, trying to put the pieces of this jigsaw puzzle back together. And along with it, pieces of my heart.

It’s been three days since Fenton walked out of my house. It’s been three days since I really had anything to eat and the waistband of my pajama bottoms are hanging loose off my hips. It’s been that many days, too, since I’ve been out of the house. I don’t even know the last time I brushed my teeth.

I roll my tongue across my mouth and make a face. Lifting myself off the stool, I head to the bathroom and run a toothbrush around my teeth. The energy it takes is more than I have. Lifting the coffee to my mouth earlier, which only happened once because the taste repulsed me for the first time in my life, took more gumption than I could manage.

The one constant in the last three days is the elephant necklace. I see it dangling in my reflection, lying flat against my sternum. I’ve tried to remove it, attempted to force myself to take it off and mail it back to Fenton, but I don’t. I can’t. The weight of it against my skin, the reassurance of it on my body brings me a bit of comfort. I hate that it does. Even so, it’s a tangible memory of a happy time in my life, even if it was under false pretenses.

“Hey, you,” Presley says from the doorway. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You work this afternoon, right?”

I nod, wishing I could call off, but I can’t because I spent all of my vacation and sick days when I went away with Fenton.

“I hate seeing you like this,” she sighs, leaning against the doorjamb. “What can we do to perk you back up?”

“Make it all go away. Make me not lose my phone in the bananas. Make my brother listen to me and not go to Africa.”

“Has Fenton called you at all?”

“Nope.” I lean against the counter, my shoulders slumping. “Not that I wanted him to, but . . .”

“But you wanted him to,” she finishes. “It’s okay, Brynnie. It’s normal to feel like that.”

“But I shouldn’t. I should want to gouge his eyes out with a fiery poker.”

“Well, if his poker was as fiery as you say . . .”

“Now’s not the time for jokes, Pres.”

She laughs anyway, almost making me crack a grin. “Maybe you should call him.”

“And say what?”

“I don’t know. Say whatever you’re thinking.”

I walk by her and into the living room. “That’s the problem, Pres. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I have no freaking clue. One minute I’m over here,” I say, motioning to my right. “And the next, I’m way over there. Like in the kitchen over there. I can’t get a grip.”

I sink onto the sofa and let my head fall in my hands.

“You want to know what I think?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really,” she laughs, sitting in the chair across from me. “I think you feel so confused because you fell in love with him.”

“No,” I say, jerking my face to hers. “I’ve decided that I couldn’t have fallen in love with him.”

“Right,” she laughs sarcastically. “Think about it. If he was just the stepping stone from Grant to whomever, then you’d have the loathing of Cashmere that you’re trying to have.”

“I’m not trying to have it.”

“You are, Brynne.”

I try to keep my features smooth, to not let her know she just pegged me. Because it’s true. I’ve been trying to hate him and as the days go on, it just gets harder. I think back to him saying he loved me and to the way he held me, looked at me, felt against me, and it’s just so hard to hate him. Nothing I experienced when I was with him makes me think he’s hateful or careless or distrustful. Except that he is who he is.

But how can I trust him? How can I trust anything he said?

“What if he really didn’t know who you were,” Presley says, feeling me out.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to you now because you have feelings for him.”

“So you’re taking
his
side now?” I blurt.

“No, I’m on your side always. I’m just saying . . .”

I rise off the couch, my irritation with her higher than it should be, and I know it’s just because I’m a mental case at the moment. “I gotta get ready for work.” I march down the hall and shut the door to my room behind me.

Blanking everything out other than what I have to do, I open my closet to grab something to wear to work. The first thing I see is the yellow dress I wore to dinner with Fenton. I can’t help it. I sit on my bed and let the tears flow.

“Y
ou look like shit.”

“Thanks, Pres,” I say, not bothering to even look her direction. I keep my eyes trained on the television, to some redhead that is figuring out whether the baby she had tested was her husband’s or not. It’s oddly entertaining. I feel bad for her husband; he seems like a nice guy. The other potential DNA donor is a complete douche. Of course she blames the husband for her affair, which makes me want to pull her hair out. People need to own up to their own mistakes, even if it doesn’t make any difference.

The television switches off and Presley stands in front of it, hands on her hips. “Seriously, Brynne. Get in the shower and let’s do something.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Damn it, Presley,” I groan, getting off the couch and knocking over an empty carton of Ben & Jerry’s. “I just want to be left alone.”

“You’ve been left alone more or less for a week now. How you’ve managed to eat nothing but ice cream and look like you’ve lost ten pounds is beyond me, by the way,” she rolls her eyes. “But I’m done watching you wallow.”

“I’m not wallowing.” I toss my tangled hair over my shoulder and head into the kitchen. I rummage around the freezer for more ice cream, but we’re out.

“You are wallowing, and I’m sorry to tell you, it’s pathetic.”

The freezer slams shut. I glare at her. “Bite me.”

“I’m not really into that, but the guy I saw last weekend would probably work a threesome.”

My eyes narrow. Hers widen.

“Brynne, seriously, get a grip.”

I sink against the refrigerator, the cool stainless steel rippling through my robe. It’s oddly distracting and more than welcome. I play with the elephant charm around my neck, still unable to take it off. Like Fenton said, when I feel like I’m going to break, I touch it and try to find something calming in the charm. Strangely, it works a little.

“You’re being hateful,” Presley points out. “I can be a bitch too, but it’s not going to get us anywhere. So just stop it.”

My best friend’s face falls and so do my spirits. Although I didn’t think it was possible for them to sink any further, the depths at which they now sit is remarkable.

I feel like shit. It’s not Presley’s fault I’m in this state of despair and I’m making her pay the piper. So not fair.

“I get it,” Presley says. “You’re lashing out at me because I’m the closest person to you. But I’m done with taking it lying down. This entire thing needs to be dealt with.”

“How?” I sigh. “That’s the problem. I don’t know how to deal with it. There isn’t an acceptable answer.”

“Being acceptable is a matter of perspective. There is no right or wrong answer, Brynnie.”

“No, there is,” I groan, heading back to the sofa. I hear her steps behind me. I step over the empty carton and curl back up on the cushions. “The right answer is that he lied to me.” I watch her unfold in a chair. “You know, the first time I had dinner with him, he offered me money to go away with him. I wonder now—did he know who I was then? Was that some kind of weird way of making it up to my family?”

“You’re really stretching this.”

“Am I? Maybe him finding my phone was an odd coincidence, but then luring me away, offering me money, making me fall in love with him?”

“Ah,” Presley breathes, leaning back in her chair. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

“No, we aren’t.”

“No, we are.”

“What does it even matter?” I sigh. “He betrayed me.”

She bites her bottom lip and gives me her best pensive face. “I disagree.”

“Of course you do.”

“Think about it. What if he was just too scared to tell you who he was? What if he felt so strongly about you that he knew you’d walk away and he was too scared of that?”

“So that makes it okay?”

“I’m not saying what he did is okay. He should’ve told you, Brynne. There’s no two ways about that. But he messed up. We all do it. And maybe he did it for the very best, romantic reasons.”

I groan, sitting upright. “You’re still forgetting the fact that he’s behind Brady being missing! Let’s not forget that, all right? My brother is in the middle of Africa, in the hands of a bunch of complete barbarians, and it’s Fenton that hasn’t gotten him back!”

Presley takes a deep breath and folds her hands on her lap. I know this look. She’s getting ready to say something she thinks is going to make me fly off the handle, and she’s trying to get in her best diplomatic form.

I brace myself for what comes next.

“Why is this his fault?” she asks, her voice low.

“Because he owns the company!” I nearly shout.

“And maybe Fenton has done everything he can, Brynne. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to not care, not after everything you’ve told me about him and what I’ve seen out of him before all this happened.”

My phone rings on the table in front of me and I glare at her as I pick it up, not so much because I’m mad at her but more so she stops talking. I don’t want to discuss this with her anymore. I want her to just let me be pissed, let me blame Fenton, and not try to make things foggier. That makes them hurt worse and each time the pain goes up a bit, I think that’s the top.

“Hello?” I say without looking at the screen.

“Hi, Brynne,” my mother says.

“Mom? How are you?” I watch Presley get up and disappear down the hall. My heart aches that we argued, but I know she won’t hold it against me. I’ll still apologize later, but I shouldn’t have lashed out at her.

“Senator Hyland’s office called a little bit ago and talked to your father,” she says, her voice trembling just a touch. “He told us to brace ourselves.”

“Why?” I gulp, my stomach bottoming out.

“Nekuti has made demands. Money, a prisoner exchange, and a bunch of crazy foreign policy requests. And . . .” her voice breaks at the idea and I hear her crying softly. “You know they won’t be met.” The sounds are muffled, like she has a tissue over her face and the image smashes any semblance of emotional control I’ve managed to attain.

“Oh, Mom” I say, trying to sound strong but failing miserably. There’s no strength left in me at all.

“What will I do? How can I live without my son?”

My lips tremble and I wish desperately for a set of arms around my shoulders. I feel so unbelievably alone, so stripped naked, and there’s nothing I can do to comfort myself or my mother.

She sobs on the other end, a hushed racking of emotion. I hear my father’s whispers and it relieves me a little to know he’s there with her.

“I can’t live without him,” she cries. “He’s my baby boy, my first born, the one that taught me to be a mother. I just want him home.”