Chapter Three
Maggie
I’m eating the french toast I made the next morning when I hear a door open upstairs. You know, you’d think for a mansion of this size you wouldn’t be able to hear every footstep anyone takes throughout it. Quite the opposite, though. Everything echoes. Every word, every step and every breath. That’s how I know the exact moment that Bridgette turns the corner.
The place is trashed, littered with beer bottles, cups and god knows what else. I already called the Brenton’s maid and requested that they come in today, and they told me it wasn’t a problem. Being a spoiled rich kid has its perks, I guess.
I hear Bridgette’s steps falter when she sees me, but I don’t stop what I’m doing. I pretend she’s not even there. If there is anything I’ve learned about people like her, it’s that they thrive on a reaction. No reaction, they don’t feel the need to attack. Although there are far scarier things in the world than Bridgette Brenton, I don’t feel like getting into a fight this morning. At least, not until I’ve finished my breakfast.
Slowly, Bridgette continues walking as she moves towards the coffee pot and pours herself a cup. I take a sip of my own and look up from my plate to watch her. Whoa. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the perfect put together bitch look like such a mess.
Her hair is disheveled and not in a sexy, intentional way. Deep, dark circles line under her eyes, emphasized by some dried mascara tear streaks. Her red lipstick is smeared around her mouth, and her eyes lack the usual fire she holds.
“You look like shit,” I say simply.
She hmphs under her breath before nodding and taking a sip of coffee. It’s probably stupid to feel sympathy for her, she’s the fucking worst. Just look at how she behaved last night. Fuck her.
Yet, some stupid sympathetic piece of me feels bad for her, and I feel myself letting out a small sigh.
“There is a little more french toast if you want,” I say as I gesture towards the stack I made.
I always make too much, but I’d rather have too much than too little.
She looks at it, her nose wrinkling, but I know that look in her eyes. It’s desire. She wants it, hell, her body probably needs it, but something in her mind won’t let her have it.
“You know, it’s okay to have a carb from time to time. I promise it won’t kill you,” I say.
She turns to face me and shrugs a shoulder. “All it takes is a few pounds. It’s a slippery slope from there.”
I can’t help but huff as I shake my head.
“You’re hot, and you know it. You definitely don’t need to be worrying about your weight.”
She frowns for a second but seems to be at a loss for words before she slowly moves to the cabinet. Grabbing a plate, she dishes herself a single piece of french toast. I watch as she takes a seat at the kitchen island beside me, and when she’s settled, I push the butter and syrup towards her.
Hesitantly, she looks at it, and I roll my eyes.
“C’mon, I’m sure you’ll probably just puke it up in twenty minutes, anyway.”
Surprisingly, that pulls a barely there smile out of her, and she begins spreading the butter and pouring the syrup.
“Tequila,” Bridgette murmurs like it’s her worst enemy.
“Ah, it’s a bitch.” I commiserate.
She makes a noise of agreement as she takes her first bite. We eat in silence for a few moments before she speaks, so softly I almost miss it.
“I’m sorry.”
Turning my head, I watch her but don’t say anything. Her blue eyes rise to mine as she lets out a deep breath and runs her hands through her hair.
“That I hit you,” she continues. “I was upset, and I took it out on you.”
I don’t react for a moment before I turn back to my food.
“I know.”
I can see out of the corner of my eye that she frowns like she expects me to do or say something else. I don’t see a point in it, though. Life is too short to hold onto shit like that. One minute you’re here, the next you’re gone. Nothing is guaranteed, so you might as well live it doing and being whatever the fuck makes you happy. For me, that means not holding grudges, that shit is like toxic sludge holding you back from the best version of you.
“I’m sorry too,” I say. “I shouldn’t have called you out like that in front of all those people.”
She shrugs a shoulder and lets out a bitter laugh. “You weren’t wrong.”
I flatten my mouth and nod. I know I’m not. Everyone does. She hasn’t exactly given herself a good reputation when it comes to Asher Putnam. She’s basically the president of his fan club and the first to cut a bitch’s throat if it means earning his favor. I’d love to know what the dude has done to earn such a loyal following. Is it because of who his father is? Who he will be one day? Or does he have a magical cock or something? I’d rather not find out that last part, but you know, a girl has to wonder after a certain point.
“Margret, I?—”
“Maggie,” I say, interrupting her. “The only person that calls me Margret is my mother and I…it’s Maggie,” I say.
Bridgette stays quiet for a moment before she nods.
“Okay, Maggie.”
I nod as I take my last bite of food.
“What’s your mom like? I mean, I’ve only been around her a handful of times,” she asks, though I have a feeling that wasn’t the original thing she was going to say.
I glance at her, sorry that I don’t have better news about her new stepmommy.
“A selfish narcissist. Your dad?”
“An egotistical megalomaniac,” she answers.
“Match made in hell,” I tease, Bridgette responding with a surprisingly loud laugh.
“No shit.”
The air feels weird. It’s tense, but it’s not. It’s not the tension we’ve been living with for the last few days since the wedding. No, this is raw, vulnerable. Like some strange kind of common ground has been found, and I don’t really know if I like it. So, I do what I do best and retreat.
Standing up, I carry my dish into the sink before grabbing my phone and heading up to my room.
“Maid will be here in an hour,” I say as I turn the corner and head for the stairs.
She doesn’t say anything, probably because there is nothing left to say. When I get to my room, I find Tatiana getting dressed.
“Morning.” She smiles shyly.
I give her a smile and lean in, pressing a kiss to her lips.
“Morning, beautiful. Did you sleep okay?”
“When did we sleep?” She laughs.
I grin at that. There wasn’t much of it.
“I have to get going, but…call me?” she asks shyly.
I pull her in for one more kiss before nodding.
“You can count on it.”
She nods and grabs her purse before slipping out my door. As soon as she leaves, I feel my smile begin to fall as a sourness takes over my stomach. It probably sounds so cliché, but I think I’m getting a little sick of one night stands. It’s just always the same song and dance. It would be nice to have something a little more…I don’t know. Lasting? I guess.
Shrugging my shoulders, I decide I need to decompress a little. I begin grabbing all my supplies that have been packed away and start spreading them out across the room. I already set up my table a few days ago, but I haven’t had time to find a permanent spot for everything just yet. Though, in a room this size, it takes no time at all.
Cranking up my music, I get lost in the rhythm of it all. Melting the wax, placing the wicks, pouring it into molds. Repeat.
I don’t know exactly how I got into candlemaking. My dad always had these cool, obscure candles that were passed down from his family, and then one day, we were making them together. Sometimes, I just make jar or tin candles, but I really enjoy making unique shapes and colors. There is so much beauty in it, so much peace. It may seem like an odd hobby to have, but what can I say? I’m not very athletic, and my idea of art outside of candle wax is stick figures and a crescent shaped sun at the top of a paper.
Rifling through my essential oils, I pause when I find an old label. For a little while, my dad and I would make these ridiculous labels for the candles and give them as gifts. This one, in particular, resulted in me literally peeing my pants when he gave it to me three Christmases ago. My thumb rubs against the white label with black lettering that reads ‘Smells like chloroform…go ahead, take a whiff.’
A sad smile touches my mouth as my eyes water. I miss that fucker so much. He was the only person I ever truly loved in this world, the only one who truly loved me. Then he had to go and fucking die on me.
I told him for years he had to watch his cholesterol, that he was an old man and needed to be careful, but he didn’t listen. He’d tease me for mothering him and tell me he would be around for a long time. Those three clogged arteries begged to differ. He was here and gone faster than I could take a breath. My world stopped, but my mother somehow managed to keep trucking along. Don’t get me wrong, she was definitely upset, but I think it was more over losing her financial stability than my father no longer being on this earth.
Growing up in the Brethren, we are raised Puritan, which is basically an extremist version of Catholicism. Though I don’t buy everything they shove down our throats, I know that he’s in heaven watching over me. I just wish he didn’t have to watch from so goddamn far away.
Blinking away my building tears, I shake my head and set the label to the side, and I start a new set of candles. I found these cool geode molds online the other day, so I figured it was worth a try.
I pour a mix of blue and purple swirls into the mold before setting them to the side to let them set. When I blink out of my weird candlemaking haze, I realize that it’s already the late afternoon, and I’m still in my pajamas. Jesus.
Moving to my bathroom, I decide to take a quick shower and maybe get changed into some actual clothes for the day, even if I’ll be putting pajamas back on in a few hours. God, how pathetic am I? Twenty one years old, on summer break acting like an old lady rising at the ass crack of dawn, eating, making candles, and then planning to be in bed by eight thirty. That’s what you get for being a friendless loser, I guess.
Kidding.
Kinda.
I decide to order some Chinese food before heading downstairs and watching a movie. The Brenton’s have a home theater, but I’ve never been all too impressed with those, so I opt for the living room. Turning on the TV, I scroll for a movie before settling on The Conjuring .
I’m a total horror movie junkie. Bad, cheesy crap or good heart palpitating thriller vibes, I love them all. So, naturally, I’m completely sucked in despite seeing this movie a hundred times and I’m waiting for the next jump scare when the front door opens. I practically launch out of my seat as Bridgette steps in through the door.
“Jesus!” I say as I cover my hand over my beating heart.
She frowns at me.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“This movie gets me every fucking time.” I laugh and shake my head.
Bridgette looks to the screen and wrinkles her nose.
“These movies are so stupid.”
Andddd bitchy Bridgette is back.
“You have a good time with your friends?” I ask.
She frowns. “How did you know I was with them?”
“Well, you’re back to being a bitch. I can only assume that means you were hanging out with them. You’re not nearly as cunty when you get laid.”
She crosses her arms over her chest with an exaggerated glare. “How exactly do you know when I do or don’t get laid?”
I look at her lazily over my shoulder as I smirk. “Woman’s intuition.”
“Hard to get laid when Asher is with Kelly fucking Smith. I saw her story earlier,” she practically snarls.
I stick my bottom lip out and whine with her.
“Aw, poor baby B didn’t get her douchebag dick for the night.”
She narrows her eyes at me as I laugh and shake my head.
“Honestly, don’t know what you see in that guy. He probably has more STDs than a nineteenth century whore house.”
“No, he doesn’t! He gets tested. We all do. It’s a university rule, and you know it.” She defends.
I scoff. “During the school year. Summer break is free game.”
“Whatever.” She stomps off.
“Aw, no, baby B, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ittttt.” I fake before bursting out into a fit of laughter.
In the next moment, the doorbell rings. Oooh yum, my dinner.