Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
brANDON
F uck.
I fucked up. I pushed too hard, too fast. Wanted to break through her walls and ended up building them higher instead.
I pace outside Naomi’s apartment. Three steps left. Three steps right.
Should I go back in?
No. That’s what got me kicked out in the first place. Trying to control everything. Fix everything. Just like… fuck. Just like Elijah.
My phone’s in my hand before I realize it. Blake’s number stares back at me. She’d come running for Naomi. Probably punch me in the face first, but she’d be here.
But calling Blake means admitting I couldn’t handle this. That I fucked up. That Naomi needs someone else.
The thing is, I know what happens next. Naomi will put herself back together. Show up at our next dinner date like nothing happened. Perfect mask in place. We’ll go back to our careful dance of boundaries and rules.
And I’ll watch her slowly destroy herself.
Just like I’m destroying myself.
Stay or go?
Push or pull back?
Call Blake or handle this myself?
Every option feels wrong. But doing nothing feels worse.
I hit Blake’s number.
She picks up on the first ring. “What?”
“She needs you.” The words are dry and bitter on my tongue. “I fucked up.”
“I’m on my way.” Blake’s voice carries that edge of protective fury I’ve come to expect. “Where are you?”
“Outside her door.”
“Stay there.”
“Blake—”
“Shut up and listen. You’re going to wait until I get there. Then you’re going to tell me exactly what happened. And then you’re going to leave and let me handle this.”
The line goes dead.
I slide down the wall next to Naomi’s door, head dropping between my knees. The hallway carpet reeks of cheap cleaner and cigarettes.
I pull out my phone again and scroll to Bash’s name.
Brandon: Need a drink. A strong one.
Sebastian: Rough night?
Brandon: Fucked up with Naomi.
Sebastian: Bar or my place?
Brandon: My place. Don’t want to deal with people.
Sebastian: That bad?
Brandon: Worse.
20 minutes later the elevator dings, and Blake stalks out, her red hair a mess, wearing what looks like yesterday’s clothes.
Her eyes lock onto me. “What happened?”
I tell her. Watch her face shift from anger to understanding to something like pity.
“Go,” she says. “I’ve got her.”
“Blake—”
“Brandon.” She touches my arm. “You can’t fix this. Not tonight. Let me help her.”
I nod, step back, and let her slip past me to Naomi’s door.
I hope I didn’t lose my cupcake tonight.
Back at my apartment, Sebastian already waits in front, bourbon in hand. Good. Maybe it’ll scorch away the image of Naomi’s face when she screamed ‘red’ like a litany.
I unlock my door, and he follows me inside, straight to the couch.
He pours two glasses, sliding one across the coffee table. “What happened?”
“Tried to help.” The bourbon burns down my throat. “Made it worse.”
“Your version of helping or actual helping?”
“Both.” I drain the glass. “She was spiraling. Found her in the middle of a binge.”
“And?”
“Ran her a bath. Tried to get her to tell me the truth.” My jaw clenches. “With certain methods.”
His voice carries an edge. “Without discussing it first?”
“She used the safe word. Kicked me out right after.”
He refills my glass without asking. “You pushed.”
“She was hurting herself.”
“And you thought forcing her to confront everything at once would help?” He shakes his head. “You’re not her therapist. And you can’t save someone who doesn’t want saving. You should know that first-hand.”
“That’s why I know she wants me to do it.” The certainty in my voice surprises even me. “She just… I was so close. So close for her to open up.”
“You can’t force it, man. The more you push, the more she’ll pull away.”
I stand up, pacing again. “Then what the hell am I supposed to do? Just watch her self-destruct? I’m sick of it.”
“Be there. Without expectations. Without trying to fix her.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It has to be.” He levels me with a look. “Or do you want to lose her?”
Losing Naomi would be worse than any physical pain. But maybe I already have.
“So what?” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice. “I just sit back and watch?”
He sighs, leaning back against the couch cushions. “Look, I get it. You want to fix this. Fix her. But you can’t. Only she can do that. And in time, she will trust you and let you in.”
My jaw ticks, fingers itching to throw the glass across the room. To break something. Anything.
Trust.
Because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? She doesn’t trust me. Not fully. Not with the darkest parts of herself.
I don’t believe you.
I wish she would. I wish she would call me. Need me. Not Blake or anyone.
I want to be the first person on her mind.
But why should she?
I’m a fucking mess. A barely functioning adult stumbling my way through life. What do I know about helping someone else put themselves back together?
I scrub a hand over my face, collapsing back onto the couch. “I don’t know how to do this, Bash. I don’t know how to just… be.”
“You’ll figure it out.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “But maybe give her some space first, yeah?”
“So, no lunch date tomorrow?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
Waiting. Waiting for whenever she decides to reach out.
If she decides to reach out.
Because there’s a very real possibility she won’t. That this is it. The final straw that shattered the fragile bond between us.
“What if she doesn’t?” I stare at the coffee table. “Come to me, I mean.”
“Then you respect her decision, man. As much as it sucks.” His eyes soften. “Give her a day or two. Then send a text. Something simple. No pressure. Just let her know you’re there.”
“And if she doesn’t respond?”
He shrugs. “Then you wait some more. Ball’s in her court now.”
“Waiting’s never been my strong suit.”
“Lil and I… it took a long time for us to get to where we are now. A lot of push and pull. A lot of me trying to force the thing between us when she wasn’t ready.”
I swallow, the bourbon suddenly tasteless on my tongue. “And how did you…?”
“I didn’t. Not really. I just learned to be there for her in the ways she allowed, not the ways I thought she needed.”
I lean my head back, staring at the ceiling. The plaster swims before my eyes, blurring into an indistinct mass. “Just sitting back and watching her hurt herself?”
“You’re not watching. You’re supporting. There’s a difference.” Sebastian sighs. “I know it’s not easy. It goes against every instinct we have to protect the women we love. But sometimes protecting them means letting them fight their own battles.”
Love.
Is that what this is? This desperate, clawing need to shield her from the world? From herself?
Love. It sounds so basic, merely a single ingredient. What I feel for Naomi is a complex recipe, layers of passion, need, and something beyond love that I can’t even name. It’s like she’s the secret spice that completes me. Love is just the appetizer in a never-ending feast of us.
“You know what you need?” Sebastian chuckles. “Gym session, and after that, I beat your ass in Mario Kart.”
Not a single goddamn word.
Three days. Three fucking days of radio silence from Naomi. I’ve checked my phone approximately eight million times. Okay, maybe eight million and one. Just in case the last check didn’t take.
I sent her one text, just like Sebastian said. Something simple, no pressure.
Brandon: I’m here when you’re ready to talk.
Was it too much?
I stare at my phone like it magically buzzes with a text from her.
Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
This is driving me insane. I can’t focus on work, can’t sleep, can’t do anything but think about her and how badly I must have hurt her.
Blake told me that Naomi is okay.
We all know what ‘okay’ means, but at least I know Blake’s keeping an eye on her.
The elevator dings, and I step in, clutching the container of Caesar salad like it’s a fucking life preserver. Which, in a way, it is.
Pathetic? Maybe. But I’m out of options.
I made it three times because the first two weren’t perfect enough. Who knew lettuce could be so judgmental?
My phone buzzes. For a split second, my heart does this weird gymnastics routine, thinking it might be her. It’s Elijah. Again. My disappointment is embarrassingly obvious like a dog realizing that the mailman isn’t actually coming to play.
“What?” I snap as I answer.
“Board meeting in an hour,” Elijah says, his voice clipped. “Where are you?”
“Busy.”
“Busy? This meeting is important. We need to discuss strategy beforehand. The board is already?—”
“I really don’t give a fuck what the board thinks.”
“You should.”
“It’ll have to wait. I have something I need to do.” And let’s be honest, with the current situation, I wouldn’t be of any help in that board meeting.
Elijah sighs. “Is that about Naomi?”
The elevator jolts to a stop, and the doors open to said person’s floor.
“I’ll be there. Just give me half an hour.” I end the call before he can respond, shoving the phone back in my pocket.
Elijah’s gonna be pissed. He’s always pissed at me for something. But what else is new?
But none of that matters right now. All that matters is seeing Naomi. Making things right, if she’ll let me. And if she won’t? If she slams the door in my face and tells me to fuck off?
I’ll deal with that when and if it happens. I’m not naive enough to think a salad is going to fix everything. But it’s a start. A small gesture to show her I’m here, that I care. That I’m not going anywhere unless she wants me to.
I promised.
Naomi’s assistant looks up as I approach, her eyes widening. “Mr. Milton. We weren’t expecting you.”
“Is she in?” I nod towards her closed office door.
“Yes, but?—”
I don’t wait for her to finish. Kind of feel sorry for her, but nothing will stand in my way. I push open the door, stepping inside and letting it fall shut behind me.
Naomi looks up from her computer, and my brain short-circuits because, god, she’s beautiful. Even when she’s giving me her best ‘I could murder you with this stapler’ look. Actually, especially then. “What are you doing here?”
Right. Words. I should use those.
“Delivery for Ms. Smith.” Or, hopefully, one day, Mrs. Milton. I hold up the container. “Caesar salad. No croutons. Your favorite.” Nailed it. Sort of.
She eyes the container, then me. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“I know.” I set it on her desk. “But you haven’t been returning my texts. Or calls.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to let me know you’re okay?” Okay, dick move. Rein it in.
“I’m okay. So you can go now.” Her words cut deep, but I knew this wouldn’t be easy.
“I was hoping we could?—”
“Brandon. I appreciate the salad, but I really don’t have time for this right now.”
It stings. Deep. “Okay, well, maybe we can grab dinner later?”
“Dinner is Thursday.” She finally meets my gaze, her eyes hard as flint. “Something else?”
“I won’t disappear, cupcake.” My shoulders slump in defeat. “I’ll be here. Whenever you need me.”
Something flickers in her eyes. Uncertainty. Longing?
But then it vanishes. “You should go.”
I nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll go then.”
I turn to leave, each step heavier than the last. This can’t be it. This can’t be how we end.
At the door, I pause, my hand on the knob, and I glance back at her over my shoulder. “I made the salad myself. Hope you like it.”
Her eyes flick to the plastic container, her lips parting, and then, almost imperceptibly, her lips twitch. “You made it yourself?”
I nod, hope flaring in my chest. “First time in the kitchen in a while since the pancakes.”
Her gaze lands back on me, searching. Assessing. Like she’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of trick or if I’m being sincere.
I want to tell her that I’d spend every damn day in the kitchen if it meant seeing that tiny hint of a smile again. That flicker of warmth in her eyes before the walls slam back into place.
But I don’t. I can’t. Not yet.
Baby steps, Bash said. Don’t push. Just be there.
So I wait, holding my breath, as she considers my peace offering.
“Thank you,” she says finally, her voice soft. Uncertain.
It’s not much. But it’s something. A tiny crack in her armor. A crack in the wall she’s erected between us.
“I’ll see you Thursday then.” She resumes the work on her computer. A dismissal, but a gentler one than before.
“Thursday,” I echo, my hand twisting the door knob. “Looking forward to it, cupcake.”
A ghost of a smile flits across her lips. There and gone in an instant, but I saw it. I fucking saw it, and now I’m grinning like an idiot in the elevator because she almost smiled at me. She almost smiled at me!
I pull out my phone to text Sebastian:
Brandon: SHE ALMOST SMILED.
Sebastian: Wow, that’s almost like a love confession.
Brandon: I KNOW RIGHT?
She didn’t kick me out. Didn’t tell me to go to hell. It’s progress, however small.
And I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever she’s willing to give me.
I’ll wait for her, for as long as it takes. I’ll be there, in whatever way she needs me to be.
Because she’s it for me. The missing piece I never knew I was searching for until she crashed into my life and turned everything upside down.
Now, the meeting can come.
I’m ready.