Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
brANDON
I reach for Naomi, but she flinches away, curling in on herself. My hands drop uselessly to my sides.
“Cupcake,” I try again, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes, red-rimmed and vacant, flick to mine before darting away. She looks… fuck, like someone reached inside and hollowed her out, leaving nothing but an empty shell behind.
I want to hold her. To wrap her in my arms and shield her from all this shit. But the way she’s huddled on the couch, arms wrapped tightly around herself, screams ‘don’t touch me.’ So I don’t.
Instead, I settle for sitting on the coffee table across from her, close enough to reach out if she needs me, but far enough to give her space.
“Do you need anything?” I ask, hating how fucking useless the question sounds. What could she possibly need right now? Her mother back? A time machine? “I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”
Naomi doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at me. Just keeps staring at some spot on the wall.
No response. Not even a blink.
What do I do? What the fuck am I supposed to do?
I want to grab her, shake her, yell at her to snap out of it. I want to hunt down Lydia’s ghost and make her pay for doing this to her own daughter.
But I can’t do any of that. All I can do is be here, even if she won’t let me in.
Don’t push.
“How long has she been like this?” I ask.
“She hasn’t said a word since we got back,” Blake says.
I nod, not taking my eyes off Naomi. “Has she eaten anything?”
“Won’t even look at food.”
Shit. With her history, that’s not good. Not good at all.
I stand, walking over to her fridge in the kitchen. Inside, I spot the salad container from earlier today. Half-eaten.
She ate some of it. I thought she would throw it away.
Any other time, my heart would’ve done that pathetic little dance it does whenever she eats something I made. Now it just twists seeing the evidence of how normal today started.
I grab it and a clean fork from her drawer. The metal feels cold against my palm as I return to her.
“Hey.” I crouch in front of her, holding out the container. “I know you don’t want to, but you need to eat something.”
Her eyes remain fixed on that same spot on the wall. I set the container on the coffee table, the plastic making a soft click against the wood.
“Just a few bites, cupcake. That’s all I’m asking.”
The fork trembles slightly in my hand as I hold it out to her. I feel fucking useless, reduced to begging her to eat a goddamn salad while her world crumbles around her.
“Please.” My voice cracks on the word. “For me?”
Her eyes snap to mine, a flicker of life in their depths.
That’s it. Come back to me. “Naomi?” I risk putting a hand on her knee. “Talk to me. Please.”
She blinks slowly, my words and touch taking a long time to reach her. “Brandon. I?—”
I throw the fork on the ground and surge forward, wrapping her into my arms. She resists, but I hold her close until she collapses into me, her fingers digging into my back instead of pushing at my chest.
“I can’t fix this.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Can’t make the pain stop or bring her back. But I’m here, right in this mess with you. Not running, not hiding. Just here, holding you.”
She shakes her head, but I press on. “Your problems? They don’t scare me. Never have. What scares the shit out of me is watching you fade away.” Because in this whole fucked-up menu of my life, she’s the only dish that makes sense.
Her throat works. “Brandon…”
I cup the back of her head, my fingers threading through her hair. Gently, I nudge her head under my chin, tucking her into the crook of my neck. She fits there like she was made for it, her breath warm against my skin.
A shudder runs through her, and then another, until her whole frame is shaking with silent sobs.
I don’t say anything. What is there to say? No words can make this better, can erase the horror of what she’s been through. So I just hold her, one hand stroking her back while the other cradles her head.
Behind me, I hear the soft click of the door. Probably Blake, slipping out.
Naomi’s tears soak into my shirt, hot and wet against my skin. Each one feels like a piece of my heart breaking, shattering into shards that slice me from the inside out.
I press my lips to her hair, my arms an unbreakable fortress around her shaking form until her sobs subside, until her breathing evens out and her body sags against mine, exhausted and spent.
And even then, I don’t let go. I can’t. Because letting go means facing the reality of what’s happened, of the long road ahead. Letting go means watching her retreat back into herself, back into that hollow shell.
My shirt is soaked through, I couldn’t care less, but it must be uncomfortable for her. I shift us slightly, pulling her closer until she’s practically in my lap.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur into her hair. “Whatever you need.”
Her response is barely a whisper, but it cuts through me like a knife. “I need you to leave.”
“What?” I pull back, taking a look at her face.
“I can’t…” She closes her eyes, a tear flowing down her cheek. “I can’t do this right now. Please, just go.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“I said go!” Her voice cracks, desperation bleeding through. “Please, Brandon. I can’t… I can’t be what you need right now. I can’t be anything.”
My chest aches. I want to argue, to tell her she doesn’t need to be anything but herself. But her eyes open, locking with mine, stopping me. I almost wish they would return to that fucking spot on the wall. The pain, the raw anguish, it steals my breath.
She’s barely holding it together, and pushing her now might shatter what little control she has left.
“You’re overstepping.” She untangles herself from my arms, scooching to the other end of the couch. “This isn’t part of our deal.”
The words hit harder than any kitchen burn ever could. This hasn’t been just a ‘deal’ for longer than either of us wants to admit.
“Overstepping?” My jaw clenches. What do I do? I can’t find a single joke, no sarcastic comment to lighten the mood. Nothing but this raw ache in my chest watching her retreat into herself. “That’s what you call caring about you?”
She nods, her shoulders stiffening.
“Look me in the eyes and say that again.”
“Brandon—”
“Say it.”
She meets my gaze, those eyes swimming with unshed tears. “We’re—We’re just…”
“You can’t say it. Because you know it’s bullshit.”
“You’re right.” Her voice hardens, her spine straightening. “I can’t say it. But that doesn’t change anything.”
“The hell it doesn’t!”
“Please. I need space.”
Space. Isn’t that what I’ve been giving her for months? Too much fucking space?
“Naomi…”
“You want to help?” She sinks deeper into the cushions. “Then respect my boundaries. Leave.”
“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“Blake’s here.”
“That’s not?—”
“What? Not good enough? At least she knows when to back off.”
She’s looking at me… like I’m the one hurting her.
“Okay.” I clench my fists, fighting the urge to close the distance between us. “I’ll go.”
I stand up and take one step after another away from her. It feels like ripping off a limb, each inch of distance a new kind of agony.
At the door, I pause, hand on the knob. “For what it’s worth, deal or no deal, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be here. Call me if?—”
“Goodbye, Brandon.”
Her voice is the shock that ruins a soufflé mid-rise, undoing all the careful effort in a single moment. I step into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me.
Final. Irreversible.
I lean back against it, my head falling back with a thud.
Fuck.
My hands still remember her trembling against me. My chef’s instincts scream to fix this, to find the right ingredients, the perfect recipe to make everything better. But this isn’t a failed dish I can remake. This is Naomi.
I’ve never felt more useless. Not when my restaurant failed, not when my father died. Because this time, the one person I want to protect more than anything is pushing me away, and all my usual tricks, the jokes, the cooking, the careful planning, mean nothing.
I really want that breakfast-pancake subscription.
The bourbon burns going down, but not enough to dull the ache in my chest. Five glasses in and I still see her face, still hear her voice telling me to leave.
I stumble to the kitchen, yanking open cabinets until I find what I need. Pots clang against the counter, ingredients scattered like casualties of war.
“You think I’m giving up?”
“Aren’t you? The Brandon I knew in college would never ? —”
If food is the way I reach her, I’ll cook.
Still, be that guy she…
I grab an onion and knife starting to—The blade slips, biting into my finger. “Shit!” Blood wells up, bright against the cutting board and half-chopped onion.
When was the last time I actually cooked something? Not pancakes, not a salad. Something real. Before Dad died? Before everything went to shit?
Some chef I turned out to be. Can’t even dice a fucking onion without hurting myself.
I’m a failure.
The restaurant. Naomi. The company.
I sweep everything off the counter. Pots crash to the floor, and vegetables scatter.
My phone sits on the counter. What would I even say? ‘Sorry, I’m such a fucking mess’? ‘Sorry, I couldn’t be what you needed’?
God, Naomi would hate seeing me like this.
Maybe that’s why she pushed me away. She saw what everyone else sees. A drunk playing at being functional, pretending he’s not falling apart.
I wrap a dish towel around my bleeding hand, the white fabric quickly staining red as I rush to my office. Fuck, that’s gonna need stitches.
Down the hall. Left turn. The door’s already open. Did I leave it that way? The safe sits behind my desk, a black metal box full of secrets and leverage. My fingers fumble with the combination. 4-8-2-1. It swings open.
Enough power to keep her close.
Can I be that asshole? Hold something like this over someone? Over her?
She’d have no choice.
I slam the safe shut, the metal clang echoing in my skull.
I’m not doing this to her.
Time to get my shit together.
For real this time.
If I want Naomi, really want her, I need to be someone worth staying for.
I grab the tablet on my desk and open the document I avoided until now.
Jeff found a buyer, and all that’s left is for me to sign the contract.
I scroll through the document, past all the legal bullshit about property transfers and payment terms. The cursor blinks at the signature line, waiting. Mocking.
My hand trembles as I pick up the stylus. The cut from earlier throbs beneath its towel.
I’m not giving up, cupcake.
This is for you.
I sign and hit the ‘Submit’ button.
The screen flashes confirmation, a cheery ‘Contract Signed!’ message popping up.
It’s done.
The tablet dims, then goes dark.
Somehow, I expected this would make Naomi magically appear beside me. Make her call me.
No matter what I do, it’ll never be enough.
Not for my father, not for Elijah, not for Naomi, not for anyone.
I will wait.
Maybe I’m lucky.