Chapter 17 Braxton
Braxton
The silence is deafening.
I don’t even know when the carols got turned off, but the echo of nothing thunders in my ears. The lights on the Christmas tree are glittering brightly, casting a merry rainbow of colors against the walls and making a mockery of everything I just allowed to happen.
Everything I’ve done.
I slump back against the couch, my arms still smarting where Nick held me in a bruising grip, stopping me from going after Gracie as my parents ushered her out, taking her home.
Analise disappeared after everyone left, but Nick’s still hovering across the room, leaning back against the wall, his dark scowl fixed on his shoes.
The tension fills the air with quiet condemnation, and it weighs heavily without Nick saying a word. I shift, my foot nudging the remains of the holly sprig wrapping paper, my phone lying forgotten amongst the mess of it all.
I’d noticed it missing when I woke up on the floor of Nick’s living room yesterday morning—with him snoring loudly on the couch beside me because Paisley had taken his bed.
I figured I had left it at the bar, but a call from Nick’s phone hadn’t turned anything up, and I didn’t have the bandwidth to truly care about finding it.
Gracie was pretty determined not to see me until today, and I used that as an excuse to keep hiding from her, but last night, I gave in and went over to her duplex—only to find her car missing and the place empty.
The front door slams, followed by two thuds as my dad kicks off his boots. He comes into the living room, stomping straight for his armchair, and sits down with a loud exhale.
“You alright, Stephen?” Nick asks roughly. “You want a beer?”
Dad dips his chin, running a hand over his jaw. “Yes, thank you. Feels a bit necessary right this minute.”
Nick nods, not even looking in my direction as he turns and walks out of the room. Dad clears his throat, and I drag my eyes to him.
“You’ve really fucked up this time, son.”
I grind my molars together, defensive anger rising in my chest. I smother it back, knowing it won’t help me right now. “I know.”
“Do you?” There’s enough doubt in just those two words that it has me pausing. “Your mother decided to stay with Gracie. She’s worried about her.”
My stomach roils, feeling like I’ve swallowed acid. “I am too,” I argue pointlessly. “She wouldn’t even talk to me.”
Dad looks at me like I’m stupid, but it’s Nick who scoffs as he comes back into the room. “Can you blame her?”
He’s clutching three bottles of beer, and I take the one he grudgingly offers me. But I don’t lift it to my mouth. Instead, I lean forward, balancing my elbows on my knees and dangling the bottle between my legs.
“I never meant for any of this to happen,” I say quietly, my eyes on the floor. “I was gonna tell her about the house, but I figured it was better to wait until after Christmas.”
No one says anything, and I look up, finding them both watching me, severe disappointment simmering in my dad’s eyes.
“Then why the heck would you tell Paisley?” he demands.
“I don’t—” My bottle drops out of my limp fingers, hitting the ground and falling onto its side, beer rapidly spilling onto the cream carpet. “Shit!” I snatch the bottle up, but Dad is already standing.
“I’ll sort it,” he says. “You know what your mother is like. Go take a breather outside or something.”
I don’t argue, Nick falling into step behind me as I head out onto the back deck. I collapse on the top step, and he sits next to me, lifting his beer to his lips, throat bobbing as he swallows.
Neither of us says a word for the longest time. There’s a huge oak tree growing along the back fenceline, and the bare branches give a clear view of the old treehouse my dad built when Analise and I were younger.
I asked him last year why he doesn’t tear it down, and he gave me a wistful smile, saying that he knows he and Mom aren’t ever planning on leaving, but he loves the idea of his grandkids playing in the branches—just like his kids did.
The memory of that conversation steals my breath. Gracie and I were only together a couple of months, but I immediately imagined our kids scaling the old rope ladder and disappearing into the thick branches of the tree, their laughter ringing out.
“It’s not snowing,” I mutter, and Nick shoots me a bemused look.
“No shit.”
I moisten my lips. “Gracie…It doesn’t snow where she grew up. You remember last Christmas?”
His parents had traveled to Paisley for the holidays, but Nick stayed behind.
He’d come over after his shift at the station and found Gracie and me outside, building a snowman, her joy contagious.
The snowman had been sacrificed for a snowball war, with us using its body for quick ammo.
We had so much fucking fun before my mom insisted we come inside for a hot toddy to warm up.
“I remember,” Nick says lowly.
“That was the first thing I thought of when I woke up this morning,” I admit. “I looked out the window, and I was so damn disappointed, knowing how much she would have loved another white Christmas.”
Nick doesn’t reply, taking another long drag of his beer.
After a minute, he turns to me. “What’s going on with you?
I know that crash fucked with your head.
It would have fucked with anyone’s head.
Even me…” He shakes his head, pressing his lips together.
“I still think about what would have happened if Ryan hadn’t gotten to you in time, you know? ”
“I made another appointment with the counselor,” is all I say. It’s all I can say, everything in me revolting at the idea of talking about it.
Except you told Paisley.
I frown because I did tell Paisley that day, and I still don’t know why. I told Gracie it was because Paisley got it, that she understood. But Nick got it, too, and I didn’t want to spill my guts at his feet.
Nick looks at me, his brows drawn together. “Do you still have feelings for Paisley?”
My eyes flare with annoyance. “No. No. I haven’t seen her in four years, but I’ve known her my entire life, Nick. I’ve known her just as long as you. It’s not as simple as just pretending she doesn’t exist.”
He looks away, mouth flattening. “No one asked you to.”
I scoff, cloaking myself in defensiveness. Better to feel that than anything else. “Gracie did.”
A humorless chuckle leaves him. “Did she?”
I don’t want you to spend time with her alone.
Full transparency. I need you to give me this.
“No.” The word escapes in a rush of air. “She didn’t ask me to cut her out. She…”
“She what?” Nick demands.
“Gracie overheard Paisley talking to me on Thanksgiving,” I finally confess. “She heard Paisley tell me that she wished I waited for her.”
He lets out a curse. “I wondered what the fuck happened,” he mutters angrily. “I knew she—” He cuts himself off, closing his eyes. When he opens them, his expression is impassive. “What did you tell Paisley?”
“I told her that I love Gracie,” I say, and it’s the truth.
But I remember how shocked I felt, seeing Paisley for the first time since the night I told her how I felt all those years ago.
It had pushed everything else out of my head, giving me some relief from reliving the accident over and over again.
It wasn’t about Paisley, not really; it was about everything she represented—a time for me that wasn’t drenched in blood and stress.
That wasn’t something I could tell Gracie, though. It would have been the same as admitting that Paisley gave me something that she couldn’t.
“You understand what Paisley did tonight, right?” Nick suddenly asks, and I flinch, swinging wide eyes to him. “Every little thing she said to Gracie was a carefully aimed dagger. Paisley was trying to hurt her, Braxton.”
The memory of Gracie’s eyes, broken and lifeless, surges to the forefront of my mind. “Not compared to the hurt I caused.”
“Yeah,” Nick agrees, and I flinch, wishing he’d given me at least a shred of hope. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to get her back after that shit show.”
I shake my head again, feeling like a puppet on strings that have been cut loose. “She’s taking space,” I say numbly. “Gracie just needs time, and then she’ll talk to me. She’ll hear me out. This is just…” I trail off, my chin dropping to my chest. “This is just space.”
Nick leaves eventually, and I find myself back in the living room, ignoring my phone because I know Gracie won’t be trying to contact me.
Instead, I watch the Christmas lights twinkling merrily over the clock, tracking each minute that passes, desperate for my mother to come home and give me any kind of update on Gracie.
At one point, I get up, palming my keys, determined to head to her apartment, but Dad gives me the darkest scowl in his arsenal, ordering me to “Sit the fuck down.”
It isn’t until the early hours of the morning roll around—with everyone else in bed—that I finally admit Mom isn’t coming home. I take myself to my old room, staring up at the ceiling, aware that sleep won’t be coming tonight.
By the time I drag myself out of bed in the morning, Mom still hasn’t come back, and with each hour that passes, my father grows more and more agitated. Whenever he’s not fixated on his phone—a device he usually can’t stand—he’s shooting me dark glares across the room.
Still, I don’t go back to my place, unable to bear the idea of being alone with only silence, regret, and misery to keep me company.
Mom comes through the front door late that afternoon, looking drained. She takes one look at my expectant expression and stiffens, her face firming into a glare. “I’m surprised you’re still skulking around here.”
I flinch, but don’t bite. “Is Gracie okay?”
Her cheeks flare red as she gapes at me disbelievingly. “No, Braxton. No, she is not okay. On Christmas, she got confirmation that her boyfriend is cheating on her and that he lost her dream house, and then lied to her about it.”