Chapter 8
EIGHT
DEENA
I hung up the phone, fumbled to turn it off completely, then slid off the bed. My legs were jelly and my panties were around my calves, so I stumbled a few feet and crumpled to the ground. A half-sob, half-sigh tore out of me, and I pushed myself up to my knees.
What the hell had just happened? Why had I done that?
My laptop dinged. I crawled on my hands and knees to my sofa, where I’d left the computer on the seat cushion. Callum had sent me an email: Turn on your phone.
I pecked at the keyboard with my index finger: No. Then I slammed the laptop lid down and shoved the computer into the crack between the cushions, like that would fix this situation.
What had I done? What had I done?
I needed a shower. I needed a brain transplant.
Crawling up the side of the couch, I steadied myself and let my underwear fall to the ground.
I stepped out of it and tore off my dress, every stitch feeling too abrasive on my sensitive body.
Then I stumbled to the shower and turned the knob to full, freezing cold, and I got in before I could think twice about it.
The shock of the water stole my breath. I ducked my chin and let the water run down my head and over my body.
Gooseflesh covered me everywhere in an instant, but it took long moments before I could take more than little sips of air into my lungs.
When my teeth clacked from the cold, I nudged the tap and allowed myself to warm up.
After a while, I was finally able to take a full breath, and I had to admit the truth to myself.
That was the hottest thing I’d ever done in my entire freaking life.
And I wanted to do it again.
I blocked Callum Frost as soon as I turned my phone on the next day, and I set a rule in my email inbox to send his messages straight to a locked, hidden folder.
He’d been a good client and a great source of income, but there was no way I could get anywhere near him. Not after last night.
I buried myself in lead generation and marketing. I called up a friend of mine, Alba, who had given birth to her son back in November. She was in a little bubble of infant bliss, and it warmed my heart to hear her so happy.
I didn’t want what she had. I didn’t want to be tied down to a man, barefoot and pregnant in his kitchen. I wanted my life and my business. My independence.
But she was happy, and that made me happy. Maybe, in a small, strange way, it made me a little jealous.
Not enough to change the course of my life, though. Not enough to make bad decisions like unblocking Callum Frost’s number.
I hustled for two full weeks, but when my next debt payment came out of my account, I was down to less than a thousand dollars to my name.
Nothing was more disheartening than knowing I was covering my bills, doing everything I could to grow the business, and still feeling the uncertainty of living paycheck to paycheck.
When it came time to board the flight to Charlotte, North Carolina, I was feeling tender and vulnerable.
Not the ideal state of mind to willingly step into the wasp’s nest. My parents were having their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary party at their local country club, and everyone would be there.
All the people who thought I’d thrown away my best shot at a good life when I’d broken up with my high school boyfriend.
Who thought I was silly and strange and shameful for wanting to support myself. I braced myself for what was to come.
But I didn’t brace myself enough.
Halfway to the car rental kiosk, I spotted a familiar face.
My brother Brooks stood waiting with his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans, a half-smile appearing on his face when he spotted me.
He was half a head taller than me and he obviously hadn’t given up the gym habit, but I could see the beginning of a beer gut.
Married life must’ve been treating him well.
He intercepted me before I could make it to the kiosk and wrapped an arm around me. “Hey, Deena.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Is that how you greet someone who came to pick you up from the airport?” He hooked an arm around my neck and pulled me in for a too-tight brotherly hug, rubbing his knuckles on my scalp.
I yelped, clawing at him until I could pull away. “What the hell, Brooks! We’re not little kids anymore.”
He laughed. “Still the same whiny-pants even after a three-year disappearance, huh.”
“I’m getting a rental car,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Mom told me to drive you.”
I widened my eyes at him. “Still doing Mom’s bidding after my three-year disappearance, huh.”
Brooks clicked his tongue and grabbed my small suitcase from my hand. “Come on, Deena. We’re going to be late for dinner.”
Stewing in my own anger, I stomped beside my big brother. It was easier to go along now and get a rental car later, or just deal with taxis and ride shares for the weekend.
“How’s Stacey? And the kids?”
“Riley just lost a tooth and left it for the tooth fairy, but she saw me sneaking into her room last night, so the truth’s out.” He gave me a sideways glance. “Stace won’t admit it, but she’s so mad I think she’s considering divorce.”
Despite myself, a tiny huff of laughter came out of me.
I liked my sister-in-law. We’d been friendly at school, and she’d never made fun of me for wanting something more than marriage and babies, even though that was what she’d aspired to.
She would never divorce Brooks. Not only because she didn’t believe in it, but because they were head over heels in love with each other.
We drove down roads I knew like the back of my hand and slowed as we turned into my parents’ neighborhood. Brooks drove with one hand on the wheel, his elbow resting on the open window frame. Familiar sights and scents made me feel like my entire life in Manhattan was a dream.
“How’s business?” Brooks asked when we turned down our parents’ street. He and Stacey lived three doors down, but he still parked outside Mom and Dad’s place. Dad had a new car, a gleaming luxury SUV that looked right at home in front of the beautiful house.
I gave my brother a flat look. None of my family had ever shown the least bit of interest in my ambitions.
I’d been ridiculous for wanting to go to college.
My degree had been pointless. I was single, therefore I was a failure.
I wasn’t going to give my brother or anyone else ammunition with which to attack me by giving them any more information than they needed.
“What do you care how my business is doing?”
He frowned at me. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to be civil.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I muttered, anger sparking. Easy for him to say, when he’d grown up having me and Mom and all our aunts serving him food and doing his chores. Being civil for him meant being polite. Being civil for me meant shrinking myself to fit in a box of other people’s ideals.
“Christ, Deena. I was actually looking forward to seeing you before I remembered you’re a total bitch.”
Heat seared through me, and I slammed his car door as soon as I’d stepped outside. The weekend was off to a flying start.
And it only got better.
The front door of the house opened, and my mother stood there, her hair perfectly set, her pale yellow pants matched with a crisp white sleeveless shirt. She planted her hands on her hips and tsked. “Do they not sell hairbrushes in New York City, Deena?”
“Nice to see you too, Mom.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, flapping her hands in the direction of the messy bun Brooks had attacked on sight. “I’m sure Annabelle can fit you in before the party.”
“I’m not letting Annabelle anywhere near my head,” I warned.
“And I’ve got a dress for you to wear, so don’t you worry about that,” my mother said, ignoring my words.
She put her hands on my shoulders, looked me up and down, and sighed.
Then she turned to my brother, and a giant, beaming smile broke over her face.
“You are such a dear for doing that, Brooks. I know going to the airport for Deena was an inconvenience.”
Words couldn’t hurt me. I wouldn’t let them. I swallowed back the burning ball of emotion in my throat and glanced at my brother.
His gaze slid toward me, then back to our mother. “It was no problem,” he said. “Dinner ready?”
“I was just about to fix you a plate. Deena, go on into the kitchen and do that while Brooks brings in your suitcase. You’ll stay in your old room.”
My old room was no longer my room. They’d converted it to a guest room the moment I’d left for college. It was as clear a message as any that their home wasn’t my home anymore. I’d made my choice, and I’d chosen wrong.
“Yes, ma’am,” I grumbled, full of repressed teenage angst and all the bottled-up hurt I’d spent the last decade running from.
My parents lived in a five-thousand-square-foot home built with red brick and a grand colonnade entrance. Dark blue shutters framed the windows as mature, leafy trees and perfectly manicured bushes lined the walkway from the driveway to the front door.
My throat tightened.
I remembered rushing up these steps and being told that ladies didn’t run.
I remembered slamming the door when I pretended I was going to run away half a dozen times as a child.
This time, when my thumb pressed the latch on the cast iron handle, it felt like I was opening the door to someone else’s home.
My mother hadn’t gotten over her love of wallpaper in the years since I’d been here.
White wainscoting covered the bottom half of the walls on the entire bottom floor, with the top half of the entryway papered in a silver floral motif.
To my right, the formal living room opened up, dramatic moldings painted a fresh white with dark blue wallpaper covering the walls.
The blue set off the rich reds of the sofas and Turkish rugs.