Chapter Seventeen #2
Cujo had moved a little closer to her and she was desperate to kiss him. He looked good enough to eat in his converse, black jeans, and a white T-shirt. But more than that, he clearly needed a hug.
“Drea,” he said quietly in greeting.
“Brody,” she replied. “How are you?” There was so much more she wanted to ask, but the wall between them seemed insurmountable, the rift fracturing what they’d built.
“Why didn’t you take the truck?”
“I asked how you were,” she said, ignoring the abrupt question.
“And I wanted to know why you didn’t take better care of yourself last night by taking my truck?”
This was getting them nowhere.
“I was fine. Anyway, it’s not a problem. I handed in my notice last night.”
“You did? Thank God. I was worried shitless, you all out and about in the early hours of the morning.”
There may be issues between them, but he really did care for her.
“We need to talk, Cujo.”
With a brief nod, he headed back to the office. Cujo waited until they were both inside, then closed the door.
She sat on the sofa and Cujo joined her. The silence was excruciating, but Drea couldn’t decide how to start. The words she’d planned no longer made sense.
“How are you?” she asked again.
“I’m exhausted if you really want to know. After the police came, and in consultation with her doctors, we decided to tell Mom what was going on.”
Drea warmed a little that he referred to Evelyn with her familial title.
“How did she take it?” She took his hand in both of hers but he made no attempt to link their fingers like he usually did.
Cujo let out a deep sigh. “Badly. She’s desperate to remember but can’t.”
“I’m sorry, Cujo. About your mom, and for calling Don.”
“I’m still pissed, but I’ll get over it, Drea. It was my call to make, but it turned out Don was a good guy. He’d already been in touch with the cops and spent another hour talking to them, and then took care of Mom’s medical bills.”
Drea’s chest loosened. His words the previous evening about Don perhaps being the perpetrator had haunted her during her few hours of restless sleep.
“What is it your mom does?”
“She is an undercover investigative reporter, but she wasn’t meant to be in Miami. In fact, Don thought she was in Atlanta. He’s trying to figure out what happened.”
His fingers finally linked with hers, reminding her she had other things to tell him.
Drea pondered her next sentence carefully. “I also did something a bit crazy last night, and I know you aren’t going to like it.”
“How crazy?” His brows furrowed.
“Well, Trip Henderson was at the hotel last night.”
“The CEO of Cleffan? Are you okay? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
Drea shook her head, biting down on the side of her lip. “No, I’m fine.” She touched his arm reassuringly. “I visited his room.”
“You did what?” Cujo’s voice was louder than normal. He gripped her elbow. “Why in the hell would you do that?”
Drea wriggled free. “Calm down. I’m fine. It was really stupid. But you and I had just fought. And I really wanted to help your mom. I thought it might be our only chance.… I didn’t find anything.”
“What if he’d found you in there? I never want to have to visit you in hospital.”
“He didn’t find me. I hid in a closet,” she fired back without thinking. Cono. When was she going to learn to keep her big mouth closed?
“He was in the room while you were there?” Cujo was shouting now.
“No, I went in after he left, but he came back because someone spilled something on his clothes. I hid in a closet while he grabbed a new shirt. He didn’t see me.”
“Drea. It’s fucking breaking and entering.”
“No it’s not. I had a key. I took him two bottles of water. That’s all anybody will know.”
“Didn’t it occur to you the security cameras will show you going in? Then him going in and coming out? Then you leaving?”
She’d thought about the cameras when she first entered the room, but hadn’t thought about the implications of Henderson’s return. But what were the chances that would happen?
Shit.
* * *
The look on her face said it all. It hadn’t occurred to her. Of all the foolish …
“Christ, Drea. What were you thinking?” He studied her face, looking for a clue to her beyond-reckless behavior. “You could have ended up hurt. Or arrested.”
Her hair was pulled back in a simple braid, so different from the woman who looked like a fucking mermaid when she rode him, all that hair cascading down her back. It made her look younger. Harder to read.
The previous evening had provided plenty of time to think about her, and them. Their timing sucked balls, but he couldn’t imagine them not figuring their differences out.
Yes, he’d been angry last night. Angry because she wasted time by not calling the cops, and because she decided what she thought was best for his family.
It got his back up, yet in hindsight, she’d been the sole person making decisions about her family for years.
Old habits were hard to kill. But now that Don was involved, it was only a matter of time before they knew what his mom was doing in Miami.
“The truth is I wasn’t thinking,” Drea said softly. “And I don’t think I have been for a while.”
There was a pure melancholy to her words, and despite their disagreement, Cujo realized this was about much more than what happened over the last twenty-four hours.
“Talk to me, Shortcake.” He leaned back on the sofa, pulling her back with him.
They sat in silence. He’d learned to give her the time she needed to open up to him.
“I’m losing my way. I’m on some weird fucking autopilot.”
The whispered words broke his heart.
“What do you mean?” Large tears spilled over her eyelashes and formed watery tracks over her cheeks. Her vulnerability snapped against his chest like industrial elastic.
“I’m losing myself. Or maybe I lost myself a long time ago. Taking care of mom filled all the holes I had. It didn’t matter what I wanted. Who I wanted to be, where I wanted to go. All that mattered was finding a job I could fit in around school to take care of Rosa.”
More tears fell. This was the bottom he’d been waiting for. She’d been so busy with life, the jobs, the funeral, she’d not grieved properly. He grabbed the box of tissues from the desk and placed it between them.
“And now?” he asked, resisting the urge to pull her into his lap. She wouldn’t appreciate it. Unlike any girl he’d ever known, she needed space to share her deepest feelings.
“I’m so scared of the holes. I’m filling them with anything I can to avoid having to really think about my life … Lynn, the fracking stuff, breaking into a fucking guest room.” Drea began to sob, hard wracking sobs that cut through to his very soul. “Even you.”
Even him? He reached for her, crushing her against his chest. Tears pricked his own eyes, as she shook in his arms. The sobs had turned to gasps.
Hearing her fight to breathe as the sorrow flooded out of her left him feeling helpless.
How did you help someone you love through a grief so violent they were choking on it?
Fists grabbed his T-shirt as she held on for dear life. He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead, murmured words meant to calm, but the tears continued. A storm raged inside her, dark and tumultuous, and they wouldn’t be the same until it blew over.
Almost as quickly as they had started, the tears subsided. Only the breathless hiccoughs remained as she attempted to steady her breathing.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, pushing away from him. Two dark circles of tears stained his T-shirt, not that he gave a fuck.
“Don’t be,” he said earnestly. “I want to be here for you, Shortcake.”
At the use of her nickname, she stiffened and grabbed a tissue to blow her nose, then another to wipe the smeared mascara from her cheeks.
“I appreciate that, Brody. But I’ve come to tell you I can’t let you.”
Wait. What? This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. “Why not?”
Drea sniffed. “I need to figure this out on my own. I have to get out of the cycle of filling the holes with anything available. I need to figure out what my life looks like, for me. And I don’t think I can do that while I am in a relationship with you. Or with anyone.”
“No, Drea. Come on. This is just the last twenty-four hours talking. We can get through this together.” Couldn’t they? They were just finding their rhythm. That’s all.
Drea started to cry, again. “I’m not in a good place, Brody. For us to work, I need to come to you whole. Not in pieces, expecting you to be the glue.”
Through the pain of her words echoed a fragment of truth. One he wasn’t ready to fully accept.
“Look, Shortcake, let me take you home. You need some rest. I’ll let José know you aren’t feeling great. We’ll do a movie marathon and I’ll cook—”
“Brody. Please. It’s hard enough.”
She meant it. She really fucking meant it. She was breaking up with him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
He rubbed his hand over the side of his head. Had this been what he’d wanted once? To be single? The idea of going home tonight and her not being there felt akin to drinking lighter fluid.
“Don’t do this, Drea. We can—”
“I need to, Brody. I’m sorry.”
Drea placed her hands on either side of his face, and kissed him. Hard. Passionate. Desperate. Before he had chance to respond, she pulled away.
“Good-bye, Brody.” Her voice broke on his name as she ran from the office.
Tears filled his eyes. What the fuck just happened?
Because it felt a lot like he just let the best thing that ever happened to him walk out of his life.
* * *
The world felt like a giant vat of syrup. Drea could see the chaos in the lunch hour rush, and it was hard to miss the way Harper efficiently made coffee after coffee, while Marco ran from the kitchen to the floor carrying plates of food José had put together.
But she was insulated from it. The sounds weren’t getting through, and she couldn’t figure out how to move quickly. Her limbs felt heavy, her words were jumbled.