Chapter 60 Rhea
FIVE MONTHS LATER
“Yeah, that one,” I say as Kaia throws the dark purple blanket into the cart Boone’s pushing around the homeware store. Sunday sits inside it, and Cosy trails behind me, double-checking I’m not leaving anything good behind.
“So you can get back in on Monday to get more of your stuff?” Sunday asks.
“Yeah, and the apartment I'm subletting is nice. It’s only five minutes from the school; hopefully, with the insurance payout, I can start looking at houses next summer.” I chew my lip and feel through more of the blankets.
Pretty much everything that was left at the condo succumbed to mold, and I was having to buy new… everything.
Staying with Boone isn’t ideal. Crosby is sweet, but the apartment is too small for two large humans and a large dog. I just need my own space again, and frankly, being around Boone just makes me miss Brighton.
The day after the drunk tank, Boone took Brighton to a facility in Pittsburgh.
It specializes in Military PTSD, and everything Boone told me about it seems nice.
Brighton has his own apartment there; it’s basically assisted living.
He does therapy twice a day, calls Daisy with his one phone call, and keeps his head down.
But I miss him.
So much so that sometimes Boone catches my eye and I think it’s him. My brain ignores the different color in his eyes and the shift in the tattoos. It aches for what we lost, and it shows me what I want just to silence the screaming in the rest of my body.
I get excited, and I end up crying upstairs in the empty apartment for half my shift when my brain finally realizes that it’s not. Last time it happened, I left my key on the island and haven’t been back since.
I bring Daisy lunch from Boone every morning, and I can tell it’s taking a toll on her. She’s retreating into the shell she was in at the start of the year, and she’s becoming more secretive about her art again. It’s frustrating watching it happen without the ability to stop it.
“You alright?” Cosy asks as we round a corner into an aisle full of pillows.
“Yeah, just you know…” I shrug. “Missing Brighton.”
Kaia groans as loudly as she can. Between them and the girls, at least I’m not alone and sad.
They take turns doing shit with me, and since Kaia started coming to family dinners, I started getting invited less, which is a blessing in disguise.
But also, eating leftovers from the Hollow at the bar is getting old, especially when there’s no one around to tell Boone I don’t like tomatoes.
Rugby off-season will be the death of me; it’s all low-intensity workouts and strength training. I could really use an outlet that involves tossing people around, but there are another couple of months until we get back on the field.
“He’s home, Reaper,” Boone says off the cuff.
"Excuse me." Kaia puts both hands on the end of the cart, stopping Boone so sharply that he groans and Sunday slides forward. “Ow,” he hisses at her, and Sunday starts laughing.
“What do you mean he’s home?” I inhale sharply, and the air stings.
“He got home last week,” Boone looks between all of us, his green eyes searching for forgiveness. “I didn’t realize he hadn’t come to see you.”
He doesn’t want to.
You sent him away.
“He’s probably just respecting my space. You know, Brighton.” I press my lips together, trying not to chew the inside of my mouth raw.
“Yeah, but…” Cosy says quietly, “You’d think.”
They all stare at me, and the longer they do, the hotter I get and the more uncomfortable I feel. “Okay, stop,” I snap at them, and they jump.
They all fall quiet, and Boone is the first to man up. “What do you want to do?” he asks.
“Curl up into a ball and die,” I throw my head back and pray for the fluorescent lighting to kill me. “Wait.” I look down at Sunday. “Did you know?”
“I had no idea he was home,” she says, “I’m just as surprised as you are.”
“Daisy hasn’t said anything,” I sigh, pushing my hands through my hair. “He hasn’t been working?”
“He got home Monday, said he had shit to take care of before he got back to it,” Boone explains. “He wouldn’t tell me anything else.”
“Good to know he’s still buttoned up,” I try to joke, but my bottom lip trembles.
“Oh, Reap.” Sunday pushes to her knees. “He’s an idiot, give him some time.”
“He’s been gone five months, Sunny…” I swallow the disappointment. “I think a point comes when a girl just gives up on the Nicholas Sparks movie ending.”
Cosy tosses her arm around my waist and presses her cheek to my shoulder. “Wanna go play DND and get sushi?” she asks.
“Can I come?” Boone interjects, and all three girls simultaneously deny him access to girls' night. “Yeah, fine, whatever. Make Boone drive around town, but don’t invite him to the fun stuff. You guys suck,” he groans, and Kaia pinches him, which starts them fighting, but the air returns to normal, and everyone starts shopping again.
I pull my phone out, staring at the lock screen.
Idiot.
I never changed it from the photo we took at WWE. Brighton’s got the biggest smile on his face, staring down at me, and every time I look at it, the butterflies stir in my chest. But today, an anvil sits there.
He’s been home for a week.
By the time I get home that night, I’m so sick of people waiting for me to explode that I barely greet Crosby as he pads to the open apartment door. He follows me down the hall and into the bedroom, taking his spot on the bed and waiting for me to join him.
“You’d come see me, right?” I flip the blankets back, and he moves up, putting his head on my chest. “If you didn’t see me for five months, would I be one of your first stops?” I ask him, pressing my fingers between his ears for a good scratch. “I mean, yeah, things ended rocky, but…”
Crosby lifts his head.
“Well, not that rocky,” I argue with the sound of silence. “Just like… a rough break.”
I reach over and pull out my phone, hitting play, knowing that the playlist was loaded and letting the sound of stupid pop music and its stupid, sad lyrics flood the quiet.
In the morning, my lunch is sitting beside Daisy’s, and I can hear Boone in the shower.
Usually, I’d wait to thank him, but I don’t need him asking me if I’m okay again, so I slip out before the water stops.
Today is going to be long. Even more so now that I know Brighton is within reach and doesn’t want to see me. I’m in the Bronco on the way to school when I get the text from the group chat.
Bones:
911. Meet at the field.
Sunny:
Seriously?
Killer:
Can it wait?
Bones:
911 literally means an emergency…
I sigh, messaging the principal that I have a family emergency, and turn myself around back toward the field to meet the girls. Only their cars are in the parking lot when I arrive, and I kill the engine, leaving my phone behind.
“This better be quick,” I yell as I stomp across the grass. It’s still that pretty pink color outside—the one that happens when the sun just starts to touch the clouds, and the field is fucking empty.
I fucking hate these girls.
I dig my boots into the grass and spin around in my dress.
I put it on this morning because it’s the only thing in my closet that brings me any joy right now.
It’s delicate and fun, with applique glitter stars, moons, and flowers.
It makes me feel like a witch, and it blows in the morning breeze.
But all that joy is gone, and now I’m just annoyed.
“Where the hell are you guys?” I holler, looking around to see if they’re on the benches or if the lights of the locker room are on.
“This is really fucking hilarious, you guys! Some of us have work!” Maybe I read the text wrong?
I pat myself down and curse myself for leaving my phone in the Bronco.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” I snap and turn to walk back to the parking lot.
“Are you arguing with yourself?” His voice is low, sending a shiver down my spine. “That’s a new low.”
“Don’t start,” I huff, trying to ignore the profound effect he has on me as I burn a hole in the side of the locker room building. “You’ll ruin the day.” I do my best to hide the shake in my voice.
“Hellcat,” he says, begging me to turn around.
“Go away,” I whisper, my eyes trained on the parking lot as I try to decide if I want to walk away. “This is a mean trick, and now I have to be mad at you and the girls.”
“It’s not mean,” he fights gently. “Don’t be mad at them. I asked for help.”
I drop my head, and silence fills the gaps between our breathing. I have a million questions I want to ask him, but I don’t know where to start, and all of them feel childish.
Most I know the answer to.
You told him to do something about it, and he did. You don’t get to complain now.
“Rhea,” he says, like he can read my mind, and at this point, he probably can. “You said that out loud,” he whispers.
I really need to get this inner monologue shit under control.
“It’s the truth,” I shrug.
“It is,” he agrees, “but you can complain about it.”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s a situation I created. I have to deal with what comes with that.”
“So life kicks you around, and you just keep your mouth shut about it, doesn’t sound very fair,” he says, his voice gets closer, and I know he’s coming toward me, but I can’t figure out how to make my feet move.
“Complaining has never once solved a problem,” I huff, picking at one of the silver stars.
“It’s not about solving the problem,” Brighton groans. “It’s about acknowledging the hurt.”
“Therapy brainwashed you,” I snort, because I can’t pinpoint what I’m feeling, and I’m a second away from crying. “I have no reason to be hurt,” I say. “Roommates help each other. You helped me when I needed it, and I helped you. It’s fine.”
“You’ve never once said it’s fine, and it’s meant that, Rhea Drake. Yell at me, tell me all the reasons you hate me, give me something to go on here.”
“I don’t hate you,” I respond. I probably couldn’t even if I tried. That’s the problem.
“So you just feel nothing at all? Completely disconnected?” he asks.
No, Brighton, my head is spinning, my hands are sweaty, my heart is racing, and I want to cry every time you open your mouth.
“We’re friends, Brighton. I’m glad you're home, but I have to get to work,” I say. He groans, a few choice swear words leave his lips, and I can picture the scowl on his handsome face.
“Will you stop for two seconds?” he asks, but I shake my head no and force my feet to start moving.
I can hear him thinking, trying to find an avenue that might help him keep talking to me, but he stops following me altogether. Good.
When the music starts, my brain doesn’t know what to do with itself.
You fucking asshole.
I turn around, taking him in, and try not to cry.
He feels sturdy again; the small man from the night I last saw him is gone, replaced with the man I’ve been missing so much.
His hair is shorter, but the stubborn strand still leans gently against his forehead, begging to be tugged.
And he’s wearing a suit, a fully tailored dark suit that I’ve never seen before, but it rises and falls with his nervous breathing in the most beautiful way.
His blue eyes are alive again, and it makes me exhale quietly.
"You've got to be kidding me," I hiss.
He looks me over, then extends his hand.