Chapter 19 – Beau
BEAU
I t takes three days of incessant texts for Brinley to finally agree to meet me.
I thought she would invite me back to her place, but instead, she suggested the St. Regis Hotel.
We’ve met up here a few times before, enough that it feels like part of the fabric of our relationship.
It’s a nice hotel, but far away from our usual haunts that we know we’ll be safe.
Safe from the guys, safe from cameras, safe from everyone except each other.
I made sure to arrive early, even calling ahead to request an early check-in.
I ordered all her favorite items off the menu.
I doubt either of us will have much of an appetite once this conversation starts, but it’s a peace offering.
A sign that whatever happens in this room, I still want the best for her.
I also ordered a good bottle of red. That I’ve already opened and downed a glass of. I need all the courage I can get.
I spent the past two hours pacing, trying to figure out what I’m going to say. I’ve got nothing. The truth is ugly enough that no heartfelt speeches are going to make it any better. Since I don’t have any better ideas, I’m just going to have to wing it.
At exactly four o’clock, a light knock sounds on the door.
I open it and there she is, her chin high and proud, her shoulders back.
She’s wearing her baggiest jeans with a slouchy cardigan.
It’s an armor of sorts, the kind that makes her invisible, the kind that says she didn’t dress up for me.
She doesn’t care if I like how she looks, even though of course I fucking do.
I know the curves Brinley hides under her clothes, and the more oversized her clothes are, the more I want to rip them off her.
If it were any other day, that’s exactly what I’d be doing.
“Hi,” I say dumbly in greeting. I move back, giving Brinley space to walk through the doorway. The clink of the door shutting behind her seems to echo in the quiet hotel.
“Nice room,” she says.
“Uh, yeah.” The room is beautiful, with the clean white bedding and the dark blue walls. Room service sent a small vase with a rose up on the tray. Nothing feels welcoming or comfortable, though. It feels like a stage set for something neither of us wants to perform.
I have no idea what to do with my hands, so I shove them in my pockets. Why does every part of this have to be so awkward?
“You’ve been avoiding my texts,” I say.
Brinley shifts her weight. “Yeah, well. You can’t exactly drop an I need to talk and expect me to be thrilled.”
I let out a long breath. Obviously, she thinks this is about Italy, about me telling her I love her.
I can tell from the way she’s gnawing on her lower lip that she’s bracing herself, either for me to take it back or push her to answer.
I can practically see her rehearsing responses behind her eyes.
I might as well put her out of her misery.
“This isn’t about Italy.”
That throws her. Her mouth hangs slack as confusion replaces the script she’d prepared. “Then what?”
I meet her eyes. “I know you’re Peppermint.”
Brinley goes still. The deep, bone-level freeze of someone whose worst fear just walked into the room. For a second, I’m afraid she’ll forget to breathe.
Then the mask shifts back into place. Brinley laughs lightly. “Peppermint? The Toronto Tea blogger? Why would you think?—”
“Don’t. You don’t have to do that. I know, Brin.” I sound exhausted because I am. I’m tired from carrying this secret too long—from my friends, from Brinley. I don’t have the energy to go through the charade of convincing her.
Her eyes search my face, but it doesn’t take long for her to see the truth.
Her feeble mask crumbles away, leaving us exposed.
All the lies we told, the lies we thought could protect us, they’re gone now.
We read each other well enough that deceit would be a waste of time.
Brinley’s cheeks flush with rage, her shoulders square and determined.
“How long have you known?” she asks. Every word trembles, dripping with bitterness.
“For a while,” I admit.
“How long? Exactly?” she says again, like the answer might change.
“A while.”
She winces, her expression so betrayed I might have slapped her. I watch as she does the mental math. “Did you know at Cat’s wedding?”
I nod. I hadn’t been completely sure back then, but the only thing standing in my way was my own denial.
“So , you knew in Italy?” Tears brighten her eyes. “You seriously held me, slept with me, told me you loved me, and the whole time you kept this from me?”
“I did.” I could fight with her, tell her that she kept a bigger secret for me from far longer. Again, I don’t have the energy. Any anger I carried about her Toronto Tea columns dissipated long ago. By the time I acknowledged the truth, I loved her too much to resent her for it.
“Why?” she blurts out. “Why keep it a secret? Why not tell me, or Luke? Why didn’t you just break up with me the second you found out?”
“I didn’t tell Luke because…well, because it wouldn’t go well. I didn’t tell you because I understand why you did it.”
The room goes quiet. Brinley gapes at me, her eyes dark portals of hurt behind her thick glasses. She doesn’t say anything, so I just word vomit it out. The worst part of our relationship, the worst thing I ever did.
Brinley and I have rules, like Luke can’t know and don’t say I love you. I might as well break the most important rule of all—don’t talk about that night. Don’t reopen that wound. Don’t acknowledge that it’s real.
So I say the thing I’m not allowed to say.
“You did it because of the Never Have I Ever game.” Brinley’s eyes flash with fury, but I don’t let it stop me. “Because of what happened after, when Luke read your diary out loud and the guys laughed at you. When they humiliated you. That’s why you did it. That’s why you created Peppermint.”
Brinley takes a long inhale, then exhales. She’s counting, I realize. Carefully taking slow breaths to keep herself from panicking, and my heart swells. I wish there was a way to make this easier, and I hate that there’s not.
“I don’t blame you, Brinley,” I say softly. “You wrote about us because it was the only way to take control of the narrative. To use your words to humiliate us, the way we did to you. We deserved it. I can’t imagine how you must have felt, and what you needed to do to heal that hurt.
Brinley’s expression shifts from anger to something rawer. She looks like an injured animal, waiting for the final blow.
“Don’t.” Her voice sounds different now. Younger. “Don’t act like you understand. You were there . You saw it.”
As I look at her, I see that fourteen-year-old girl. The one with the big, bright eyes, who lingered at the edge of the room, simultaneously hoping nobody would see her and that anyone would acknowledge her. The dreamy, sweet girl Brinley was before we made her turn prickly and suspicious.
“I know I was there, but it wasn’t what you thought.” I swallow around the lump in my throat. “I didn’t know their plan, and when I found out, I tried to stop it?—”
“Shut up!” she snaps, holding up her hand. “I don’t want to fucking hear it. Whatever you were going to say about that night, I can’t hear it right now. Maybe not ever.”
“But I?—”
“If you say another word right now, I will never speak to you again.” She’s played her last card. She’s dangling the one thing I need, and the one thing I can’t survive—losing her. She’s not bluffing. The pain runs deep enough that she would rather leave me than be reminded of it.
I shut my mouth and just gaze at her beautiful face, willing her to understand how much I regret it all.
How much I wish I could undo that shitty game.
Every inch of space between us feels like a rusty nail jabbed into my skin.
I want to pull her into my arms and hold her so tight, she can’t doubt that I’ll be there for her.
She turns away.
I don’t stop her as she walks out of the hotel room, and maybe, out of my life. I just stand there in the hotel room surrounded by food she didn’t eat and wine she didn’t drink, and sit with the reality that I’ve spent five years trying to make up for one night, and I’m still failing.