Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
NAOMI
D ad’s chest rises and falls, his mask cracking, the anger shifting into something raw. “You think it was easy?” His voice is hoarse, unsteady. “Watching your mother unravel? Knowing what she did and having to live with it? You think I didn’t want to tell you? To tell all of you? But how do you do that? How do you look your children in the eye and say—” He grips the table like it’s the only thing holding him up. “I never meant for any of this to happen. No one was supposed to die.”
“But they did.” Anne’s voice is steady, though her hand trembles against my arm. “And we’re the ones who paid for it. All of us.”
“I’m sorry.” Dad’s whisper barely carries across the table. “I’m so sorry.”
“I suggest we go now, love,” Landon says.
Anne’s fingers curl around my wrist. “Yes.”
She guides me toward the door while Brandon’s hand stays steady on my back.
“Wait.” Dad stumbles after us. “Please. Don’t leave like this.”
I pause but don’t turn around. Can’t look at him.
“Let me explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” Anne says. “You had years to explain. Decades. I’m only here because of Naomi and Mykel.”
Mykel appears at my other side. “I’ll walk you guys out.”
The silverware gleams under the chandelier. The wine bottle, half-full. The soup, untouched.
For the first time, my father looks small.
I turn, and we move as a unit, leaving him behind.
The night air hits my face, and I gulp it down. “I need—I can’t?—”
“Breathe.” Brandon’s arm wraps around my waist, supporting more of my weight as my knees threaten to give out. “Just breathe.”
Anne’s hand finds mine, squeezing tight. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”
“Jesus Christ,” Mykel says. “This is… fuck.”
“Eloquent as always, little brother,” Anne says.
The truth is out. After all these years, it’s finally out. And somehow, impossibly, Anne doesn’t hate me.
“Take her home,” Anne tells Brandon. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Can’t we talk now?” I hold onto her hand.
“I—” Her eyes flick to Brandon before meeting me again. “Sure.”
“Your place?” I ask Brandon.
He nods, keys jingling. “I’ve got that bottle of?—”
“The good stuff?” Mykel perks up.
“The expensive stuff you’re not touching.” Brandon unlocks his car.
“Rude.” Mykel clutches his chest. “After the trauma we just experienced?”
Anne’s laugh turns real this time. “You’re such a drama queen.”
“Says the one who married an ice block.” Mykel winks at Landon, whose eyes narrow in response. “And a scary one.” He shudders, turning toward Brandon’s SUV. “Shotgun!”
The living room feels too small for all this baggage.
Mykel sprawls on the floor, tie loose and jacket discarded, his restless fingers tapping against the hardwood. Anne sits on the couch like she might bolt any second, shoulders rigid, while Landon is beside her, arm slung around her waist, his thumb making small circles against her hip.
I’m on my second—no, third—glass of whatever expensive chocolate-tasting whiskey Brandon opened up, sitting between his legs on the couch. The alcohol burns a path down my throat before dulling everything to a manageable buzz.
“So.” Mykel spreads his arms wide. “Do we spin the bottle and trauma dump, or what?”
Anne gives him a pointed look. “Mykel.”
“What? We’re all thinking it. Our mother killed your mother. That’s, like, three soap operas worth of fucked up.”
“It wasn’t that simple.” Anne’s words are so quiet I almost miss them, but they land like a stone in still water.
“What do you mean?” I straighten, something in her tone setting off alarm bells.
Landon entwines his fingers with Anne’s. She gives him a slight nod before continuing. “I’ve had years to process this since Dad told me. I was angry for a long time. At Lydia, at Dad for covering it up, at the whole situation.”
“Why would he cover it up?” Mykel sits up fully, all traces of humor gone.
“To keep our family together,” Anne says. “He didn’t want more children growing up without a parent.”
The bourbon turns to acid in my stomach. “And you just… accepted that?”
“What was I supposed to do?” Anne meets my eyes. “Tear apart what was left of our family? Make you and Mykel suffer more? What good would that have done?”
Brandon’s arms tighten around me, and I press into his warmth. Anne suffered for all of us.
“But why? Why did mom do it?” Mykel asks. “I never saw her fight with Clara.”
“She was jealous.” Anne’s voice is quiet but firm. “Of my mother.”
Mykel’s brow furrows. “What?”
“Clara still lived with us. Even after the divorce,” I explain, the words bitter on my tongue. “And we… we all loved her. We’d spend afternoons with Clara, baking cookies, doing art projects.”
“I remember that.” Mykel’s face softens with recognition. “She taught me how to draw birds. And butterflies, though I never got those right.”
“Lydia couldn’t stand it,” Anne continues, her fingers tight around Landon’s. “That Clara was still part of our lives. That she couldn’t replace her, no matter how hard she tried.”
“All because of jealousy?” Mykel asks.
“Sometimes that’s all it takes,” I say, remembering the desperate look in my mother’s eyes that night in the garage. “To make someone do something unforgivable.”
“So Dad just…” Mykel shakes his head. “Let her get away with it? For family harmony?”
“He made his choice,” Anne says firmly. “I’ve made mine too. I’ve chosen to move forward.”
The bourbon threatens to come back up. I press a hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to run to the bathroom.
“Breathe,” Brandon whispers against my ear.
“If I had said something?—”
“You were a child caught in something much bigger than yourself,” Landon cuts in, his calm voice slicing through my spiral. “You couldn’t have understood what Lydia was doing.”
“We need—” I swallow hard, trying to steady my voice. “I need to process this.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Mykel slumps back onto the floor, running his hands through his hair. “I mean, fuck. Our whole lives have been…”
“A lie?” I finish for him.
“Not everything,” Anne’s voice is soft but firm. “The love was real. Even Lydia’s, in her own way.”
“She tried to tell me,” I say. “At the end. She wanted…”
“She called me that night, too. She wanted forgiveness,” Anne says. “From both of us.”
But she never said she was sorry.
“So what now?” Mykel asks, looking between Anne and me. “We just… pretend we don’t know any of this?”
“We let it go,” Anne states, her tone leaving no room for argument. “For our own peace.”
I turn in Brandon’s arms, needing to see his face.
His eyes meet mine, dark and intense. “Together,” he says quietly, just for me. “Whatever comes next.”
“Jesus.” Mykel drains his glass.
After Anne and Landon leave, Mykel lingers by the door, Madison waiting outside.
“You know we can’t just let this go, right?” he asks.
I wrap my arms around my middle, a physical barrier against more pain. “I carried this for so long. I don’t want it anymore.”
“But there has to be more to this story,” Mykel insists, his eyes flashing with that familiar stubborn glint that reminds me so much of our father. “Dad wouldn’t just cover up murder for no reason.”
“I know you love him, but sometimes that makes us blind to the reality. Mom saw Clara as a threat, and Dad didn’t want to break up our family.”
Mykel’s face softens. “I just want the truth, Nay. Don’t you?”
“The truth is that our mother killed Anne’s mother. The truth is I saw her do it and said nothing. The truth is that Anne knew and still treated me like a sister,” I say. “I don’t know what more truth I can handle right now.”
“I’m sorry.” Mykel crushes me against his chest. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve seen it.”
“You couldn’t have known.” I lean into it. “Love you, idiot.”
“Love you too, dummy.” He withdraws to look at me. “Get some rest.”
I nod.
After Mykel leaves, Brandon’s apartment falls into a heavy silence.
“You okay?” Brandon asks.
“No,” I answer honestly. “I don’t think I’ve been okay since I was eight years old.”
He guides me back to the couch, and I collapse into his arms, suddenly exhausted.
“Talk to me.” His fingers card through my hair. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“I’ve been carrying this for so long,” I whisper. “And now that it’s out, I don’t know who I am without it.”
“You’re Naomi. The same brilliant, stubborn woman you’ve always been.”
“That doesn’t change—Anne knew and still…” I can’t finish the thought.
“She made her choice,” Brandon says. “Just like you did when you were eight.”
“But I?—”
“You were a child.” His voice is firm. “A child who loved her mother. Who was scared.”
“I don’t deserve any of this. Not Anne’s forgiveness. Not your?—”
Brandon’s lips find mine, silencing the self-condemnation before it can fully form. The kiss is different from our usual heated exchange. It’s gentle, almost reverent, and my body melts into it, seeking the comfort of his warmth.
The taste of bourbon lingers on his tongue, mixing with the salt of tears I didn’t realize I was shedding. His other hand moves to my lower back, steadying me as I shift closer, the heat of his palm burning through the thin fabric of my blouse.
I can forget. Here, in his arms, I’m just me. Not the girl who kept silent about murder, not the woman fighting her demons with every meal.
Just Naomi.
He breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away, his forehead resting against mine. “You don’t get to decide what you deserve. Not anymore.” His thumb brushes my cheek, catching another tear. “You’re shaking.”
“Am I?” I hadn’t noticed, but he’s right. Fine tremors run through my body, aftermath of too much emotion and not enough food. “I can’t go back there.”
“To the house?”
“To work.” My fingers twist in his shirt. “I can’t—I can’t face him every day.”
“I can talk to Elijah. He’s always looking for?—”
“No. I need… I need time to figure out what I want. Who I am without all this.”
“Okay.” His voice is soft, understanding. “What’s your plan?”
“I have three weeks of vacation saved up.” I straighten, some of the fog clearing from my head. No more dreading morning meetings with my father, no more reports he doesn’t bother to read, no more cinnamon buns in the break room. “I’ll take that and concentrate on our restaurant?”
“Is that what you want?”
“I want to do this with you.” The certainty in my voice surprises even me. I’m not calculating risks or potential failures. “But that job… God, I’ve spent years trying to prove myself there, and for what? For him? For her? I don’t have everything planned out. And that should terrify me, but…”
“But?”
“But it feels like breathing.” I meet his eyes. “Is that crazy? After all that, I feel like I can finally breathe?”
“No.” His smile is gentle. “That’s freedom.”
Freedom. I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me.
“Cupcake?”
“Mh?”
“I’m proud of you.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
I curl deeper into his embrace, letting his steady heartbeat anchor me. The bourbon buzz has faded, leaving behind an odd clarity, like emerging from murky water into sharp sunlight.
“Stay tonight?” Brandon’s words rumble through his chest.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t need to ask. “But I need to grab some things from my place first.”
“Tomorrow.” His arms tighten. “Just… stay here now.”
The need in his voice matches something in my chest, this desperate desire to hold onto what feels real and solid when everything else has turned to smoke and shadows.
“Okay.” I tilt my head up, studying his face, the tension around his eyes, and the slight downturn of his mouth. “You’re worried.”
“Of course, I’m fu—” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. “Sorry. I just… I need you close right now.”
“I’m here.” I press my palm to his chest, feeling his heart race beneath my touch. “Not going anywhere.”
His hand covers mine, pressing it harder against his chest. “Promise?”
“Promise.” The word comes easily, naturally. Like breathing—the same breathing I’ve been denying myself for twenty-one years under the weight of guilt and secrets. I’ve been holding my breath since I was eight years old, and somehow, here with him, I’m finally exhaling. “Brandon?”
“Yeah?”
“Take it away.”
He captures my lips again. All heat and urgency as he digs his fingers into my hips hard enough to bruise. The pain grounds me. Welcomed. Keeping me from floating away on the tide of revelations, murder, and family secrets. His other hand tangles in my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp against his mouth.
I need this, need him to overwhelm my senses. So that there is no space for anything but the heat of his skin against mine, the taste of bourbon on his tongue, and the way his chest rumbles when I scrape my nails down his back.
I need him to take control. To take it away.
He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point. My head falls back, giving him better access.
“Tell me what you need.”
My body already answers before my lips can. “You.”
It’s not just about sex. We both know that. It’s about trust and surrender, about letting someone else carry the weight for a while.
His lips curve into that familiar smirk as he stands, lifting me with him. “Bedroom. Now.”
His mouth never leaves my skin, trailing fire down my neck as he kicks the door shut behind us. The room is dark except for city lights filtering through the window, casting shadows across his face when he sets me on the edge of the bed.
“Strip.” The word drags from his lips, rough, dark, deliberate.
A command that promises relief from thinking.
My fingers shake as I unbutton my blouse, each button a small surrender, letting it fall to the floor, followed by my bra. He watches, his eyes dark with hunger, as I stand to shimmy out of my skirt and underwear. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms, but it’s his gaze that makes me shiver.
“Good girl.” He steps closer. “On your knees.”
I sink down, the carpet rough against my bare skin. His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. The tenderness from earlier is gone, replaced by something darker, more primal.
“Color?”
The word comes out breathless. “Green.”
“Tell me if that changes.”
I nod, already feeling lighter as control slips from my grasp. Here, I just have to follow his lead. Here, I don’t have to carry the weight of decisions made two decades ago. The irony isn’t lost on me—that surrendering control to him gives me the freedom I’ve been denying myself all these years.
Brandon’s other hand works his belt loose, the leather sliding free with a soft hiss, anticipation coiling low in my belly.
“Open.” His voice is pure command.
I part my lips, letting him guide my head forward.
There’s only this moment, only him.
Only us.
Only the salty taste of pre-cum coating the tip of his cock.