Chapter 8
Evie
The game . It hasn’t been twenty-four hours since Brandon managed to weasel his way back into my life, and he’s already flirting with me.
The game was our little spinoff of The Game.
The whole point of the game was to not think about the game.
If you did, you lost. But mine and Brandon’s version was different.
More intimate. If we thought about one another, we lost the game.
It started off innocently enough. I was twenty-two, and it was my wedding day.
I was in the powder room of the wedding chapel, putting the final touches on my bridal makeup look when Jamie and Brandon came in to visit for a few minutes.
Then Jamie stepped out to take a phone call, leaving me and Brandon alone.
As soon as the door closed behind Jamie, I started pacing. Brandon watched me curiously. “You okay there, Spitfire?”
I nodded frantically. “Yes. I think so.”
“You’re nervous,” he surmised, smirking. I flashed him a disgruntled look. “That’s normal.”
I scoffed.
“I’m serious. I’d be concerned if you weren’t having the pre-wedding jitters, Spitfire. Getting married is a big deal.”
“I think this goes beyond the jitters,” I said, walking to the window overlooking the rolling green cemetery next door.
It was a picture-perfect June Saturday—sunny and warm, but not too hot.
Fluffy cumulonimbus clouds dotted an otherwise clear blue sky.
Butterflies were dancing in the slight breeze. Birds were chirping.
It was a nice day for a white wedding.
But all of a sudden, I felt like an imposter in my own life, like I was playing the starring role but hadn’t practiced any of my lines.
I was only twenty-two, and I still had so much I wanted to do before settling down—like backpack across Europe and maybe go back to school to get my nursing degree.
Except Adam wanted something . . . different.
He wanted the nuclear-family life. He wanted me barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner from scratch and baking sourdough bread.
He wanted dinner on the table each night when he came home from managing our family’s home care business.
But perhaps most importantly, he wanted me to be a stay-at-home mom.
We talked about it. Knew it was what we both wanted for our future children.
Except the thing was . . . as much as I wanted that exact lifestyle at some point, I had to admit that I couldn’t imagine myself having children with him.
Suddenly, it felt like I was peeking over the edge of a steep cliff, and rather than feeling comforted by the fact that I could see what was waiting for me at the bottom, I was terrified out of my mind. I didn’t want to take that leap anymore. It felt all kinds of wrong.
“Goes beyond the jitters?” Brandon repeated, curious.
Wringing my hands, I faced him. “What if . . . what if I don’t want to?”
He hesitated. “Don’t want to . . . what? Get married?”
Hastily, I nodded. “What if I’m having second thoughts?”
His brows rose. “Are you?”
“I don’t know.” That was a lie. I’d been second guessing marrying Adam for weeks. Months. I started pacing again. My breathing became more and more shallow—to the point where I could see stars and it seemed like the walls were closing in on me.
I could hear Brandon calling my name, but I couldn’t snap out of my sudden panic. I was spiraling. Nothing made sense. I felt faint. Brandon grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me to face him. “Breathe, Genevieve. It’s alright.”
“I can’t,” I wheezed, realizing I’d made a dire mistake. “I can’t marry Adam. I don’t want to.”
Brandon rubbed my arms frantically, up and down, up and down. “It’s okay. Breathe.”
“What’s happening?” I gasped, clutching my throat. It felt tight, too tight, and I couldn’t pull in any air. “I can’t breathe!”
“You’re having a panic attack, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling me closer.
“It’s okay. Breathe with me.” He walked me through my first panic attack, and, honestly, the combination of his gentle, soothing voice and the inviting smell of his musky cologne did more to calm me than the breathing exercise he taught me.
When I could finally think straight again, I slumped into his arms. “What am I going to do?”
Brandon hugged me tight, and in his arms, I felt at peace for the first time in a long time.
It was strange. I’d known Brandon all my life, but we didn’t do affection like that.
As my brother’s best friend, he would sooner dunk my head in the toilet or give me a blood-drawing noogie before he would ever be caught dead hugging me.
He had always been like another big brother to me.
But did that stop me from crushing on him? No.
And did I enjoy that hug much more than a betrothed woman should have? Absolutely.
“What should I do?” I muttered into his shoulder.
Brandon sighed and pulled back. I tried not to show my disappointment. “I don’t know. I’m not the best person to ask for advice when it comes to things like this.”
I snort. “Right. Best not to get marital advice from an unmarried rake.”
He laughed, his eyes twinkling. “No. Best not.” He looked so handsome in his suit and tie, with his dark hair parted neatly to the side. I’d always had a crush on him, yes, but it also felt like I was seeing him for the very first time. “Do you love him?”
“Of course.” Because I did. Adam and I were born three days apart, so we were inseparable as children. He was my best friend from the very beginning, and there was a running joke between our family and friends that we would get married one day. Not to mention the whole Adam and Eve thing . . .
“But?” Brandon pressed incredulously, his brows sitting high on his forehead.
“But . . . I don’t think I love him like a woman should love her husband,” I confessed, my heart racing. The only man I had ever wanted in that way—like, in the biblical sense—had been standing right in front of me.
Brandon pursed his lips and glanced at the door, then down at his watch. Finally, those piercing eyes met my gaze again. “Evie . . . have you discussed this with Adam before?”
“No. Never.”
Brandon sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.” He cleared his throat, then reached out and squeezed my arm. I felt the warmth of that affectionate gesture right down to the tips of my toes. “But if you’re having second thoughts, now’s your chance.”
“My chance?” I squeaked.
“To back out,” he murmured, his expression remorseful.
“I don’t know if I can,” I whispered, my eyes watering. “Everyone is down there, waiting . . .”
“Why are you marrying Adam, Evie?” he asked gently, his voice compassionate, like my old therapist’s. “Have you ever asked yourself that before?”
I took a slow, deep breath, considering his question.
Then I confessed everything, explaining that I didn’t want to hurt Adam by declining his proposal.
That, and I didn’t want to disappoint our families, who had been expecting this for years.
Brandon listened quietly, acting the part of the wise, intelligent psychiatrist he no doubt is, allowing me to get everything off my chest. All he needed was a white lab coat and a set of bifocals to complete the image.
When I finally took a breath, he asked me if I thought about Adam while we weren’t together. Or if I wanted to spend quality time with him. And if I enjoyed being intimate with him.
Blushing, I answered no on all counts. Because it was the truth. The shameful, shocking, depressing truth. I didn’t love my fiancé. At least, not romantically.
“Who do you think about?” I blurted without thinking. “Being intimate with, I mean?” Brandon had always been a serial dater and had never had a serious long-term relationship that I could ever recall, so I was curious.
Brandon’s mouth popped open, then snapped closed quickly, his alabaster skin warming as he looked to the door—almost like he couldn’t believe the turn our conversation had taken and wanted to run from the room.
Me and my stupid big mouth. I’ve never had much of a filter.
Mortified, I tried to laugh the question off as a joke. “Kidding.”
He laughed, too, though it sounded shaky and apprehensive.
“Sure you were, Spitfire,” he said with a wink, regaining his usual composure.
My eyes widened. Was he . . . flirting with me?
“Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about me before.
” Then he chuffed my chin, his eyes warm with teasing affection. “I know all about your little crush.”
That was the beginning of the game. From that point forward, he’d tease me by asking me if I’d thought about him since the last time I’d seen or spoken to him. If I had, I lost the game.
If Brandon thinks he can waltz back into my life, expecting a repeat of what happened between us, he has another thing coming. I may not be very good at taking care of myself, but I have more self-respect than he seems to think I do.
A knock on my door startles me, and one of my old diaries I’m rereading falls onto the floor. “Yeah?” I call, grimacing as the journal lands on its spine halfway beneath the bed.
“Evie, honey,” Grandma hollers. “I’m running to the grocery store. Did you need anything?”
Oh, great heavens. I know Grandma loves me to pieces, but I think she’s secretly pleased that I’m bedbound. She wants to take care of me for once, rather than the other way around. I know it’s a pride thing. Still, she shouldn’t be driving.
“Um . . . I’m okay. Why don’t I have Brandon do that?” I hate that Brandon is the first person to come to mind for help, but I can’t ask Dad or Francine. Jamie is always working overtime, and Rebecka is eight months pregnant. Dana is probably out shopping since it’s Black Friday.
I also looked at Grandma’s budget before calling the agency, and it wasn’t looking great. She doesn’t have money to spare, so we can’t hire someone for our grocery runs. One of the many reasons I moved in with her was to pad her income with a little bit of rental money.
“Nonsense. I can go to the grocery store, Evie.” Her scathing tone makes me sigh.
“Okay. In that case . . .” I look down at my body. “Maybe some Icy Hot? And . . .” I glance around the room I’ll be stuck in for the next week. “Lots of junk food.” Might as well live it up while I’m bedbound.
“Coming right up.”
I slide my phone out from beneath my sheets and open the text conversation with Brandon that I haven’t looked at in years.
My thumb hovers over the last desperate-sounding message I sent him, attempting to recapture his attention after he’d lost interest in me.
What are you up to this evening? I made us some dinner, if you’re hungry.
He never replied.
Hey, I draft, feeling anxious. Every new thread of communication between us feels like I’m sealing my fate for a broken heart. Grandma is going to the grocery store . . . I don’t think she should be driving. Maybe you could miraculously appear in the driveway and offer to take her?
I hope he sees the message before it’s too late.
As if he’s right by his phone, he responds right away. Leaving now.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I relax into the covers. This is yet another painful reminder that Brandon isn’t all that bad. In fact, he’s mostly wonderful.
And that’s precisely why I must keep my distance.