Chapter 26
Brandon
It’s almost seven thirty, but Evie hasn’t been answering her phone all morning. I call Maggie’s landline, and she doesn’t pick up either. Worried now, I get out of the car and knock on the front door. After a minute of silence, I hear shuffling on the other side.
Maggie opens it. “Brandon?” She glances at her watch.
“Morning, Maggie. Sorry to disturb you like this.” I hold up my phone. “But Evie isn’t answering her phone. Is everything okay?”
“Oh, honey, I thought she decided to take the day off. She’s still in bed.” She steps aside and gestures for me to come in out of the cold. I hurry into the house, my worried heart beating hard in my chest. “I’ll check on her.”
Wiping my shoes on the rug, I wait in the entryway, reeling from the memory of last night. Somehow, I feel both heavier and lighter as I recall rocking Evie in my arms, telling her the story of the Prodigal Son to keep her mind occupied until she fell asleep.
Even after she nodded off, I held on to her for hours, praying over her until my eyelids drooped under the weight of my exhaustion. I didn’t crawl into my own bed until well after midnight, unwilling to leave her even a second sooner than necessary—not after she confessed how it hurts when I leave.
That revelation broke my heart.
I was reluctant to tuck her into bed after that, to leave her without saying goodbye. But I didn’t want to wake her, either.
Hopefully she won’t hold it against me.
“Oh, crap,” Evie shouts from down the hall. “Grandma! Why didn’t you wake me?”
I chuckle. Even from this distance, she sounds stuffed up.
Evie comes barreling down the hall in her pajamas. “Ugh, I’m so sorry! I slept through my alarm. Just give me five minutes, and—”
“Evie. Please. Take the day off if you’re not feeling well. Gladys and I will manage.”
“No,” she snaps, then pauses, her eyes going wide as saucers.
She doubles over as a loud, wet sneeze rocks her frame.
She goes stock-still, cringing and grasping at her lower back for a moment.
I step toward her involuntarily, but she straightens and collects herself.
“I’m coming to work, Brandon. This is why you hired me, remember?
I’m reliable—unlike Pet-Bereavement Piper. ”
I laugh at the nickname she’s given my former assistant. “You’re unwell. Please, stay home and get some rest.”
She shakes her head, stubborn as ever. “No. Wait here.”
I should probably put my foot down. But I’ve gotten too used to having her around the office, and I can’t fathom not seeing her all day long. If she takes today off, I won’t see her again until the New Year. That’s far too long—especially after last night’s breakthrough.
Ten minutes later, I’m returning to the car from Bill’s with her daily treats.
“Feeling any better?” I ask as I hand her the coffee and pastry bag.
Normally, her olive-toned skin makes her look sun-kissed and good enough to eat.
But her bare complexion is sallow-looking this morning—with the exception of her bright red nose.
She sniffles. “I’ve been better.”
“I told you to take the day off if you needed it,” I chastise. Thoughtlessly, I brush the curtain of her long silky hair behind her shoulder. She shifts away from me, and my stomach shrinks. “It’s not too late. I can take you back.”
“I’m fine, Brandon.”
I eye the way she’s death gripping the tissue in her right hand. “You don’t look fine.”
“Yeah, well. I’ve got cold medicine and caffeine on tap.
” She sips on her latte, groaning as the frothy liquid graces her lips.
When she pulls the cup away from her mouth, a light layer of foam clings to her top lip.
Entranced, I watch as she sweeps it away with a flick of her tongue.
Her long dark eyelashes flutter with delight.
“Ugh. It’s perfect, per usual. Thank you, Brandon. ”
“Anytime,” I rasp, glancing away.
I’ll be the first to admit that last night was torture. I haven’t felt temptation like that in a long time.
She notices the huskiness in my voice. “You’re not coming down with this, too, are you?”
No. The only thing that’s giving me a fever is you.
“Hopefully not,” I say, noticing the way she shifts around, trying to get comfortable.
“So . . . I forgot to mention that I spoke with my friend, Amelia, last night—she’s a neurologist at the university.
She can get you in to see her as soon as next month.
” Evie is suspiciously quiet, so I look over at her.
“Remember? How we talked about making a doctor’s appointment for your back? ”
“I remember.” Her hands tighten around the cup. “You said she’s a friend?”
I pretend not to notice the tremor in her voice. “Yes. I’ve known her and her husband since med school,” I tack on casually, relaxing when the tension in her shoulders dissipates at the mention of her husband. “She’ll probably order an MRI.”
“Great,” she says flatly.
“What?” I question, glancing over at her as I pull into the parking lot.
She unbuckles her seatbelt and grabs her bag. “Nothing.”
“What is it?” Still, she says nothing, and it makes me wonder if last night was a fluke. If she’s iced me out again. Only once we’ve entered the practice and are approaching the front desk do I try again. “Evie?”
She sighs. “Nothing, it’s just that MRIs sound terrifying,” she admits, pulling her diary from her bag.
She lays it on the desk and grabs a pen as she sits down.
I say nothing. Ever since I caught her journaling last week, she hasn’t tried to hide that she writes and scrolls through Pinterest during her downtime.
And I’m glad. It means she’s beginning to relax around me again. To trust me.
Last night is proof.
“I’ll be right there with you, if you want.”
She nods, and it sends a ripple of pleasant surprise through me, knowing she wants me there. I hesitate, then step forward and peer over her shoulder as she poises her pen. “What are you writing about today?” I wonder, too curious not to ask.
“It’s a diary, Brandon. That’s for me to know and you to not.”
“How long have you been journaling like this? You do it a lot.”
She hesitates, then blushes. “A while.”
“A while?”
“Since . . .” She shrugs and leans back, toeing the chair back and forth. “Since I was a teenager.”
My brows shoot up. “And how often do you write?”
“Every day, nearly.” She focuses on the way she’s twisting her pen around in her fingers. “It helps me process my thoughts and emotions.”
“Every day since you were a teenager?” I clarify, gobsmacked. She must have filled up hundreds of journals by now. I still need to do something about the one sitting in my car . . .
“For the most part. I’ve written pretty much every day since my stay in that psychiatric hospital”—her blush returns as she peeks up at me through her dark lashes—“when you and Dana brought me that journal—and Frederick. Remember?”
My mind is suddenly twenty miles away. All I can see is a thirteen-year-old Evie, sitting in the common room of the children’s psychiatric hospital, both of her wrists bandaged after a self-harm episode gone wrong.
The memory of her, pale and small, staring absently at a silent television while Dana tried to hold a conversation with her—it’s a haunting image.
I still don’t know whether she tried to take her life or not.
“Brandon?”
“Yes,” I whisper, coming back around. “I remember.”
“That was my first journal,” she says. “You said I might enjoy writing—that it could be a good way for me to process things that feel heavy. And it was.” She shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve been journaling ever since.”
My body feels heavy, so I sit down on the desk. I have no recollection of that conversation, but it sounds like something I might have suggested. I had no idea I was the reason she started writing. And so religiously, by the sounds of it. I’m . . . shocked. And humbled. And a little heartbroken.
It’s only beginning to dawn on me just how important I was to Evie.
A fresh wave of guilt threatens to crush me under its unbearable weight. No wonder Evie has been so reluctant to let me back in. I didn’t just break her heart when I walked away from her—I broke her spirit.
“I mean, I wrote before then, too,” she rushes to add, concerned by my sudden silence. “Just not as much. And not about my feelings.”
That catches my attention. “What did you write about then?”
She shrugs and looks down. “Just little stories. Mostly on printer paper or flashcards—scraps of paper I could easily destroy or hide. I usually ripped them up and flushed them down the toilet.”
My chin jerks back. “What? Why would you do that?”
She purses her lips like she’s afraid she’s shared too much.
But to my great surprise and delight, she keeps talking.
“I didn’t write ‘appropriate’ things for someone my age.
At least, not according to Francine.” A million questions spring to mind, and she must be able to tell because she laughs.
“It was nothing crazy,” she adds quickly.
“Just silly poems. Sometimes love stories.” Her eyes flick in my direction, then dart away again.
“Why would Francine consider that inappropriate?”
Another blush spreads up her neck, and this one looks more like a rash. “You wouldn’t get it.”
My brows lift. I’m a child and adolescent psychiatrist. There’s very little I haven’t seen or heard. “Try me.”
She hesitates, and I wait, perched on the edge of my seat as her mouth pops open and closed like she’s debating whether she wants to elaborate.
The phone rings, and we both jump.
She grabs it like it’s a life line. “Wright and West Psychiatry, Evie speaking. How may I help you?”
She waves me off, covering her free ear as she turns away. After a moment, I relent and head back to my office. But I’m still thinking about all the cryptic things she’s said as I sit down at my desk and start up my computer.
I almost forgot that this is what it’s like when Evie confides in me—the total fascination I feel. Her mind is a wild, wonderful place, and every time she shares something new, I’m left wanting to know more than she’s willing to share.
It’s maddening.
Intoxicating.
Addicting.
Just like her.