Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Scarlett
Scarlett
I’m sitting on my bed with a bag of Reese’s Pieces, watching an old Crushers game—the first game where Brendan was the assistant coach.
When I returned to the room tonight, there was a surprise blanket on my bed, a luxuriously soft one with a chunky, knit pattern, and snacks in our kitchenette—sweet and salty popcorn, Reese’s Pieces, and a few other personal favorites.
The Marco family didn’t put these here. These are from Brendan.
It’s been so long since someone took care of me that I almost don’t know what to do with it.
Onscreen, Brendan stands at the bench in his game-day suit, stoic and focused, exactly the kind of calm I need tonight.
Dad and Mom called earlier with news they’d been sitting on for a few days, not wanting to worry me. Dad’s cough turned into a bad case of bronchitis, his chest rattling like loose change in a tin can. Mom said not to worry and to enjoy the wedding, but I could hear him struggling to breathe.
After the call, I spent the next hour scrolling through pictures of happier, healthier times, until I turned on the game.
There’s a knock on the door, and I drag my sleeve across my wet cheek.
“Who is it?” I ask, praying it’s not one of the Marco women. I’m not in the mood for small talk. Not when I’m one picture away from ugly crying into my Reese’s Pieces.
“It’s me.” Brendan pauses. “Can I come in?”
His voice is tentative, and I smile to myself. After telling him I wanted roommate rules, he’s knocked every time.
“Yes.” I turn off the Crushers game and hide my phone just as Brendan opens the door.
He’s changed into black joggers and a Crushers hoodie, his cap on backwards, and something about seeing him like this—relaxed and off duty, just like high school—does more damage to my heart than his game-day suit.
“Hey, Scarlett.” Brendan shoots me a boyish grin. “How was your—” His smile drops. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, but the wobble in my voice betrays me.
His brow furrows. “You’ve been crying.”
“No, I’m just…”
“Scarlett,” he interrupts, “you look like a raccoon.”
I immediately scrub at the mascara under my eyes. “Well, maybe I went swimming.”
“As hard as it was to get you in the pool, I doubt that.” He strides over to the bed. “Tell me what happened.”
I can tell he’s not going to let this go. “Dad called. He has bronchitis, which is not great.”
Brendan studies me. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know. That’s what worries me.” My voice cracks on the last word, and I suddenly want to tell him everything I’ve kept bottled up all night. “I just don’t know what I’ll do if something ever happens to him.”
I shake my head and the tears spill out, but Brendan just reaches out and takes my hand, waiting for me to go on. He’s not afraid of me like this. He can handle my tears.
“I want to believe my dad will be all right,” I say, wiping my cheeks. “But I got scared when he called and could hardly breathe. I don’t like to think about what might happen if…”
“He won’t.” Brendan cuts me off firmly. “And I’m not going to let you spiral by thinking about it.”
He reaches over and gently wipes a tear from my cheek, and somehow that small gesture undoes me more than anything else. I know he understands—he lost a father, too. But I didn’t know he could be like this—so gentle and understanding when I need it most.
“Thank you for listening to me,” I say in a wobbly voice.
His thumb finds my cheek and slowly brushes against it. “I’ll always be here for you. Whatever you need.”
“Good.” I drop my head. “Honestly, I feel broken most days. I don’t even know how to pick up the pieces anymore.”
“Hey.” His fingers find my chin, tipping my face up to his.
He cups my face gently with both hands. “You are not broken, Scarlett.” His thumbs brush my cheeks, catching more tears.
“You are the strongest person I know. And you are so beautiful, Scarlett. Even like this.” He pauses. “Especially like this.”
“Really?” I stare at him. “I can’t believe you’re telling me that when I look like a raccoon.”
“Well, it’s true,” he answers. “What you’ve been through—taking care of your dad while running the cafe—takes incredible bravery. I know you’d do anything for him.”
I dip my head, playing with the edge of the blanket. “I’m not sure I can make him better, though.”
“Scarlett.” Brendan’s voice is soft. “He knows how much you love him. That’s enough.”
“Then why do I feel so helpless right now?” I try to take a breath, but it feels like there’s a vise around my chest.
Brendan doesn’t answer, just wraps his arms around my body.
I allow myself to fully enjoy it, indulging in his tight squeeze, the way his chest feels against my face when I snuggle into him, inhaling the clean-laundry scent of his sweatshirt.
For once, I can finally breathe again. And I’m breathing in Brendan Marco like it’s the only thing that could save me.
“Is that better?” Brendan murmurs, resting his chin on top of my head.
“How did you know what I needed?” I say, my voice still muffled against him. I’m refusing to leave the comforting scent of his sweatshirt.
“Lucky guess,” he says, amusement in his voice. He picks up my empty Reese’s box and looks inside. “Did you eat dinner, or were these your excuse for a meal?”
“Hey,” I protest. “Those happen to make a great dinner. I’m just wondering why you left them.”
“Because they’re your favorite,” he answers automatically.
“And that insanely good popcorn?”
“Same.”
I frown, pulling away from his chest just enough to see his face. “How do you remember so many things about me?”
He gazes at me while brushing a stray wisp behind my ear. “It’s my superpower.”
For a moment, I lose myself in those dark-brown eyes searching my face. I know better than to let my instincts take over. I’m in a vulnerable place right now.
But my feelings have clearly moved well past friendship.
Who am I kidding? I’ve always wanted more. But Rafael Marco once told me I didn’t belong, and that’s a hard thing to forget.
“Scarlett?” He slowly unwraps his arms from around my shoulders. “How about we take your mind off your dad?”
“Brendan, I wish you could fix this.” I shake my head. “But you can’t.”
“I know I can’t. But you know what I can do? Distract you. Get you a real dinner and then do something fun to take your mind off that phone call.” He rises from the bed. “What do you say?”
It sounds less like a question and more like a firm, but gentle order from a friend who knows what I need.
“What you’re suggesting sounds like a date.”
His lips curve just a little. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”