Chapter 19 Gracie
Gracie
Bridget brings the bottle of wine in from the kitchen, staring down at the label with a look of consternation.
“I don’t know if this is any good,” she mumbles as she sits on the couch.
“The label is written in French.” I squint, recognizing one of the bottles that Maryann and Bruce brought back from their vacation.
“Doesn’t that automatically make it good?” I wonder, settling back into my own seat as she tops up our glasses. I’m feeling just tipsy enough that the pain is numb, distant.
“Hmm, you’re probably right.” Bridget hands me my glass and then sits back with hers, cautiously sipping the wine. After a moment, she grins crookedly. “Plus, it all tastes the same coming back up, huh.”
I snort, squinting at her. “You think you would have learned from your last foray into drinking. If I remember correctly, you messaged me about killing your toilet.”
She frowns, shooting me a morose look. “RIP, Ned.”
“Ned?”
Bridget shrugs. “It feels like a Ned.”
I gape at her. “And I feel like you’re insane.”
“And yet, you still invited me here and continue to hang out with me, so who is really insane?”
I pretend to think about it. “Still you, actually.”
My phone chimes on my coffee table, and I tense automatically. Braxton has been messaging every day since Christmas, and so far, I haven’t read a single one, digging deep into a well of self-control that I wasn’t aware I have.
I want to keep pretending that I have some kind of control over the situation a little longer, and that I haven’t been shoved out of an airplane without a parachute.
Picking up my phone, I frown down at the notification telling me that an event I was invited to started a couple of hours ago. Apparently, my phone is out to torture me as much as anyone else, reminding me about what I should have been doing tonight before Braxton detonated a bomb on our lives.
“You said you were going to try to call your parents this morning,” Bridget reminds me with as much tact as someone seeing a bruise, jabbing their finger into it, and asking, Does it hurt?
“Yeah,” I say, swiping out of the event notification and setting the phone back down. I take a big, classy gulp of wine, the crisp liquid sliding too easily down my throat.
“And…?” Bridget asks pointedly. “Are you going to tell me or not?” I can feel her eyes on me, but I keep my attention focused on the television across from us, where a movie is playing quietly—a rom-com that’s based around New Year’s and the lives of several intersecting characters.
“Gracie.”
“I didn’t know this was another therapy session,” I complain, shooting her a dirty look.
She scoffs. “All our sessions are therapy sessions. And my parents are dead, so I need to focus on your drama.” I blanche, making her laugh. “Oh, come on, that’s not new information.”
“And yet, shockingly, I’m still not used to you dropping the dead parent bomb on me at random times,” I say dryly. “I called this morning, and it went to voicemail, same as it has all week.” I hesitate before adding, “They called me back an hour later, though.”
Bridget leans toward me eagerly. “They did? Did you call them assholes and hang up?”
A soft laugh escapes before I shake my head, mouth suddenly dry.
“No. I should have.” I lift my trembling glass to my lips.
“They told me all about this Christmas cruise they were on with their friends. Apparently, it was all planned midway through the year, and everyone else took their families with them. They told me that their friend, Martine, brought her daughter, and how she’s a lawyer.
Wouldn’t it have been nice if I could have applied myself a little harder and done something like that?
” I look up, giving Bridget a tight smile, pretending it doesn’t hurt as much as it does.
“You know, instead of playing with flowers every day.”
Bridget sits back, blinking wide eyes. “So they didn’t talk to you on Christmas because they were on a cruise with all their friends—and their families—but now they’ve called to basically just criticise your career choices?”
I shoot her a finger gun. “Nailed it.”
“What did they say when you asked why they didn’t invite you?”
“I didn’t ask,” I say simply. “I’m not out to emotionally torture myself, Bridget. This isn’t new behavior from them, and I feel broken enough that I’m not about to rip open that old wound.”
“I don’t get it,” she mutters. “Why didn’t they give you up for adoption if they didn’t want a kid?”
I lift a shoulder, the question one I’ve asked myself plenty of times. “I don’t think they were ever meant to have children, but once they found out about me…I guess they worried about what everyone else would say.”
Bridget scowls. “It still would have been better than what they chose to do. They neglected you emotionally, if not physically.”
I shake my head. “I had a home. I was safe, warm, and had food in my belly. They made sure I had the best of everything, even if just to keep up with their image.”
“But did they hug you?”
I freeze, and then drain my wine. “Can we not do this?”
She watches me pensively for a long moment, darkness edged behind her eyes. Finally, she looks away, muttering, “Humans are fucking stupid. How nice would the world be if people weren’t assholes?”
I pretend to think about it. “Boring?”
“At the very least.” She shakes her head, swapping her wine for the bowl of buttered popcorn sitting on the table. She slumps back, tugging the popcorn into her lap and grabbing a handful, throwing it into her mouth. “But it would still be nice.”
“That’s not how humans work,” I point out reasonably, just as my phone chimes again. Again, my heart flutters erratically, but I sternly tell myself that I’m not looking at his messages. Not yet.
I’m not hiding from Braxton, but I refuse to go into the coming confrontation with anything but a clear head, and that is never going to happen until after the holidays. I’ve had some pretty shit Christmases over the years, but this one had easily topped the chart.
Still, I pick up the phone, unable to help myself, a mixture of feelings swirling in my chest when I see it’s another notification from the event page of the party, telling me that someone uploaded a bunch of photos.
“What is it?” Bridget asks, shuffling closer to peer over my shoulder. “Oh, is that Benson’s? The party?”
I hum quietly, fingers trembling before I click into the first one, seeing the bar decked out more colorfully than I’ve ever seen it. I skim through the photos, clearly taken on someone’s phone, and it’s like watching the party happen in real time.
I try to stop myself from searching for Braxton, but it’s like a compulsion, studying each photo in detail, scouring the background to make sure I didn’t miss him. As each photo is deemed safe, I wonder if he didn’t go, my shoulders loosening a fraction from where they’ve climbed up to my ears.
I scroll to the next photo, figuring we’re nearing the end, and Bridget gasps. “Is that…?”
I go still as she points them out, my breath hitching in my chest. They’re in the background, a little too far away, but I would know him anywhere, his dark hair tousled and his face creased, like he was just laughing.
Paisley is standing in front of him, too close, her hands on his arms and her head tipped back to look at him, her hair cascading down her back.
My stomach drops to the floor, my heart beating so hard that it hurts.
“Don’t,” Bridget warns me, but I’m already swiping to the next one. The photographer has moved positions this time, and Braxton and Paisley are closer, more in focus. There’s absolutely no missing the way her arms are linked around his neck or the open-mouth kiss they’re sharing.
Beside me, Bridget curses, snatching the phone out of my hand, but it’s too late. The image is seared into my brain, and I know that there’ll be no getting it out.
“Oh,” I breathe. “I didn’t… I thought…”
Bridget grabs my face, turning me to her, her eyes glittering with angry tears. “He’s not worth it,” she tells me firmly. “Don’t let this hurt you.”
I smile weakly, my lashes fluttering. “Too late for that.”