Chapter 32 Gracie
Gracie
Braxton overheard that the detective was coming over the next morning to take my statement, and he didn’t comment. He didn’t ask if I wanted him here or if he could come. Instead, he just showed up an hour beforehand. and after seeing Nolan painting, picked up a roller and put himself to work.
I sit in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee and biting back my amusement as I pretend I can’t hear their awkward shit-talking over who’s doing a better job.
When the detective arrives, introducing himself as Scott Jerome, Braxton takes the seat next to me, pressing his knee against mine. Nolan remains in the living room, the muffled sounds of his music trailing through the house as he keeps working.
I try to recount what happened in emotionless detail for Jerome, but each word feels like it’s dragging me through the attack all over again.
The detective is empathetic and patient, even as I trip over words I’ve known my entire life. A cold sweat prickles my skin, my vision going fuzzy around me, but Braxton leans in close, his familiar smell filling my nose—clean cotton and something woodsy.
“Breathe, Gracie,” he orders gently. I hadn’t even realized my chest was on fire, desperate for oxygen.
Braxton presses one hand to my knee and the other firmly against the nape of my neck.
“It’s okay, Rumpel. You’re safe. Breathe with me, yeah?
No, don’t look away. Deep breath—like this.
Good girl. That’s it. Hold it for me, and then…
exhale.” He repeats it several times until my breathing evens into a more regular rhythm, the blurriness fading from my eyes.
Across the table, the detective watches us, sympathy darkening his eyes. “I’ve got everything I need for today, but if you remember anything else, Gracie, no matter how small…just give me a call.” Jerome pulls a card out, sliding it across the table.
I don’t move, feeling like the slightest breeze might shatter me into pieces, so Braxton reaches out and takes the card with a quiet, “Thank you.”
Detective Jerome sees himself out, murmuring a goodbye to Nolan as he moves through the living room to the front door. Neither Braxton nor I make a move to stand, but he turns in his chair to face me, clasping both of my icy hands in his. “You okay, Rumpel?”
I flutter my lashes, stubbornly refusing to let the gathering tears fall as I lock eyes with his hazel ones. “Why would he go after a florist?” My voice is rough, cracking, and I swallow, my throat too dry. “We don’t…There wasn’t any money. But he wasn’t surprised I was there—”
Braxton’s expression is furious, but his voice is steady as he guesses, “He was watching the shop. That’s how he knew you didn’t leave.
” One hand is still wrapped around the back of my neck, and he tightens his fingers as if he’s trying to ground me with his touch.
“I don’t know why he did it, but you heard what the detective said.
The guy wasn’t wearing gloves, and they have some prints.
” He pauses, his mouth curling just slightly.
“And some blood from when you nailed him with the pot.” His expression is impressed, and I give him a wobbly smile.
“How did you know that breathing thing?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
I barely slept last night, my back aching viciously and my head refusing to release me from the panic of knowing that whoever did this to me is still out there somewhere.
The police are positive the attack was random, but that’s not the comfort they seem to think it should be.
Braxton’s cheeks warm, his eyes dropping self-consciously. “I told you I’ve been in counseling,” he murmurs. “I learned a few strategies to cope with panic attacks.”
“Panic attacks…” I repeat, voice rising in question.
His hand slides from my neck as he straightens, putting more distance between us. “The accident that happened just before Thanksgiving,” he starts slowly, his voice quiet enough that I have to learn forward to catch every word. “It was bad, Gracie.”
“How bad?” I whisper.
He looks away, blowing out a heavy breath. “I don’t know—”
“Please tell me, Braxton.” It’s a quiet plea. I can’t bear the thought of him shutting me out again. Not after everything, and not when he’s just been here for me.
“I don’t want you to think I’m using this as an excuse for what happened or what I did,” Braxton says.
“It was part of it, yes. There were several factors that went into me not making the choices I usually would make, but I wasn’t…
” His brow creases with frustration, like nothing is coming out right.
“I knew what I was doing with Paisley,” he blurts out, grimacing apologetically when I scowl at him.
“You knew you were practically drenched in her perfume when you climbed into my bed?” I ask dryly, already knowing the answer, but he violently shakes his head with a curse.
“No. No. Fuck, I didn’t…” He rakes a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. His shoulders are tense, and he’s vibrating with enough tension to rattle the chair against the floor.
I reach out, cupping a hand against the rough bristles shadowing his jaw. “I don’t want to talk about her,” I tell him firmly. “Tell me about the accident."
Braxton searches my eyes like he’s testing my certainty.
A minute passes, and then another, but eventually, he takes a deep breath, ducking his head to hide his eyes.
His voice is quiet but steady as he recounts the accident that cost a little girl her life, telling me in detail—not graphic, but enough—everything that happened, right down to the way Allsion smiled at him before she went pale and limp.
A long silence stretches over us when he’s done, neither of us moving as I absorb the information of just how much I missed.
“You almost died,” I murmur brokenly, “and I had no idea.” Irrational guilt surges through me, knowing everything that followed—as much as Braxton doesn’t want to completely attribute it to the accident—was influenced by it.
“Don’t,” he snaps, and I swing wide eyes to find him watching me, green eyes dark and fierce. “None of this is on you. I didn’t talk to you,” he reminds me. “I shut you out. I shut everyone out.”
“But you told Paisley,” I say, my lips feeling strangely numb. “You said—You told me she would understand more than I could, but I never even had the chance. I should’ve pushed harder. Fought you to talk to me.”
Braxton leans right into my space, the tip of his nose almost brushing mine. “And that probably would’ve pushed me further away,” he says confidently. “I was so sure I could handle it on my own. That I didn’t need to lean on anyone.”
“So, why Paisley?” I demand, voice acerbic.
“I didn’t care if she thought I was weak,” he says simply. “I didn’t care if she thought less of me.” Pain echoes through his green eyes. “I didn’t care if she disappeared.”
I make a noise that makes it clear what I think of that, and Braxton’s lips twitch. “I suppose I proved you right when I left.” A caustic laugh leaves my lips.
“No,” Braxton insists fiercely. “You protected yourself the only way you knew how. Don’t lessen what I did, Gracie.
” He pauses, chest moving as he fills his lungs with air.
He slides his hand back around my neck, fingers digging in gently, massaging the tense muscles.
“I’m a work in progress.” He pauses, every muscle in his body going taut, his brain working furiously behind his eyes.
“There is something that happened recently, and I haven’t told anyone outside of the crew.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, and I wasn’t… ”
My expression creases uncertainly. “And you want to tell me?”
Braxton shifts forward, making sure not to hurt me as he presses his forehead to mine, our breathing mingling. “I want to tell you more than anyone else,” he murmurs. “When I found out, you were the only person I wanted to talk to, and it killed me that I couldn’t.”
I don’t pull away, hating that so much bad shit has happened to get us here, but glad we’re here anyway. I don’t know what will happen next, but for the first time in months…I feel hope.
“What is it?” I whisper. The moment feels fragile, and I’m loath to break it.
“Allison”—his voice breaks—“was going to die anyway, but the other driver accelerated her death. He’s been convicted of aggravated vehicular manslaughter, and two counts of reckless endangerment.” Braxton pauses. “He’s pleaded guilty.”
A soft sound escapes me, knowing this won’t ease the responsibility that Braxton feels for Allison’s death. Reasoning and logic hold no place in our minds when we’re overcome with that much guilt, surrounded by a constant narrative of what if.
“Allison’s parents have reached out through Monroe. They want to talk to the firefighter who stayed with Allison in her last moments.”
“Oh, Brax…”
His eyes are bright as they move between mine, one hand on the back of my neck and the other coming up to my cheek, his thumb stroking over my cheekbone. “Don’t feel obligated to say yes, but I wanted to ask if you would—”
“Yes,” I cut in.
He chuckles softly. “You didn’t let me finish.”
“I want to go with you,” I say firmly. “I didn’t have a chance to be there for you before.
” His eyes drop away from mine, but I quickly add, “Not just because of you, Brax. I let my past haunt me enough that I went straight into flight mode. But I think…” I roll my lips between my teeth, hesitating.
“I think if there’s any chance of us coming back from this, we need to let the past go. ”
Something dark flashes across his face as he stares at me. “What does that mean for Nolan?”
It’s a question I was expecting, and I don’t answer straight away, really considering what I want to say. I haven’t made all the right decisions—not even close—but I am not going to regret anything that has helped me to overcome the hurt that has been swallowing me whole.