17. Brant
Brant
After Callie’s curt response to my invitation last night, I refuse to stew in thoughts of her and Jesse. As appalling as it is to admit, Julia’s presence is a diversion. A band-aid over a harsh wound, destined to saturate and fall off quickly.
I sip some water as Julia bends over the billiard table. “Watch out, Beckett. You may be the loser tonight,” she says, aligning her pool stick over the green felt.
Upbeat music and hummed conversations mix with the tapping of billiard balls.
“I think we should raise the stakes here,” I offer.
She misses the shot, then stands with the pool stick upright at her side. “To?”
I peel the bottom of my sneaker off the metal leg of the stool. “If I win, we jet out of here and go back to my place.”
Her gaze hoods as she purses her lips. “And if I win?”
“That depends on what you want,” I say, inching up to the billiard table.
She inserts herself beside me, the vintage pendant light popping the sparkle in her amber hues. “So, you want sex?”
“That’s actually not what I meant,” I answer. “Why? Do you?”
My question isn’t weaved with cockiness, dominance, or arousal. Just honesty. She asked me a question, and I answered it. It doesn’t matter if she likes what she hears because I owe her the truth.
I owe her that much.
Her teeth roll over her lower lip as she averts her gaze. She scans the collection of neon signs decorating the wood paneling of the walls, only to say, “Do you at least like me, Brant? Because if I’m going to keep doing this, I have to kno—”
“Yes,” I interject. “I like you very much, Julia.” She softens her expression, pivoting her head back to me. “And if I met you before I was eight years old, there’s a chance I could feel differently. There’s a chance I could feel a lot more.”
Her chest swells beneath her short-sleeve crop top. “Why?” she breathes.
“Because when I was eight years old, I met a girl who stole my heart,” I admit. “And she’s never given it back.”
Her eyes dip to my neck, a tiny epiphany glittering through her trance. “That necklace is for her, isn’t it?”
When she travels her gaze back up, I battle a tight swallow.
“I’m trying to get you as close to me as I can, but my body is the limit.
It’s all I can offer you, Julia,” I say.
“And if I didn’t like you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.
I’d just toss you in my bed to toss you right back out. ”
Billiard balls and sticks knock around in the near distance, flooding a few beats of silence.
“She’s a really lucky girl,” she whispers.
“He’s going to be a really lucky guy,” I say. “I mean that.”
A smile blossoms on her face, and then she’s snaking an arm around my neck. “Thanks, Brant.”
My free arm hugs her lower back before I’m leaning down. “You’re very welcome.”
“Ugh,” she softly grunts, tipping her head back. “Why do I want a last hoorah with you tonight? Am I a glutton for punishment or something? What’s wrong with me?”
I eject a breathy laugh. “Is honesty the new form of foreplay? I thought it was just common decency.”
Her brows groove playfully. “Honesty from a man who owns up to his shit? It’s a panty-dropper for sure.”
Our lips teasingly graze each other, but my heart breaks simultaneously. A lecherous strike of reality when I realize her scent isn’t Callie’s. Her taste isn’t Callie’s. Her touch isn’t Callie’s. None of this is Callie.
None of it is mine.
And all of it is his.
His.
His.
Jesse’s face crawls its way inside my head, and I’m already murmuring my next words. “You want to get out of here?”
Callie Rae
My Range Rover decelerates along the curb. I park in front of Brant’s house, and my forehead presses into the steering wheel.
My stomach somersaults in a frantic cycle. After the radical turn of events at the White Party last night, I couldn’t shake Brant’s message from my mind. I told Jesse I was going out with a couple people from work, allowing myself to satisfy my curiosity.
I peek right, landing on the silhouette of Brant’s Tacoma in the driveway. There’s a Honda Civic stationed next to it, and I instantly regret traveling here unannounced. Somewhere in the midst of obsessing over my fight with Jesse and scheming a way to spend time with Brant, I forgot Sean exists.
This could easily, easily, be humiliating. Not just for me, but for Brant. It’s also very probable Sean would suffer from second-hand embarrassment.
Really, Callie?
Above all, Brant never texted me back. Would he even be happy to see me tonight?
I blow out a lengthy breath as my belly winds tighter. My palms greet the denim over my thighs, fingers curling with tension.
I finally step out of the car, dipping back inside to get my crossbody. When I journey up the cement driveway, my fingers fiddle with my engagement ring. I tip my chin to the dark sky, and the corners of the princess cut press into the pads of my digits. Surely leaving marks on my flesh.
A cozy glow radiates from the frosted glass of the porch light. When I follow the bend of the driveway, my heartbeat snowballs in volume with each step I take.
I march up the wooden planks of the porch, biting my lip when I push the doorbell button. Another breath huffs from my lungs as my hands tousle my hair.
I drop my arms at my sides, flicking my gaze in any direction from the focal point. Then my palms rub against my jeans. I’m trying to drain the jumbled nerves from my body, but my efforts are futile.
My head whips forward when the front door swings open. Brant’s face greets me on the other side, his short-clipped hair styled in a subtle disarray.
“Callie.”
Distress lathers his voice. My eyes drop to his hand tugging the hem of his gray crewneck, and I get a glimpse of the ridges of his lower abs.
But they’re concealed too soon.
My eyes linger on the leather strap of his belt, the nighttime obscuring the scene. I’m unsure if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but I decide it’s loosened.
“Callie, what are you doing here?”
I snap my gaze back to his, swallowing thickly when I study the way his jaw sets in discomfort. His dark brows barely pinch together, but the uneasiness oozes from him anyway.
I’m about to explain myself, parting my lips when a feminine voice wedges into my ears.
“Brant, who is it?”
Mortification pools in my bloodstream as all the pieces merge together in my mind.
“I’ll be right there, okay?”
Brant’s peeking over his shoulder, but I’m already spinning on my heels. My legs gallop down the porch at lightning speed, and I practically jog down the length of the driveway to reach my Range Rover.
I don’t want an apology. I don’t care for an explanation. I just want to drive home, curl up in a fetal position, and wallow in my shame.
Shame that I rightfully deserve.
“Callie! Hey!”
My palm cups my mouth as my sneakers hit the asphalt of the road. I turn, heading toward my car as I refuse to flick a hair in Brant’s direction.
The handle of the door finally pierces my view, and my vision tunnels. I stretch an arm out, my palm snatching the metal lever like my life depends on it.
But to my dismay, a large hand clutches my upper arm to swivel me around. “Just stop for a goddamn minute,” Brant demands.
I yank my arm out of his grasp, teeth setting together as I scold him. “Don’t touch me,” I grit out. “Especially after—”
“Do it, Callie,” he growls, his pupils blown with anger. “I dare you to make me look like the bad guy. To make it like I’m wrong. To make it like I would ever fucking do this to you.”
My stare narrows, chest pinching when I realize he’s trapping me. The worst part is, he’s right. I have no rhyme or reason to be upset with him. I have a fiancé that I’m laying down with every night, and it just so happens this was really shitty timing on my part.
Really shitty timing.
But god, my heart aches so bad.
What happened to us?
What happened to that boy and girl in Willowhart? The boy and girl who lived on a single prayer—us.
We were that prayer.
Us.
Together.
Always.
My fight with Jesse hurt, but this is an excruciating kind of pain. The kind of torture you’re convinced you’ll never bounce back from. You’ll never be the same after.
As much as I’ve had to adapt over the last ten years in Brant’s wake, this is the greatest punishment of all.
It’s officially over for us.
Over.
A dull burn blooms behind my eyes as I wet my lips. I shake my head, steering it to the side so I’m not burdened with his gaze. “You’re right. This was my fault,” I breathe. “I’m sorry.”
I turn and reach for the door handle, but his palm plants on the window.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says from behind me.
“I’ll tell her something came up, and she’ll be out of here.
She’ll understand. Whatever you do, just don’t go,” he whispers, desperation gnawing his tone. “Please, just don’t fucking go.”
His voice singes my neck with a searing heat, and my pulse leaps. “That’s not a nice thing to do,” I retort softly, my stare wandering over the side of my car.
“It’s either that or we’re talking in front of her,” he counters. “Take your pick.”
Say no.
Say no.
No, Callie.
“Okay.”
“Give me five minutes.” He peels off the car, and I rotate to face him as he peers down at me. “I promise. No longer than that,” he assures.
I timidly nod, and Brant’s jogging up his driveway before I slump against the Range Rover. Within the next minute, I’m sitting in the driver’s seat.
I can’t explain why I agreed to stay.
Maybe it’s because I already made the effort to come out here. Maybe it’s because of my morbid curiosity.
Regardless, I came here tonight for one reason—to talk with Brant. About what, I’m still not sure. But I owe my heart that much.
I owe us that much.
After everything we’ve been through, after all the ups and downs, and after all the giant hurdles we’ve had to jump, Brant and I survived and lived to tell the stories. Our past wrote the prologue to the tale we’re writing now.
I can’t shake the feeling that our story is only beginning.