63. Brutal in Their Finality
brUTAL IN THEIR FINALITY
brIGHTON
I don’t bother to listen or look for his car to leave. I roll out of bed slowly to take another shower. And for the millionth time today, I bawl at the state of my fucking life.
My mom is gone. I’m a total fuck-up. The only man I’ve ever wanted just fucked me and bounced. Or at least he didn’t argue when I kicked him out.
And I did to him what he did to me…
…dismissed me, wrote me off, made me less than.
He may not even remember. But that night will be burned on my brain forever.
This almost isn’t worth the time. That is, the hour I spend flat ironing my unruly hair. It’s brown and thick, but now is straight and shiny, almost hitting my waist.
It’s a pain, and I hate it.
But he’s so worth it…
Elias Finchley is worth it.
I smoke my eyes out with silver shadow and add mascara to make them pop.
There’s nothing I can do about them being brown.
It’s hard to do much with brown. But with this shadow and charcoal liner and several coats of mascara, there’s an almost sultry, old-world feel to them.
I keep my lips neutral, their natural pink shining through gloss.
When I slip on the red dress—a dress I spent hours scouring the internet for—I gasp in the mirror. I look stunning. And I don’t say that lightly. Ever the tomboy, practically one of the guys, I want to remind him I’m a girl.
Correction—he needs to know I’m a woman.
The dress is sleeveless on one side with a three-quarter sleeve on the other and fits like second skin. A gather on one side of my waist draws the eyes to my tiny frame. At eighteen years old, I have a flat stomach, slim hips, lean arms, and toned legs.
Those legs go on and on, or so they appear, since the dress stops well above the knee and has a not-so-subtle slit on one side up the front of my thigh. It’s a hint of promise, revealing nothing but teases at what’s beneath.
Nothing about the dress alludes to the bra and panties below that are the most uncomfortable things I’ve ever put on my body.
Basically, the texture might as well be tree bark, but they are sexy as hell, even to me.
The lace, push-up bra is strapless and dips low at the cleavage, and the panties are barely there, and what is there bunches in the wrong places.
They’re meant for taking off, not for wearing.
It doesn’t matter, though, since I know that no straight man will be able to look away. And I have no doubt that Elias is straight. I’ve seen him with plenty of women. It crushes my heart, since he should be mine.
Tonight—finally—he will be.
I know his type. He goes for tall blondes with curvy hips and red lips… basically my polar opposite.
I can’t do anything about not being blond, not without ruining my hair or looking ridiculous. I did it once, and it was a disaster. But he dates voluptuous, pouty-lipped women. I’d call them vapid, but I don’t know them.
I just know I want to be them.
I take one last look in the mirror, satisfied with my work, before driving to his house and parking on the street.
He hasn’t been in town long, just having moved here after law school to hang out his shingle for business.
Talk about killing me slowly. Yes, I will go off to college in the fall, but for years, he’s been the only boy I want, the only boy I see.
Man, really, since he’s never been a boy in my mind, but still.
But he’s only seen me as a girl. He always calls me ‘kid’ or ‘young lady.’ That’s the worst term ever.
No one wants to be referred to that way.
It’s icky and weird and never lands. I don’t want him to see me as a child or even a young lady.
I want him to see the woman I’ve become.
I am legal to vote, to buy a gun, and to move out of the house.
I’m not a kid and I won’t be trifled with.
I get out of my sedan, grab the clutch I swiped from Mom’s closet, and, after a deep breath, march up to his house and knock.
To say he’s surprised is an understatement. His eyes register that before they heat. They flare, even if ever so briefly. That much is obvious.
He opens the door wider, mostly because I push past him and into his home.
“Brighton. What— What are you doing here?” He looks around as if he can’t figure out the game. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“Elias, I…” Digging deep into my courage reserves, I do what I came to do. I slide my dress off my shoulder and let it pool to the floor before he even has time to close the door.
I stand before him in my black lace bra and thong, red heels still in place, and step out of the dress. My hands dangle in front of me awkwardly, because I don’t know what to do with them. Shit.
His wide eyes look me up and down, before he turns them to the ceiling. “What the hell, Bright? What the—?” He swallows roughly, scrubs a hand down his face, and spins to slam the door.
Throwing his hands out to the side before propping them on his hips, he barks out, “Is this a joke?”
His words are the first knife to the gut.
“Elias, I want you. I think I’m in love with you and I want us to be together.” My words are rushed, as if coming out without my consent. “I’m tired of being seen as a child.” I step toward him and reach up to touch his cheek.
His flinch makes me cringe, and my confidence plummets. It’s the second stab.
I can’t take another.
His green eyes turn hard and his next words cut through me and decimate what’s left of my resolve. “You are a child, Bright.”
“I am not.” I sound petulant like one, but I can’t help it. “I’m a woman and I have needs.” I’ve heard that in movies and read it in books, but really don’t get what I’m saying. But it’s something women say to men, and I need him to hear me.
He steps out of my reach and walks around me to grab the dress, which he promptly thrusts in my direction. “Cover up, dammit.” He turns his back on me, but continues, more to himself than to me. “Your father will kill me. Hell, your brothers will help him dispose of my body.”
I take my dress, deflated, and bunch it in front of me protectively, covering my breasts and privates, wishing it would cover my mortification and erase my horror.
“I don’t think of you that way, Brighton.” At least he can’t see me flinch at his matter-of-fact declaration.
“But I want you.” It’s my last feeble attempt. It sounds weak, even to my ears, almost childlike.
“You’re like a little sister to me and always will be. I’ll never see you as anything else.”
With his final crushing blow, I fumble into my dress, fighting to pull it over my breasts, not bothering to right it, and hurry for the door.
I want to deliver a hateful comment as I go, but I can’t speak for fear of choking on my humiliation, anger, and tears.
Tears I refuse to shed. Not over a man who would so quickly and efficiently crush me.
I take one last look around and note the sparse living room and an open bottle of amber liquid on the end table.
“Don’t come back, Brighton.” His face is hard as he watches me go. “My answer will never change.”
I drop my hair to cover my flaming face. I hate these shoes since I can’t flee fast enough. I hate these panties that scratch with every step, reminding me of my epic humiliation at the hands of Elias Finchley.
I rush to the car and peel away. It’s several minutes before I realize my mom’s clutch is still at his house.
Don’t come back, Brighton, plays on repeat. It might as well have been shouted through a megaphone. You’re a child. You’re like a sister to me. I don’t think of you that way.
Each line cuts through me. Each of them is brutal in their finality.
The cold fingers of mortification run through my blood while shame encases me like fiery second skin.
I don’t go back to the house, but I do go home. I spend the night in the barn where I’d stashed a change of clothes. I’d hoped I needed these for a wholly different purpose. Jeans, tee, flannel, and boots. Thank goodness for my armor. I know who I am in these stables. I cannot be denied here.
After taking Brooks for a night time ride, I fall asleep in the hay, dried up, emotionally spent, and fucking done with Elias Finchley.
Once and for all.
The water scalds me, and I stand under it, accepting the burn, welcoming the pain. It doesn’t take long for the fight to leave me, and my legs give out. I fall to my ass on the shower floor, the stone cold and biting, and curl into a ball until I fear the water will run cold.
It never has a chance to, because strong arms lift me, and I find myself cradled to a hard chest. Eli sets me on the counter and grabs a towel in the second place he looks. He pulls it over my body and through my hair before lifting me to his still wet chest and carrying me to bed.
He throws the covers over both of us and turns my back to his front. When a new round of tears bursts through my walls, he holds me tighter, stroking my hair, saying nothing.
“Eli?”
Silence.
“Eli?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m sorry.”
A squeeze silences me.
“I—”
“Don’t.” The word slices through me.
He’s angry. I’ve hurt him. And I can do fuck all about it.
“Eli—”
“Don’t,” he growls. “I’m doing everything I can not to lose my shit. Do not blow up what little calm I’m holding onto.”
The lump in my throat grows, and I try to swallow past it. I’m certain he can feel me nod.
Today was a nightmare. Tonight was no better.
I can’t imagine how I’ll sleep or what my mind will concoct when I dream after losing Mom. The nightmare of reality entwined with night terrors in sleep. There’s no way to win.
Eventually, I drift, but wake up crying.
Strong arms encircle me.
Strong arms I dreamed of for years.
Strong arms I roll and burrow into.
I cry myself dry and let sleep suck me under.
When I wake, I’m alone. My bed is cold where Eli slept, and another round of tears overwhelms me.
I finally had my chance, and he slipped through my fingers.
Fuck my life.