Page 84 of Bound By Brielle (Crave & Cure Productions)

I blink up him. “Of all the times you have to be right,” I sigh, shaking my head.

Lance pulls open the door and I step through, taking his arm as we walk out, leaving Aug to walk behind us. I like to switch seamlessly between them this way, and when I glance back at Aug, his hands are in his pockets, a smile on his face. I stop in my tracks, and so does Aug, and when Lance realizes he’s tugging me but I’m not moving, he stops, too.

“I just wanted to tell you both that I love you, and thank you.”

Lance presses a kiss to my temple and Aug to my lips right after. And then we’re in the car, Lance driving, Aug in the back with me by his side. I don’t want to hear how Winnie and my dad came to be, but Aug is right.

I’m asking the world to accept me, but shutting down others? That’s hypocritical, and I won't be the hypocrite I just accused my father of being. I don’t know what I’ll say, but I promise myself on the drive over that I will hear them out.

I am done with film school. I have no more fears of being the forgettable girl. I have a job and my own money. I’m living with my boyfriends. My whole life is stretching ahead of me. It’s the happiest, most exciting time.

But my stomach still plummets at the sight of Winnie’s arm looped around my father’s at the hostess station. It occurs to me right then and there that they’re more than a mistake. Beyond a one-nightwhat did we dotype of thing. She’s holding onto him for security and strength, I know because I’m clinging to my guys the same way.

He turns away from the maître d', looking down into my best friend's eyes. His smile is so bright, my heart breaks. I don’t expect him to look at me that way, I’m not experiencing some Electra complex with Winnie. More so, I see it in that single look. The love. The respect. Every way you want a man to look at you, the way Lance and Aug look at me, my father looks at my best friend.

“Quincey,” Aug’s voice booms as he steps forward, outstretching his hand to my father. I don’t watch them shake. I don’t listen to the burly words passed between the three of them, and I can’t hear the conversation between the maître d' and hostess. Everything falls away but Winnie. Her plentiful curls, glossy green eyes full of unshed, worrisome, guilt-filled tears, and then her hand. Her hand that I’ve held during scary movies, while she’s been perched over porcelain after frat parties, when her dog was put to sleep—that hand that has been in mine so many times—in my father’s hand. The bed of her nails unpainted, straining white from how tightly she holds him. She relies on him.

She lets go of his hand, and takes me by the elbow to the leather tufted bench where other patrons wait. She’s the same girl I’ve known, confided in, held and loved for years but she looks completely different to me now.

“First I want to say that I’m so, so sorry for telling your dad about you and Augustus and Lance. It was completely, utterly and totally wrong and disgusting of me and I swear on my life, B, that I only did it because he was… freaking out.” Her eyes are full of worry and tears as she nervously smooths her hands down her thighs. “I’ve never seen him worried like that. He was scared, B and I couldn’t let him suffer that way.”

I’ve never seen him worried like that.

My voice is raw because my throat is so dry. “How long?”

She blinks, mouth parted with no answers or words leaving her. She just stares at me as the first tear slips free. “Four months.”

I’ve never seen him worried like that.

I nod. “How?”

She sits up a bit taller, prepared for the inquisition. I don’t even look up when the hostess takes Aug, Lance and my father to a table. But she ducks between us, dark chignon shiny under the dim lights. “Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll take you both to the table.”

I give her a tiny smile before focusing on Winnie.

“I was at your apartment one day while you were at work. Honestly I can’t even remember why I was there. Probably eating your food or something,” she says, half smiling, alluding to the parts of our friendship that no longer feel warm and safe. “Anyway,” she continues, tears still silently coating her cheeks. “I was having a moment when he came in. And the door was unlocked so he walked right in on me.”

“A moment?” My hackles rise at the idea that Winnie was masturbating at my place and my dad walked in and joined.That’sa porno. “What the f–”

She shakes her head staunchly. “No, not like that. I was… crying,” she says softly, looking down at her clasped hands.

My shoulders droop a little at her admission. “Why were you crying?”

“Oh,” she waves me off, like it’s not important but the truth is rising up to the surface as we speak and as it turns out, she isn’t the only bad guy. “It’s not important.”

“I’ve only seen you cry once, Win.” Worry eats at me as I ask, “Why were you crying?”

“I’d just been… down. And, I don’t know, you were loving Crave and finding happiness with Aug and Lance and I just… selfishly felt so left behind. And I was—I am—happy for you. But I don’t know, I also felt sad for myself. No parents, no job, no mentorship, no apartment of my own—just debt and work and a good attitude. But it’s a mask, you know? My positivity is just a mask I wear and I rarely take it off. But that day in your apartment, I needed to take it off, B. You know?”

I remember the first time I directed a scene at Crave. And I remember the first time Lance and Aug and I were together, too. It felt like that—like taking off the mask of who I pretended to be for years, and really let myself become who I am. I nod. “I know.” I swallow hard before I quietly admit, reaching for her hand, “but I didn’t know you were depressed.”

She nods, staring at where my hand holds hers. “I’m on antidepressants now,” she admits. I tighten my hold on her hand and her eyes finally come to mine. “He helped me with that, you know.”

I know thehein question is my dad, and I’m nowhere near ready to hear her refer to him this way, but judging by the way she holds my hand so tightly, tears freely flowing—I need to get comfortable quickly.

“You’re—you two are serious?” I ask and before she can answer, I remember the way she sat on my bed, grinning at her phone just a few months back.“Hewas who you were texting all those times,” I say slowly, watching her to find answers in her reaction. She makes no attempt to lie, only nodding her head, crying.

“I’m sorry, B. I love you so much and I don’t want to lose you. But…” she gives me a sad smile, and I know exactly what’s coming. “I love him.”

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