Page 18 of Tell Me Again

I pull away again, shaking my head. “Um, yeah, uh, both, really. I-I tried to apologize, but I couldn’t really find the words I wanted, and—and he got, um...”

I trail off as I step away from her again, and she doesn’t follow me this time as I move back to the bed and sit heavily. I lean forward and rub my eyes. There are more tears, but that’s okay here, now, I guess. Brenna’s not going to judge. Only, she really has no idea how deep this goes. I can’t even imagine what she’s thinking right now.

After another shuddering breath, I manage to look up at her again, and she’s frowning, her lips pursed and her eyes showing her concern.

“S-sorry, Bren, I didn’t expect any of this. I don’t mean to...”

“To what?”

She steps a bit closer now and then carefully sits next to me, resting her hand on my thigh. I set my hand over hers, and it takes me a few minutes to be able to find more words.

“We’re supposed to be on vacation here, relaxing, celebrating”—I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles—“getting ready for the wedding. And here I am, making everything... not so fun. I don’t want to take any of this away from you. This is supposed to be a happy time, and—”

“It’s okay,” she says, shaking her head. “You didn’t know this was going to happen, and it seems really, really important to you.”

That’s an understatement.

Although, if it’s really that important, why hadn’t I done anything about it before now? Why had I just kept on living my life without trying to find out whether and how he was living his? Even after I moved out to go to college, got my own place, and even after my dad finally decided to get help for his alcohol problem... I mean, I’ve been independent for seven years now, and my dad’s been sober for five. And yet, not one time in any of those years did I think to call? write? drive down here and check on him? And god, if I’d known about his mom...

I’m shaking again now. “H-his mom passed away from cancer only about a year after I moved away. He was only sixteen. God, babe, I didn’t even know. He must have been so alone, and I never even tried to reach out to him, and I feel like the lousiest friend ever, and that’s not—that’s not even...”

She moves then, straddling my thighs so she can wrap her arms around my neck, and she leans in and hugs me tightly. I pull her closer and let myself cry into her shoulder.

God, I wish I could just tell her everything. I wish I could just, for once in my life, be one hundred percent honest and real. Because if there is any one person who might understand me, it would probably be her. Her or Coop. But I had my chance to talk to him earlier, and I blew it. And I’m still too much of a coward to be honest with her now.

She presses a kiss to my cheek and holds me. And I still don’t deserve it, I still don’t deserve her. But I let her hold me anyway.

Finally, she shifts a bit so she can pull back and kiss my forehead and then my lips again. Brief, light kisses that ask for nothing in return. When she settles with her forehead against mine a moment later, she shivers a bit and then says, “We’ve got some more time here. Hopefully it’ll be enough.”

“Enough?”

“For him to give you another chance to talk,” she explains.

I want to object. To tell her after tonight, there’s no way he’s going to even want me coming within ten feet of him, but that realization makes my heart hurt too much, and so I just nod into her.

“Yeah, uh, hopefully.”

“Ready to try to get some sleep?”

“Sure.”

She scoots off my lap and takes my hand. And together, we finish getting ready for bed. As I crawl under the blanket and she cuddles up next to me, her head resting in the crook of my shoulder, I wish I could think of anything else. But all I see is Coop sitting in his truck, his face contorted with pain and anguish as he slams his fist into his steering wheel.

Chapter Nine

Coop

I’m usually fine with Monday mornings. I always open at the diner, and since it’s slow, it’s always just me and Mel. And we tag-team it all, her cooking and me doing everything else.

But today, as I park my truck and let myself in through the back door, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I can understand why Monday mornings get such a bad rap.

They fucking suck.

I mean, maybe that’s because I was up most of the night, my mind replaying ten-year-old memories that really didn’t need to be replayed. At least my house is now spotless. Cleaning is a wonderful distraction.

Thanks, Josh.

Mel is doing prep work—chopping and baking and things—and I hurry to hang my coat up, grab myself a cup of coffee, and then get to work helping her. By the time we open at six, I’m still not really awake, but I manage to get through the next two hours of my shift without pissing anyone off or breaking any plates.

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