Page 33 of Stirred Up

I stand and grab my purse, squaring my shoulders and chin before speaking. “I don’t have some big excuse concocted for leaving. I just am.” I look down at the date that fits in better at the table than I do. “Nice to meet you, Ashley.”

It’d be nice to pull off an exit half as graceful as her entrance, because I can feel all their eyes upon me, but I don’t stand a chance. So instead, in an average pace, I escape through the door to my clunker car, all the way to my mediocre apartment.

Not bothering to get undressed, I kick off my shoes, wash my face, scrub my teeth then hole up under the covers. I don’t dream of Brady or Dr. Reynolds, but rather a time when I felt nothing new for either of them.

Chapter 12

The minute I’m done with work on Friday, I drive straight to my parent’s house, bags already in the car. With them gone on yet another vacation, I plan to enjoy the bigger house alone. Yes, I’m hiding from it all, even if just for a weekend.

I need to get back in touch with the old Addison, the version of myself who knew what she wanted and went after it. The girl who always felt good enough in her own skin, didn’t fight with her friends all the time, and was content even when by herself.

I park in the less noticeable car port on the side andhead in with only my purse and duffle—no phone. Luckily, their alarm code is still mine and Dyl’s birthdays, so I get past that easily and go straight to turn on the hot tub and heater on the pool—just in case.

Oh nice, they finally had the pool resurfaced, the bottom no longer sporting “Bad Bros 4 Life” with a poorly drawn skull and crossbones in black spray paint at the bottom. To this day, Dyl and Brady swear they weren’t under the influence of any illegal substances and simply thought it seemed like a really cool idea at the time. My parents did not agree.

Snickering at the memory, I head to the kitchen, craving a glass of wine…and am assaulted with yet another memory. There, on the fridge, is a picture of the three of us—the little girl with the bowl haircut standing between her two older, much taller heroes—all smiling at the camera.

As I trace my fingertip over it, I notice that which I never have before; Brady’s not looking at the camera, but rather, eyes angled down at me.

Even when I come here, searching an escape, it’s not in the cards…Brady is so deeply rooted in my life, wherever I am, a part of him will be there as well.

And this is pretty much how I spend my entire weekend. Reminders lurk around every corner, triggering fond flashbacks that make our current, floundering friendship even more painful. No matter how many hot soaks I take, the two bottles of wine mysteriously becoming three, or the 400 page hot ménage m/f/m romance novel I use to fill the hours, most of the weekend is spent reminiscing about times when Brady and I knew exactly what “Brady and I” meant.

All too soon, it’s time to pull up my big girl panties and head back to reality. Putting clean sheets on the bed and a “thank you for your unknown hospitality, love you both” note on the counter, I grumble all the way to my car.

I have to snicker at myself as I settle into the driver’s seat. What the hell did we all do before cell phones? It’s the first thing I check, ending my bout of abstinence.

There’s three texts from Brady.

One on Friday night.Nothing happened w/ Ashley. Call me.

Another Saturday afternoon.Where the fuck are u?! Worried!

And the last one a few hours ago.You break my heart.

I refused a “go” with Brady to protect our friendship, and it appears it’s had the opposite effect.

****

I kinda already know I look like the walking dead after not a wink of sleep last night, but when Mimi won’t come near me when I open the clinic Monday morning, I really feel disgusting.

Making the rounds of morning feedings, I add an extra coo to my voice to hopefully offset my haggard appearance, but it only works on the animals under any sort of sedation, the rest not buying my act.

At lunch I sit and eat in my car, barely choking down a banana and Gatorade. I’m feeling so leprous that I actually squeal when my phone rings, amazed someone’s calling me.

“Hello?”

“Miss Porter?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dr. Reynolds’ office. He’d like you to come in for a follow up from your last appointment. What day isgood for you?”

Follow up?Last visit I came, hard, the end. But if he wants to follow that up…

“Whatever day you have, but afternoon. I’d like to try to miss as little work as possible.”

“Understandable. Let me see…he has 4:30 today, 3:30 on Wednesday, or 4:30 on Friday.”

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