Page 59 of Big Daddy

“Is this really what you want, Brielle? What happened to documentary making and—” I swipe a hand over my forehead, coated in a sheen of sweat. “Is this really what you want? How can you get all that you want from life in this unusual relationship? Huh? Or are you just here because this is how you’re succeeding at your mentorship?” I ask, hating myself for the insinuation the moment the words leave me. How am I fucking this up so much? My phone rings again and before I can silence it, Brielle moves for my pocket and snatches it out.

Immediately, panic has me reaching for my phone, my secret I’m desperate to protect. The men with my daughter create a barrier between me and Brielle, and she steps back, looking down at my phone.

The number isn’t programmed in, but it doesn’t need to be. This is her best friend. She knows Winnie’s number.

“Winnie?” she gasps, the phone shaking in her palm. “Winnie told you?”

“I think you should probably give her some space,” the older man says, placing a gentle hand on my chest. “And she’ll contact you when she’s ready.”

“Fine,” I belt, straightening my suit jacket before reaching for my phone. “My phone,” I say, just as it starts ringing again, right as Brielle was about to pass it off. Her eyes veer over the screen, absorbing the words before I can take it back.

I don’t know who texted me, but it’s one of two people and both of those put me directly in the dog house. I have never, ever, not one single time planned to go behind her back. With Ezra, I’ve made it known that I dislike her assignment. Brielle knows this, even though she’s told me to stand down. And with Winnie, well, that just happened. She has to understand. She will understand.

But as soon as her eyes lift to mine, I know it’s not Winnie. I know it’s this stupid apprenticeship, and my message to Ezra. “Why did you text Mr. Leon?” she asks, weak and wavering from the revelation. “Oh my God,” she breathes. “You couldn’t just let me be! You asked my best friend where I am and texted my professor to try and get me out of my job! You--get out!,” she screams, using more strength than I’ve ever heard. Those two words echo off the porch and around my brain as she continues to shout—“Get out!”

She throws my phone at me. “Get out, you asshole! Get out!”

Phone in hand, the men usher me from their entryway, and I didn’t even realize I’d partially moved inside. Everything happened so fast.

“You talk a lot of shit for someone with secrets,” one of the men says, yanking open my car door as if I’m the menace here.

“I want better for her than this,” I hiss, spitting at their feet.

“You don’t even know what this is, asshole,” the other man states, and with that, they turn and walk back to the large home, collecting my daughter in their arms before the door closes and the night is officially shit.

I fucked that up. I yelled instead of listened. And now Brielle knows that Winnie and I have communicated. And that I tried to get her a new assignment.

“Fuck!” I shout, slamming my fists into the steering wheel.

I call Winnie, who answers in tears. And I learn right then, in my car parked on a dark street in the city, that the sound of Winnie’s tears makes me feel like shit.

“You told her I told you?—”

“I didn’t, she took my phone, and?—”

“Shut up!” she cries. “Just—give me time. I need time without you in my head.”

“I didn’t tell her about us—“ I argue, her need for space throwing a wrench in my nerves. I don’t want space. I don’twant to argue with my daughter. I don’t want any of this. “Fuck! Winnie, please?—”

But I’m talking to myself.

chapter twenty

winnie

What did he do?

What the fuck did that bossy, sexy jerk do?

Something. He did something because Brielle has been calling my phone nonstop for the last hour.

I hate myself, but I can’t bring myself to answer. I can’t face it. Not yet, not now. Plus, as bad as it sounds, I need to talk to Quincey, to find out what he told her, what she knows.

“What’s up?” Dante asks, sauntering into our shared room in a towel, his hair mussed with product. He hovers over my shoulder, peering at my computer screen. “Almost done, eh? Damn, didn’t you just start that like, a few weeks ago?”

“Two months and two weeks,” I correct and no, I don’t track my school projects that way. I do, however, know when this began because I started it not long before I started working for Quincey. Thanks to his generosity, I was able to receive therapy, take care of myself financially and get my final graduate project done with ease.

But, also thanks to Quincey, I have no idea if I’ve lost my best friend or not.

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