Page 86 of Falling for Grace

“But, Grace, he has to want to be helped. If you can’t reach him, don’t blame yourself. I’ll be here for you. In whatever way you need.”

“You’re good with the words, Ben.”

He smiles, his dimple popping. “I am good with words.”

He steps to my side and wraps a huge arm around my shoulders, which feel like they are carrying the weight of the world on them.

“Come on, Miss Bush, let’s get you home.”

Chapter 31

I‘ve reached out to Brandon many times since the date with Ben a couple of weeks ago. He called me every name under the sun when I reached him, and I spent most of the aftermath curled up in a ball crying.

Brandon seems to haunt me at every turn.

Magazines, Twitter, Facebook. Songs from our childhood on the radio. I can’t remember the last time I heard some of these bands. It’s like the universe is taunting me.

Story after story about him and his behaviour. Knowing I’m the cause is like eating a lump of turd filled with glass shards for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

I’m curled up on the sofa hugging a cup of warm tea to my chest as I watch some re-run. Theresa, her hair barely held up in a bun, is next to me, where she has stayed all day. She knows I’m not myself.

The funeral is well in the past and I’m moving on from the loss of Danny, but now I have to watch the press capture Brandon’s pretty epic downfall, which is a nice constant smack in the face for me. I’ve watched for the last week as he has been pictured partying, draping himself all over half-dressed beautiful ladies. There have been rumours of drugs and fighting. Basically, anything I’ve read about a rock star, Brandon is following in their footsteps in a horrifically public and messy breakdown.

There’s a knock at the door, but I don’t have the energy to move.

“I’ll get it,” Theresa says and places her tea on the coffee table. We’re slowly working our way through the PG Tips I brought back to the States with me. I don’t care what anyone says: American tea is not the same as English.

I hear hushed voices at the door. I’m not paying much attention to the TV, either. I’m just staring, stuck in my own bloody head.

T arrives back in the living room, her expression... odd.

“Erm, Ava Morganstein is at the door, and she…wants to talk to you.”

“Who?” I frown. Who the heck is Ava Morganspeille, and why is Theresa, for the first time ever, looking all nervous and uncomfortable?

“The model,” she hisses. “The famous model.” I still stare at her, confused, but there is a slight spark of recognition. “The bitch,” she says more loudly, and then the penny drops.

Ava Morganstein.

Brandon’s girlfriend…the fake girlfriend, who has been treated horrifically by him over the past month. The fake girlfriend who called Danny “stupid.” And she’s here at my door… What the… Why?

“I don’t want to see her, T. Get rid of her.” Theresa turns around and gasps as Ava walks into our home uninvited.

“Um, excuse me,” Theresa says, holding her hand up.

“I’m so sorry for barging in. Believe me, this is the last place I want to be.”

I stand and walk toward the door.

“What do you want, Ava?” She’s in tight-fitting jeans and a baggy jumper that’s falling off one shoulder. Jealousy is a strange thing, because even in this moment I’m jealous that she had Brandon. But I see how tired she looks. I mean, sure, she has no make-up on, and yeah, she still looks fucking amazing, which is annoying as hell, but there is no mistaking the fact that she looks worse than when I last saw her.

“I need your help,” she says, her voice small.

“And why the hell do you think she would help you after the way you treated her?” Theresa snaps. “You are disgusting and disrespectful, and you are not welcome here.”

Ava’s eyes meet mine and I find myself hesitating. Yes, the inner bitch in me wants to watch Theresa throw her out on her bony ass, but something in her eyes is pleading.

“It’s about Brandon,” she says, and Theresa hesitates, looking back to me.

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