Page 64 of Falling for Grace

“Of course.”

“Brilliant, you’re a lifesaver. You’re still in Walton, right? Can you drop me at the Ashley?”

“Of course. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

It’s as if Harry senses my distress. He puts his big bear arm around my shoulder, tucking me in protectively as he directs me over to his car.

I climb in, not thinking, just going through the motions. I glance over at Brandon and Ava, still at the bench, having an animated conversation, but I don’t dwell on it, as soon the car is filled with monotonous radio talk and I close my eyes and let Harry drive me back to the comfort of my shitty hotel room.

Chapter 24

Iwalk back into my room and flop onto the bed, my head a big ball of fuzz. I leave a voicemail for Sue, apologising profusely, and spout some excuse about not feeling well. I’m sure she’ll understand, but I still can’t help but feel horrifically guilty.

The wake—why the hell do they call it that? Anyway, the wake would have been a good time to reminisce about Danny, share stories about some of the idiotic things we did growing up. But instead, after taking a mammoth nap, I grabbed some food from the pub downstairs, along with drinking a few glasses of wine, and now I find myself in the bath drinking my way through the mini bar.

I’m doing pretty damn well, if I do say so myself.

I’ve let the water out and refilled it with more hot water three times and my fingers are nicely pruned and wrinkled. The bandage on my hand is soggy and peeling away from the skin, but I’m still not ready to get up.

So I’m drinking.

I’m doing the thing that my mother always told me to not to do, drink away my problems. Except these aren’t really problems, these are memories, and painful ones at that.

I finally pull my sorry ass out of the bath at around 8 p.m., worried that my skin may wrinkle to the point of no return. I wrap myself in one of the fluffy hotel towels and start combing through my wet hair. I tug at the knots, enjoying the bite of pain as it makes me focus on something other than the reason why I’m here.

My eyes are wide and bloodshot, the bags under them turning darker with each day I spend here. I’m pale, my make-up smudged, but at least my hair is almost free of knots.

Silver lining, and all that.

I jump at a loud bang. This is no polite little knock; no, this is a fist-thumping bang that makes me drop the comb to the floor and worry about whether the hinges are still going to be in place by the time I get to the door. Frowning at my reflection, I turn and pad across the bathroom into the bedroom, stepping over the clothes strewn across the floor when I stripped them off earlier in my haste to cleanse myself of the day.

There’s no peephole, so I can’t even check who it is. I unlock the door and pry it open, sighing. I don’t even need to look up to his face, I just know it's him.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, opening the door wider. His eyes track up my towel-clad body, slowly leaving a trail of warmth until they finally meet my eyes. His pupils are dilated, his usual fluid motions heavy and clumsy.

“I had to see you.” His voice is thick with alcohol. It oozes from every pore.

“Are you drunk?”

“No.” He slumps against the doorframe and then his lazy eyes meet mine again. “Okay, yes.”

“Why are you here, Brandon?” A flash catches my eye. Oh, for fuck’s sake. He has managed to pick up paparazzi on his drunken adventure.

“Jesus Christ, Brandon.” I grab him and pull him into the room, slamming the door shut as more flashes fill the hallway. He falls inside, barely looking at his surroundings before going over to the bed and flopping down heavily, his head in his arms.

“Are you okay?” I say, my arms folded over myself as I stand by the door.

“I had to see you,” he says again, his eyes darkening. “When you left that message for Mum... What about me, Grace? I needed you, I need you.” Guilt punches me but I try to suppress it. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, pain in his voice and expression.

“You have Ava,” but even as I say this I’m walking over to him; he’s looking at the floor, avoiding eye contact so I place my fingers under his chin and tilt his head up to look at me.

“Brandon,” I say, “I’m here for you, anytime, anywhere. You know that, right?” Tears fill his eyes and hurts my heart.

“I know I say don’t think about the what-ifs, but Gracie, it’s eating me up inside,” he says. “Why did he do it? I just want to understand why—I need to know.”

“I know,” I say, my voice cracking. I put my hands on his shoulders and he leans into my waist, his head resting on my stomach against the soft towel.

He wraps his arms around me and cries.

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