Page 94 of Falling for Grace

“Brandon…”

“Leave, Grace. I mean it. I don’t want to see you, not now.” He stands and staggers away, back into his house.

I follow, overwhelmed by grief and helpless at seeing him like this. It’s so out of character. I stand by the back door watching as he grabs his phone and stops the music.

The silence is deafening.

“Please, Grace.” He drops his head and his back ripples as he stretches, and grips the sideboard which houses more empty bottles, his shoulders tense. “Don’t push this right now. Don’t push me, Grace. I can’t be held responsible if you try and push this right now. I can’t.”

“It won’t always feel like this,” I say softly.

“Don’t.” He spins round. “I don’t want to see you right now, Grace. Danny gave you space when you needed it, and I was hoping for the same courtesy from you. I thought you of all people may understand the need for a little bit of time.”

“Bran—”

“No! You’re just going to make excuses for yourself, and I’m not ready to hear them. I can’t, I can’t be around you right now.”

He puts the song back on and turns the volume up, dismissing me.

“Get out.” He says it so calmly that I’m filled with fear. I would rather him launch the bottle of vodka at my head.

I turn and I leave him standing in the house that I designed for us as children.

Chapter 34

Ava’s house is quiet as I lie on the bed staring at the immaculate ceiling. I find myself missing the smudge on mine back home in Houston, along with the humidity, which I never thought I’d miss. It gave me something to focus on while I over-analysed my life. Which is exactly what I’m doing right now. Ava popped her head in before she went to her meetings, and said that her assistant was waiting for the “social media buzz” to reveal Brandon’s whereabouts and give me the opportunity for round two.

But as I lie here I’m of two minds. The selfish part of me wants to hunt him down and explain myself to him, explain the choices I made, because although I told him, I haven’t explained why. The other part of me wants to listen to his pleas. Because that’s what they are: pleas. He’s not ready, he needs time. My phone buzzes with a message from Ava with an address on it and the words “He’s been spotted—go to him.”

So I suppress the warning voice, and I do the opposite to what Brandon has requested.

I have barely entered the car park at Target when I see a couple of paparazzi by the front of the store. I stay in the air-conditioned taxi, the driver wondering what on earth I’m doing. But I’m watching and waiting for the flashes of their huge lenses to start, which will signal his arrival outside the store. I don’t have to wait long. I’ve just sent an update to Theresa when the first bulb goes and I take that as my cue to jump out the car, throwing over more than enough cash to cover the journey.

I cover the tarmac quickly and wait tucked to the side as Brandon totters over, followed by the paparazzi. They are shouting questions at him, to which Brandon responds with a slurred “Fuck you”.

In his hand is a bottle wrapped in brown paper and I’m slightly horrified to see that his jeans are barely done up. He is sloppily holding onto them for dear life. His eyes are still bleary and bloodshot, with large bags underneath them. He looks disheveled and exhausted. He trips over as he tries to drink out of the vodka cap—the cap, of all things, like he’s trying to pour himself a shot of vodka. The paparazzi just chuckle and continue to take pictures.

Why isn’t anyone helping him? It’s barely 11 in the morning and he’s already drinking. I storm past them and grab the bottle out of his hands.

“Jesus, Brandon!”

He goes to grab the bottle back off me and I drop it to the floor, letting it smash. He still hasn’t noticed that it’s me.

“Stop taking fucking pictures,” I snap at the men documenting this whole exchange. “He’s a human being, not an animal at a fucking zoo. Sod off.” I notice that a few people are standing around with mobile phones out, probably videoing this—excellent!

Brandon is slumped against a wall, still holding onto his trousers. “This,” I say, pointing at him. “This is not healthy. Look at the state you’re in.”

“I told you yesterday, Grace. Fuck you and fuck off,” he spits out, the stench of alcohol thick on his breath. He’s drunk and angry, and he is, unfortunately, directing all of that emotion at me in front of everyone.

“No! I’m not just going to walk away and let you go down this path, Brandon.”

“I said fuck off, Grace.” For the first time since I’ve arrived he looks relatively coherent.

“Shout and scream all you want, Brandon. Throw yourself to the fucking floor and have a tantrum, but I. Am. Not. Leaving,” I say, poking at the angry drunken bear.

He looks at me full of so much contempt and hatred that I want to turn around and find a corner to cry in. But I will not run. Not this time.

“I know you’re pushing me away, Brandon.”

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