Page 22 of Brazen Being It

Like it’s everything.

And that’s how we fall asleep—two hearts beating in the dark, not touching lips, but sharing something deeper. Something that hums beneath the skin. Something that says this runs deeper than either of us are prepared for. It’s just not time for more.

Not yet.

Not tonight.

This is mine. Not club related. Not about my brother, my mother, my father, or even my damn twin sister. It’s about me and chasing what I feel.

Tonight is just this.

And it’s enough.

FIVE

CAMBRIA

Every new beginning comes after something else ends.

I wakeup in a different world. After a long day on the road, we arrived in some town named Catawba in North Carolina. The guys were both nice the entire trip always asking if I needed to stop to use the facilities or if I wanted to eat.

I couldn’t eat even if I had wanted to. My nerves are at an all time high. Have I lost my mind? This might just be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Yet, the little voice in the back of my head keeps telling me, the flip side of this, it might just be the best thing I’ll ever do.

He is right. Drew is. About my mom. The woman in that hotel room, didn’t even care that I said I was leaving. In fact, she encouraged me to go and have a life without looking back. She said there is nothing for me with her.

I still don’t know how to process that. Even if deep inside I know it’s true, I never ever wanted to hear my own mother tell me there is no life for me with her.

Now, I’m in Drew’s home, trying to calm my anxiety enough to maybe eat.

The sheets are clean. The air smells like man and pine instead of mildew and old cigarettes. There’s no neon sign blinking through the window, no thump of bed springs from the next room, no muffled screaming or distant sirens.

It’s quiet.

Peaceful.

Terrifying.

Little Foot’s place isn’t fancy—it’s a trailer, small, lived-in—but to me, it might as well be a castle. A safe, still space where no one’s yelling, no one’s crying, and the door actually locks.

He’s not here when I open my eyes, but there’s a note on the counter.

"Back soon. Coffee’s in the pot. I’ll bring home creamer. –Drew"

I don’t even actually drink coffee, but I pour myself a cup anyway just to feel normal. Like someone who has a routine, a place, a purpose. I told him I liked it with more creamer than coffee because the few times I’ve tried the stuff it’s been gag worthy unless I drown in it in milk or one of the fancy flavors.

I sip it black. It’s awful. Determined, though, I drink it anyway.

My duffel bag is in the corner where I dropped it last night. I kneel and pull out the few things I own—two shirts, a pair of jeans, two bras, four pairs of panties, and a torn paperback I’ve read six times, and a picture of me and Momma from better days. She was beautiful back then. She was whole. Now, she’s a shell of the woman she once was.

I swallow hard and tuck the photo under the edge of the mattress. Then I dig deeper in the bag until I find the little pouch of makeup I’ve carried for years. It’s not much—a cracked mirror, mascara, lip gloss. But I put it on like armor.

I need to feel like I belong here.

Like I’m not just some stray Little Foot dragged in off the street.

I open his closet, find a black tank top that smells like him—a hint of smoke, leather, and something warm underneath—and slip it on. Then I find a pair of his sweatpants and roll the waistband.

By the time he walks in, I’ve cleaned the trailer, made the bed, and started a load of laundry.

---