Page 113 of Winning Brynn

Salem has been fast asleep in bed for an hour now, and I’m warming dinner on the stove. Across from me at the kitchen island, the reason for my stress picks at a bowl of blueberries as she stares at something invisible on the far wall.

“How are things going with Salem and Issy?” I ask for no reason other than I’m running out of conversation starters, and I’ve reached the point that I’m just desperate to hear the sound of her voice.

Issy isn’t someone I like talking about. In fact, I’d be happy if I never had to hear or speak her name again, but circumstances out of my control have meant that she is now, unfortunately, a seemingly permanent fixture in my life.

I don’t ask about her often. I trust that Brynn will tell me anything I need to know relating to the growing relationship between Issy and my daughter, and I leave the apartment for practice long before she arrives so I don’t have to see her.

If I had things my way, she’d be back in Bali already.

But Brynn can be persuasive when she wants to be, and she was right in her point that I need to do what’s best for Salem, regardless of my own feelings on the matter, so here we are.

“Good,” Brynn replies, her voice bereft of the melody that usually permeates it. Instead, it’s flat and as dead as the houseplant in my bathroom that I still need to throw out. “Salem seems to be coming around to her. She let Issy feed her yesterday, which is a good sign, I guess.”

“Great,” I choke. “That’s…great.”

“Yep.”

She’s looking right at me, her gaze locked on mine, but there’s something strange about it. Like she’s not seeing me. Not really. More like she’s looking through me to something that isn’t there.

I don’t like it.

I don’t like any of this.

I don’t understand what has happened to bring about this sudden change in her, and damn it all to hell, but I miss how things were before, when I could make her laugh without trying and kiss her without her flinching. She hasn’t stolen a single ball cap this week or even made fun of my accent—both clear indications that something is dreadfully wrong.

I miss it all.

I missher.

“She wants to come to the game with us tomorrow,” she says, squeezing a blueberry between her thumb and forefinger until it pops and stains her skin indigo.

“I’d rather she didn’t.”

“She said she can look after Salem, so I can support you and Alex without being distracted by the baby.”

My forehead creases. “Is that how you feel?”

“No!” Her eyes turn wild, and I’m relieved to see some life back inside them. “No, I don’t feel like that at all.”

“Do you want her to come?”

She gnaws on her bottom lip, rubbing blueberry juice deeper into her skin with her fingers. “I don’t mind.”

She’s lying.

It’s funny that she thinks I can’t tell.

“As long as I don’t have to see her, I guess it doesn’t really matter to me. So, it’s up to you. If you don’t want her to come, just tell her there aren’t enough tickets.”

She’s silent as her gaze returns to the spot on the wall. Gnawing so hard on her lip that I’m sure she’s going to split it, she picks up another blueberry and squishes it between her fingers again.

I don’t know why she keeps doing that, but it’s making quite the mess.

Finally, she sighs and brings her eyes back to me. They’ve turned lifeless again, devoid of their usual golden sparkle. “I’ll tell her she can come.”

“Why? You obviously don’t want her to.”

“It isn’t about what I want.”

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