Page 42 of Winning Brynn

"Anyway, he heard that and set up a meeting to arrange a collaboration. It would have done huge things for my singing career, but Indiana and I still couldn't find his lasso, and so I was faced with a moral conundrum. Do I miss the meeting and keep looking? Or do I go to the meeting anyway at the risk of Indiana never finding his lasso, leading to his premature retirement and, ultimately, the world's demise?"

I bite back the response that she might be harboring guilt on some level about indirectly causing me to miss my call with Adidas the other day, only because she might think I'm being sarcastic and petty, which, honestly, wouldn't be the case.

I had other options for childcare for Say that day. I just hadn't thought about them at the time. And what she was doing was important—admirable, even.

So, really, though it begrudges me to admit it, it wasn't Brynn's fault at all that I missed that call…but mine.

"What did you choose?" I ask, genuinely interested. I don't know why, since this entire scenario occurred in her unconscious mind, and the woman can't sing for shit—I've heard her before, and she's horrendous—not to mention how utterly ridiculous the dream is in general.

"I don't know," she whispers. "I woke up."

I nod silently because I have no fucking idea what to say.

"It just made me a bit anxious, that's all." She takes note of my bewilderment and shakes her head, swinging her legs out of bed. "Never mind. You think I'm silly. It's okay. It doesn't matter. I can go back to bed now."

And though all I want to do right now is to go back to sleep, I find myself grabbing her arm and pulling her back to where she was before.

"Why did it make you anxious?" I ask gently.

She searches my face for something, a sign of insincerity maybe. But whatever she's looking for, she doesn't find it. Or maybe she does—I don't know—but either way, she starts talking. “What if I chose the wrong one?"

I frown, not following. "What do you mean?"

"What if I went to the meeting with Elton John?" she whispers. "And then Indiana Jones couldn't save the world anymore because of my selfishness?"

I choose my words carefully, sensing that this is an anxiety that runs deeper for her than just lassos and meetings with Elton John. "Well, if you could choose now, what would you do?"

Her brow creases. "Does it matter? I'm not asleep anymore."

"So?" I shrug. "I feel like you're doubting yourself right now, so I think it's important that you answer the question."

She tilts her head to one side, assessing me. And though I know it's impossible, since humans are physically unable to see color in low light, I swear I can see the dapple of gold dancing in her irises.

"I'd help Indiana," she says finally.

"Yeah, you would."

"It's hard sometimes," she begins, and my heart takes a nosedive because I know whatever she's about to say is going to ruin me. "To remember who I am."

My lack of understanding must show on my face, because she continues, "I think that, being raised in care for a while, I learned that it's easier to protect myself if I only let people see so much. Like, it doesn't hurt so much if people don't like me, because the person they don't like isn't actuallyme,you know?" I was right. She's ruining me. "But I've been doing it for so long that sometimes, maybe, I don't really know who I am either."

Jesus.

Shoot me right in the heart with a fucking arrow.

This woman is a goddamn enigma.

"I feel like I know who you are," I admit quietly.

She raises a skeptical brow. "You think I'm a self-obsessed airhead who only cares about shopping and taking selfies."

Ouch.

"I don't anymore."

"But you did," she says pointedly.

"Yeah, but I was a prick." I smile and pray to God she returns it. Thankfully, she does, and I sag in relief. "But now..."

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