Page 99 of Winning Brynn

Leo:Isabella is not Salem's mom.

Leo:But yes, the woman who birthed her has shown up out of the fucking blue to ruin my life.

Roman:Damn. That's rough, dude.

Leo:How do you even know anyway?

Roman:Wolfe called me.

Leo:It's been forty-five minutes since she left my apartment.

Roman:The devil works hard, but Wolfe works harder.

Alex:Oops. Should I not have said anything? Are you mad at me?

Leo:It depends who else you've told.

Alex:Only Roman.

Alex:And Harley.

Alex:Oh, and Theo, Arun, and Coach Carter. My parents too.

Leo:Jesus fucking Christ. Are you capable of keeping your mouth shut?

Alex:Meh. You owe me anyway.

Leo:How do you figure?

Alex:I have your baby mama crying in my guest room right now.

Alex:It's ruining my nightly jerk-off. Real boner killer.

Leo:WTAF?

Alex:I'm kidding.

Alex:Kinda.

Chapter Thirty-two

Brynn

Morning arrives all tooquickly. My eyes crack open, sticky with sleep, to find Salem already awake beside me. She’s sucking on the sleeve of her giraffe-printed onesie, the soft material stretching across her chubby limbs as daylight pours through the drapes.

According to my phone, it’s a little after eight a.m. Leo must have left for practice hours ago, but I guess I was so exhausted that I slept through it.

“Muh! Muh!”

“I still don’t know what that means, ladybug. But I’ll get it soon, I promise.”

She blows a spit bubble in reply, patting two tiny hands on my cheeks. Wiping the spittle from my face, I rub my eyes and pull myself up to rest against the headboard. Everything aches, my head, my body, my heart.

Last night shouldn't have affected me as much as it did. I'm Salem's nanny, so what does it matter to me if her real mom is back? Or that said real mom is my friend, Issy, who I apparently don't know at all anymore. Never once in the time we've known each other has she mentioned a daughter. In fact, she used to grimace every time the subject of children was mentioned in her presence.

But maybe what I was seeing in those moments was deep-buried pain—guilt, even, rather than disgust. Or I’m reaching because I don’t want to think that my friend and the woman who abandoned Salem so coldly are the same person.

Sure, we haven’t known each other for long, in the grand scheme of things. But I thought we’d built up a close enough friendship over the last year that she’d tell me something as significant as that.

---