Page 7 of Memories of Us

Unfortunately for me, it was Brenton Graves who I fell for, the older bad boy who everyone assumed was a lost cause. But they didn't see the real him or know our full story. They weren't a part of the buildup to who we were together—friends to confidants to lovers to.... Everyone assumed they knew the details of our final night together, but they didn't; they only believed the lies they had heard. Only Ryder knew the play-by-play of that awful night, and I guess Brenton. Not that I'd know for sure, considering the last time I saw or spoke to him, I was screaming in pain while he lay unconscious in the driver seat.

Holding the wheel with my knee, I swiped both sweaty palms down my already damp jeans and cursed at the windshield.

Am I really considering going to the funeral for a shot at closure?

Haven't I moved on? I’m thirty years old, dammit.

Okay, a sad thirty-year-old who couldn't move on and maybe still thought about her first love, her first relationship, first lover nearly every other day.

“You're pathetic, Beka. Seriously pathetic. Grow a set and move on,” I said to myself through the roaring, dust-filled wind pouring through the open windows as I sped down the smooth highway.

**

AFTER A LENGTHY, WELL-deserved shower, I fell face-first onto the bed with an exhausted groan. Like the rest of my body, the throbbing soles of my feet seemed to sigh. Being a veterinarian wasn't at all what I expected. Long hours, late nights, and very—and I mean very—little pay. The small practice that hired me after graduation decided to haze me into the group by giving me the unwanted cases and clients, which seemed to be most of them.

The chirp of an incoming message had me fake sobbing into the comforter. Damn me for leaving the stupid phone in the other room. The soles of my feet revolted, sending bolts of pain up my legs with each timid step. A new pair of boots were necessary, but those would have to go on the “want” list, not the “need” list. Both of which were growing.

Even though undergrad had been paid for by the asshat I was dreading to face in three days, graduate school was fucking expensive, leaving me with a healthy bill at the end. Add student loans to my other daily expenses, and I fell deeper into the red with each passing month. I could get by if I moved back home, but there was no way in hell that would happen.

And that wasn't an empty threat. I'd rather live on the streets than back with Daddy.

I fell onto a stool, catching myself before toppling over backward, and swiped the phone open.

Ryder:I think you should go. So does Kyle.

Ryder:You need closure, and this might be your last shot to get it.

My heart dropped to my stomach. Last shot?

Me:Why do you say that?

Me:And you talked to Kyle about what I should do?

Ryder:He is my fiancé and your other best friend, so yeah. Plus things are boring around here. This little development of Brenton coming back to town has everyone talking.

Ryder:And by everyone, I mean every eligible woman eager to get a glimpse of him.

Ryder:You know that ranch will go to Old Man Graves’s bastard son. As soon as his name is on that deed, that place will be up for sale, which means no more Graves family ranch. No more chances of you running into him when visiting your dad.

Ryder:Think about it. It's been ten years. Get your last word in before it’s too late.

Me:Thirteen years. But who's counting?

Ryder:You're killing me. Closure. It does wonders.

Ryder:And you need it, love.

Shit, she was right. Of course she was. It was only the topic of every late-night, drunken conversation since we were teens. Since the day she’d climbed into my hospital bed and held me while I sobbed on her shoulder.

Me:Enough about him. How are things?

Ryder:Things are good. Wedding plans are going well. Now back to him.

Me:What would I even say to him?

Ryder:What we've practiced every day since you left the hospital. Every night since we were kids. You got this. Kyle and I will be there too. You'll have backup.

Ryder:You can do it. But you have to be there to get the last word.

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