Page 73 of Holly Freakin' Hughes

“Yes,”he said with a nod.

Myheart knocked against my chest in alarm as pieces of the puzzle slid together.He had a beautiful house that undoubtedly cost a fortune, and a car to match. Aflash of a memory entered my mind: He had told me he was a writer of books; asuccessful one. His clear blue eyes watched me with uncertain intensity, and Inoticed my palms were sweaty despite the chilly room. I swallowed, wishing theconstraining of my throat and chest would go away, and I finally choked,“You’re, um …”

Henodded and flipped the book over, slid it over to me, and I felt the colordrain from my face.

Howdid I not know?

Ayounger Brandon stared up at me from the book’s jacket, leaning against a wornbrick building with the thumb of one hand hooked through the belt loop of hisperfectly tailored jeans; the other held the hilt of a sword, the point digginginto the dirt his boots stood upon. The fitted black t-shirt emphasized asubtle outline of his pectoral muscles while the short sleeves showcased fewertattoos than he had presently. His hair was shorter, dark and unruly, while hisfacial hair was kept at that stubble-length I loved.

Slowlymy eyes drifted from the book back up to the real deal. My mouth hung open as Istruggled to find words to express how I felt, but what was it that I feltexactly? Baffled? Amazed? Betrayed? Duped? Angry? Inadequate? All of the above?

“Holly,”Brandon said, predictably pushing a hand through his hair. “Say something,please.”

Myjaw seemed to flap a few times in some feeble attempt to get a sound to comeforth, and after a few tries, I finally spoke. “You’re a celebrity,” I stated,allowing the words to slide over my tongue and around my brain for a momentbefore swallowing hard.

Brandonfaltered a bit before nodding. “Yes.”

Thereply was simple, and yet, it was enough to bring my hands to shakeuncontrollably. I looked down at my naked body, suddenly appearing to me as acellulite-ridden blob of shapes and fat glued together in a mad scientist’slab. I thought about my stained sweatshirts and ripped yoga pants, all of thosetimes I cried in front of him, the time I tried having sex with him in theparking lot, and that one time—still fresh in myfreakin’memory—when I threw up on him.

Ithrew up on a famous guy.

“I,uh …” My mouth was suddenly dry while the remnants of eggplant threatened tocrawl their way up my throat and all over the sheets. Tears sprung to my eyesand I shook my head. “I … I don’t belong here.”

Iwrapped myself in the sheet hastily, and ran down the hall, down the stairs insearch of my clothes and my phone. I had to call Liz, I had to have her pick meup, I had to get the fuck away from that house. Away from a life I foolishlythought I had any claim to, and away from a man I definitely didn’t deserve.

“Holly,”Brandon called, and ran down the stairs after me just moments later. “What doyou mean, ‘you don’t belong here?’ What the hell does that mean?” He strainedto keep his voice calm as he spoke; his fists opened and closed, chest heaving.

Ididn’t dare look at him standing there in his pajama pants. I didn’t dare toremind myself that those arms had been wrapped around me, that his mouth hadjust explored every part of my body, that he had been inside me.

Thetears streamed down my face as I picked my sweater up off the floor. “I am ababysitter,Brandon.”

“Oh,myGod… Sowhat?!” His voice with its usual depth had taken on atense, almost high-pitched tone that finally broke under the strain.

“I’mnobody,” I said softly, clutching the sweater to my chest.

“Jesus,Holly, you are anything but nobody. You have absolutely no idea what you’vedone to my life. Y-you changed everything. Ilov—”

Anagging little voice spoke up in my mind. A thought that hadn’t hit me untilthat moment, with my eyes on the black-and-white tile of the foyer.

“Youdidn’t tell me,” I said, cutting him off.

“What?”

“Whydidn’t you tell me?” I asked, raising my voice. “Jesus Christ. Youliedto me. After everything you know I’ve been through, youliedto me.”

“I-Ididn’tlieto you, Holly. Itoldyou I was a writer. You couldhave looked me up, you could have—”

Howdare he pin this on me.

“Howthe fuck could you do this to me?” I looked at him, stunned that he couldpossibly try to turn it around, to make itmyfault. “A-and …God,Brandon, what are youdoingwith me? You could haveanybody, andyou did this tome? What—did you see this poor, vulnerable, defenselessbabysitterand thought she would be an easy target? Is this what you do when you’rebored?”

Heheld onto the banister and sunk to the bottom step, holding his hand to hisforehead. “Is that what youreallythink? That you were a game to me?”

“Well,what else would you call it?” I demanded, letting the sheet drop before pullingthe sweater over my head. I had no idea where my bra had run off to, but hecould keep it. A trophy to remember The Babysitter by.

Hestared up at me, a mixture of shock and hurt painted across his face, and Ichose to ignore both. “Holly, I’m telling you right now. If all I wanted was tofind a quick lay, I have had my pick of them for the past five years of mylife. You would not believe how many women—and men—literallybegme tofuck them. So, believe me, I would not have spent the pastseveralmonthsplaying themost painful fucking game of hard-to-get just to sleep with youonce.”He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “And I sure as hellwould not have fallen in love with you.”

Istared at him—the famous B. Davis—as I pulled my leggings on. “Oh please,Brandon. People like you don’t fall in love with people like me.”

---