Page 52 of This Memory
Brystol laughed. “Why don’t you go shower? I’ll get the door. If it’s your mother, I’ll explain everything.”
“Would you marry me? Because any woman who’s willing to face my mother is the woman I need to spend the rest of my life with.”
The doorbell rang again, and Brystol shoved my arm. “Go shower.”
I quickly went to the bathroom, turned on the water…and felt a wave of guilt wash over me. There was no way I could leave Brystol alone with my mother to answer all the questions I knew she’d have.
I turned off the water then quickly put on sweats and a long-sleeve shirt. My house wasn’t huge—a three-bedroom, one-story place just two blocks from my parents’ home. It was the first major purchase I’d ever made, with the help of my father and mother.
The sound of my mother and Brystol’s voices became clearer as I got closer to the kitchen.
I stopped in the threshold when I saw the two of them, heads bent together, laughing. And not just a giggle; full on, gasping-for-air laughter.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
They both looked up, and Brystol started laughing again. She actually wiped tears from her face.
Once my mother got herself under control, she cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I was showing Brystol some old photos of you.”
I was pretty sure all the color drained from my face. “Mom, please tell me you didn’t.”
Brystol started to laugh again. “She. Did!”
I closed my eyes and cursed inwardly. When my mother spoke again, I shot her a withering look.
“Oh, don’t be a poor sport about it, Gavin.”
Calmly, I asked, “You didn’t show herthepicture, did you?”
Brystol reached over and placed a hand on my mother’s arm. “Oh my gosh, are there more like that?”
With an evil smile on her beautiful face, my mom nodded. “I haven’t scanned them all into my computer yet. You could come over for dinner some night, and we can go through old photos.”
I pointed at Brystol. “No! No, no, no.”
She winked at me. “Oh, come on, Gavin. I’m sure you’re not the only twelve-year-old boy who dressed up like a girl.”
I sighed, already feeling my cheeks heating up. “It was Jane Austen, and it was for National Read a Book Day at school. We had to dress up like our favorite authors.”
Brystol gasped and covered her mouth before dropping her hand to exclaim, “Oh my gosh!Youwere the guy they called Bingley’s Bitch in middle school!”
I gaped at her. I hadn’t heard that name in years.
“Everyone in school was talking about the boy who dressed up like Jane Austen.” She laughed even harder. “Jameswas the one who said your name should be Bingley’s Bitch!”
It was my turn to gasp as I took a step back. “My ownbrothergave me that nickname? People called me Bingley’s Bitch for years.” I frowned.No. He wouldn’t do that to me. Would he?
Brystol pressed her lips together tightly.
My mother covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, honey, I’m sure he didn’t.”
I shook my head. “That asshole.”
Clearing her throat, my mother said, “Let’s not name call.”
I laughed. “Mom, do you know how ruthlessly I was teased by that stupid nickname?”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean for it to go that far.”
