Page 146 of Branded
So all of that was swirling, and my arms were tired, and my lungs were on fire, and Smitty was close, the nosy motherfucker, and one wrong word and that nosy motherfucker would unleash the full force of the gossip train on me.
And I needed that like I needed a hole in my head.
But the gossip train was a train for a reason—once it was trucking along the tracks, it was nearly impossible to get it to stop.
So I was braced, standing on the tracks, prepared to be flattened.
I was tense, knowing it was bearing down on me.
I was…shocked to shit when Smitty clapped me on the shoulder again and didn’t ask. Instead, the only thing my teammate said was, “Pancakes.”
Syrup and carbs and a shit-ton of butter.
Yeah, I could go for that. “You making them or are we going to Donna’s?”
“Not even a fucking decision, man,” Smitty said, clapping me on the shoulder again.
I smiled for the first time in what felt like forever.
“We’re going to Donna’s.”
Eight
Beth
Truthfully, I’d sat on the couch after Raph left, the memories still tightly clutching at my brain, mixing with the way Raph’s face had looked when he’d touched me, how it had felt for him to carry me into the hospital, to his car, what it meant that he’d cooked for me, and I’d cried.
Truthfully, I would have liked to pretend it was pregnancy hormones.
But as I curled up on the couch, staring at the full cup of water, I knew it wasn’t hormones.
It was the memories.
It was Raph.
So it took me a long time to lose it, to cry out all the shit twisted inside, to let loose all that pressure so the doors would lock tight again.
Then it took me a long time to summon up the energy to get off the couch and get on with my day.
I drank the water first.
Then I moved into my downstairs bathroom, where Pru had moved all of my makeup and face stuff—cleanser, age-defying creams and lotions, moisturizer, serum, and primer—so I did my thing, taking my time and doing it slowly, making sure I’d hidden every trace of my freak-out beneath the concealer and foundation.
And I knew that it would be hidden.
Because I had lots of practice at it.
I’d shed so many tears in my life that I could fill the Hoover Dam.
I just did it silently, on my couch or in my bed or—my favorite—in the shower. Easy to wash away, easy to explain the pinkened skin.
Of course, it would be easier if I didn’t cry so much, if I could be one of those women for whom their nightmares tempered their spines, forged them into steel. But I wasn’t strong like that. I had a whole fucking castle worth of demons, locked behind doors, with only a few people allowed inside, and fewer of those allowed in just a couple of rooms on the first floor.
Because those spaces were bright and had a lot of windows and pretty decorations and tons of candelabras to scare away the shadows.
Any demons that might show in those rooms were baby-sized.
Ones easily shared and excised.
