Page 123 of Brutal Devil
“I totally understand needing time to yourself,” Isla says. “I basically became a hermit for a solid year when my parents and Lily died.”
Isla lost her mom and dad in a private plane crash. Her dad was piloting. They hit a storm on the way to their friends’ summer house, and they went down in bad visibility. Isla’s younger sister was also a passenger on the plane. Isla wassupposed to be aboard, but at the last minute caught a cold and decided not to go. The weight of the guilt still eats at her, years later.
“I’m sorry, Is,” I say quietly. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
“Don’t be. What I meant was that I get it. We all react to trauma in different ways and have our own coping mechanisms. You don’t need to apologize to me for taking care of yourself.”
“Iamsorry it took me so long to reach out, though,” I say, feeling a swell of emotion rising in my throat. “I should have before now.”
I’ve spent the last month licking my wounds. Finding my footing on my own. Getting settled. I decorated my humble apartment. Wrote enough poems to make two solid collections.
I thought about Priest almost nonstop.
I missed him.
Loved him.
“I stopped by your place, and it was empty,” Isla says. “Someone said they saw a bunch of movers packing everything up. And I heard through the rumor mill that you’re not coming back. Is that true?”
“It’s true.”
Cid jumps into my lap just then, with an adorable little purr trill that I can’t get enough of. The first thing I did after getting my place was to visit a shelter. Cid’s a gray tuxedo cat with seafoam eyes, the loudest meow I’ve ever heard, and a penchant for climbing curtains. He’s a little bit wild and a whole lot sweet, and he reminds me of Priest, all aloof and standoffish one minute and purring in my lap the next, a daredevil who doesn’t give a fuck.
And he’s a great cuddler.
“What was that noise?” Isla wants to know. “Do you have a cat?”
“I do.” I smile, thinking about the first time Cid and I met. “It was love at first sight.”
“Pics or it didn’t happen.”
“Hang on.” I swipe out of the phone conversation and open my camera, snap a picture of Cid, and send it.
“He’s adorable. Thoseeyes.”
“Right?”
There’s a pause.
“So you’re really not coming back.”
“My apartment in Iowa is no pets. And I’m not giving up Cid.” I pause, weighing how I’ll phrase the rest of what I want to say. “Also, I met a guy.”
“Shut. Up. What’s his name? Not another NHL player?”
“No, and Jackson wasn’t in the NHL when we met.”
“I’ve been binge-reading a lot of hockey romance lately, so I guess I was trying to manifest it for you. Have you seen how flexible those goalies are?”
I laugh. “It’s criminal.” And then I stop laughing and try not to cry. “But anyway, we broke up. So it’s not a thing anymore. But being with him made me realize that I wanted to stay here and put down some roots.”
Specifically, I want to run my father’s businesses. I’m not going to just pass them off to Priest. Part of me wants to prove myself. To him. To the memory of my father. To myself.
“It sucks that it didn’t work out.”
“Yeah,” I agree, my throat thick.
I will get over him.
