Page 47 of Organized Chaos
I didn’t relish hiding the truth from Raven, but...Brandon is the one exception to all my rules.
I asked Gabby if she’d be willing to stay at this hotel. Though she wasn’t aware of my little crush, Gabby granted my wish because she was the best.
My seemingly huge victory was dampened when tragedy struck. I heard that Brandon’s father passed away recently. Suddenly, it was crucial to see Brandon. He was suffering. I could feel it in my bones and so badly wanted to comfort him even if I could only do so from afar.
And it had to be from afar because a future with him wasn’t in the cards.
Though these small peeks into his life satiated my mind, I had been careful about concealing my presence throughout the years. What would have been the point otherwise?
I wasn’t dense enough to pursue Brandon, nor would he ever see me in that light. He was out of my league in every way, which was okay for someone like me. Not to mention, my brother didn’t want Brandon in my life, and Brandon never fought the injunction.
If I kept popping up unexpectedly, sooner or later, he would have figured out that I periodically stalked him.
But he had caught me red-handed now, and all I could do was gawp like a deer in headlights. Because Brandon was looking at me in a way that he hardly looked at other women—with male interest and tons of it.
The universe had set up this scene perfectly. I refused to miss the opportunity to play out the one fantasy to keep me up at night over the years.
In the story Brandon and I wrote together, our protagonist, Maya Mathews, had also met her love interest at a bar while being approached by another man. When the “hero” of our story saved her, Maya had said, “Finally! I’ve been waiting for you to come over. What took you so long?"
As I said, kismet.
"You could have come up to me instead,” Brandon retorted in that arrogant way of his.
"And miss the chance to watch you intimidate that man?"
Brandon narrowed his eyes. He realized we were playing a role, having similar conversations to the ones we had written for our characters.
"That was... fun,” Brandon admitted with a sly smile. “Do you want a drink?"
“That’s an affirmative,” I replied, repeating the dialogue verbatim.
We presented this story at a competition before Milo banned our... camaraderie. I typed up the story but never threw away our original “manuscript.” I had even sewn the vintage parchment papers myself with a handmade cover so it could read like an actual book.
It was my safety blanket and had served as my only companion during the loneliest of nights. Everywhere I went, the makeshift book came with me, and tonight it was safely tucked away in the hotel room upstairs.
It was exhilarating that Brandon Cooper—a self-proclaimed snob who regularly forgot names—recalled a silly story we had written years ago. A story that shaped my life, my personality, my heart. I was a part of his history just like he was a part of mine, and he remembered everything about me.
Others pegged me as overly optimistic of people’s shortcomings, but they needed to open their hearts. Brandon’s blunt dismissal of frivolous small talk and sarcastic nature made him out to be a jerk. But he wasn’t a self-absorbed asshole at all. He was a man of few words and reserved his limited efforts to engage in substantial conversations.
What’s so wrong with that?
Brandon valued his time and was simply selective about investing it in those who mattered to him. Somehow, I made the cut.
I was floating on Cloud Nine, but my ecstasy was interrupted by the bartender. “ID, please?”
The play-by-play of our script took a backseat with the cruel reminder of our reality. Brandon appeared visibly embarrassed by the bartender’s request, his eyes sweeping over in a hasty motion.
He doesn’t want to be seen with someone so much younger.
I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole. Unable to take Brandon’s regard, I sought out a particular ID from my purse.
Two weeks before our trip, Gabby asked me if I had a preferred alias. I gave her the only name that meant something to me—Maya Mathews. An ID was waiting for me upon my arrival in Nice, courtesy of some sketchy guy from our neighborhood in Paris.
Despite my vow to never use it, I flashed the document to the bartender. Brandon was my one exception for breaking the rules, remember?
Still, I made sure to only order wine. It was legal for me to consume wine in France, so technically, I wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Brandon studied the document intently, eyes twinkling. He didn’t reprimand me for the fake ID. Brandon wasn’t above breaking the rules... or the law. And he knew why I had chosen Maya Mathews as my alias.
