She smiled, but it was sad around the edges. “You’ve always been intense. Even as a baby. Never satisfied with just being held, you wanted to be flying. You wanted everything at once, and when you couldn’t have it, you’d scream the house down.”
I let myself smile at that, just a little. “Sounds about right.”
She poured herself a cup, stirred in exactly one spoonful of sugar, and went on. “I know I didn’t make it easier for you. Your father… well, he wasn’t much for boundaries. He loved you, both of you girls, but he wanted you to shine so badly that he never let you learn the dark parts. And he thought Harper could handle everything. He was the worst of fathers and I wasn’t much better at being a mother. I should have done more for both of you girls.” She looked away, and the admission hung in the air like a bruise.
It wasn’t what I expected. I reached for my own cup, hands shaking, and sipped the too-hot tea just to have something to do. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said, voice tiny. “I know I’m a nightmare sometimes.”
Her eyes snapped back to me, fierce. “Don’t ever say that. You are not a nightmare. You are a storm, and the world needs storms, even if they don’t always know what to do with them.” She leaned in, conspiratorial. “You know, when you were ten, you locked yourself in your room for three days after your father forgot your ballet recital. When I finally coaxed you out, you told me that you’d figured it out: if you pretended you didn’t care, it wouldn’t hurt as much.” She sipped her tea. “I never forgot that.”
I let the silence stretch, because what do you even say to that? It hurt in a new way, not the old self-loathing, but something softer. Regret, maybe. Or longing.
I tried to meet her halfway. “I don’t want to be like this. I want to be… normal. I want to let people in without scaring them away or making everything so fucking hard.”
Nanette’s smile was pure forgiveness. “Then try again. With Finn. Or with anyone. But don’t give up because you made one mess. Lord knows I’ve made plenty.”
I snorted, surprised into a real laugh. “You? You’re like, the queen of not messing up.”
She set her cup down, both hands around it. “You have no idea, darling.” The words were so low I almost missed them.
I wanted to ask, but something in her eyes made me stop. Instead, I reached for her hand again, and this time she let me hold it for a long moment. I could feel her pulse, steady and slow, as if nothing in the world could shake her. I envied that. I wondered if I’d ever feel that kind of peace, even for a minute.
I squeezed. “Thanks, Mom.”
She squeezed back. “You’re welcome. And Brie?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t ever believe you’re not worthy of a good man. Or that you’re too much. The right man will love you for exactly that.”
I nodded, but didn’t trust myself to answer.
She stood, smoothed her skirt, and started cleaning up the tray. “Why don’t you get ready for bed? Tomorrow’s another chance to try again.”
I watched her stack the cups, move so efficiently, so self-contained. It struck me that maybe she was just as scared of showing the cracks as I was.
“I love you, Mom,” I said, voice stronger now.
She turned, her smile breaking wide and true. “I love you, too, Brie. Always.”
I left the kitchen, the scent of lemon and chamomile trailing after me like a benediction. For the first time in forever, I didn’t feel alone in the house.
I walked to my bedroom, steps light, heart heavy but buoyed by hope. Maybe she was right. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day, I could try again.
Anything good was worth fighting for. I’d remember that.
My room was just as I’d left it—a crime scene of watercolors, laundry, and half-finished Amazon boxes. But tonight I wanted the white noise of the bathroom, the only room in the house with a lock that worked. I wentstraight for the Jack-and-Jill, flicking on the row of frosted vanity bulbs until the entire room glowed like a department store at midnight. It was the only way I could stomach my own reflection.
I closed the door and leaned against it, staring into the mirror, hoping maybe the version of me looking back would offer up some kind of secret code. She didn’t. She looked tired. But something was different, and not just the new blue highlights or the mascara stains under both eyes. I studied the outline of my jaw, the angle of my shoulders, the curve at my hip where my shorts cut in. My boobs, never my best asset; actually filled out the tank top now, and I hadn’t had to add a new belt hole in weeks. I pressed a palm to my ribcage, expecting the same sharp edge of bone I’d hated all through France, but found soft muscle instead. My legs looked less like toothpicks, more like legs.
It was embarrassing, almost. To admit how much it meant. To see yourself coming back to life, molecule by molecule, just because you weren’t constantly being hollowed out by fear. I ran my fingers through my hair, which had grown half an inch since we moved here, and let myself smile a little. I still felt like a mess—emotionally, mentally, soulfully—but physically? I was no longer the girl in the warehouse, or the one cowering in Luc’s penthouse waiting for the next blow to fall. I was myself again.
Which made it all the more infuriating that I was so, so obsessed with Gunner.
I tried to shake the memory of his hands on my waist, his voice in my ear. It was pointless; every nerve ending in my body seemed tuned to a frequency only he broadcast. I rolled my shoulders, tried to will away the feeling, but it only pulsed deeper. The ache at the base of my spine, the throb between my legs, the rush of blood every time I replayed the kiss. I was in trouble. Real trouble.
I turned on the tap, letting the water run scalding, and yanked my tank top over my head and let it land on the floor. I kicked off my shorts, then hesitated, glancing over my shoulder as if I might catch someone spyingthrough the frosted window. No one would. It was just my own shame crawling along the floor behind me.
I set my phone on the little wooden bench by the tub, then went to the pantry to dig out the fancy bath salts Harper had given me as a “congrats for surviving” present. I dumped a full scoop into the hot water, watching the pink clouds dissolve. It looked almost radioactive, but it smelled like a lavender bomb. I reached for the bottle of drugstore bubble bath I’d stolen from Parker’s bathroom and squeezed in enough to make a small mountain of foam. The tub filled fast, steam curling up to fog the mirrors.
