“It’s a moot point now,” he continues. “She’s as good as dead. David needs to stop bowing to that dreadful woman’s pathetic whining and pull the plug.”
That dreadful woman is Brielle’s mom, and her pathetic whining is heartsick grief. I don’t blame Pamela for not wanting to turn off life support. She’s clinging to hope, and the only asshole who would ever criticize a grieving mother is the asshole I share DNA with.
“Was there a reason for your visit?” I ask in a neutral tone, staring at the man who is a virtual stranger to me.
“This merger needs to happen,” Dad snaps as he rises to his feet. “Make sure you are at that hospital every night, crying over that stupid bitch’s bedside and comforting her parents. Any chance you get, you remind David of his obligations.”
Hell will freeze over before I ever pressure a heartbroken father into signing a business deal. I know what’s at stake, and I might not always be able to uphold that conviction, but I’m going to try. What Dad has always failed to realize is, a little humanity can go a long way.
When I don’t reply, Dad storms toward the door, stalling with his hand curled around the handle. Looking over his shoulder, he stabs me with a warning look. “You might have gotten a reprieve on the marriage, but this merger needs to go through. If you don’t make it happen, your sisters will pay the price.”
* * *
I’m sitting on the same bench in the memorial garden, at the same time as last night, but there’s no sign of the stunning redhead with the mournful green eyes. I have never seen anyone who looks so sad and so lost. Even my similar reflection in the mirror doesn’t come close to the depths of misery I spotted in Stevie’s eyes. Devastation and grief roll off her in waves of dark despair, and she wears a haunted expression I haven’t been able to forget since we met.
She looks the way I feel deep inside.
I’m just more experienced at disguising it.
What happened with Brielle adds more guilt to the festering pile until it feels like I’m drowning under the weight of responsibility and my poor choices.
Swigging from my hip flask, I relish the burn of the expensive Macallan gliding down my throat. I don’t make a habit of drinking at random, but my current circumstances warrant it. I can’t face that hospital room without some liquid courage.
I’m about to give up on Stevie and force myself inside when she shows up, wearing the same flimsy coat over a navy skirt suit. She has nice legs I notice as she walks toward the garden, head slightly bent, looking lost in thought. Her gorgeous thick hair is in another tight bun on top of her head, and I briefly wonder what it would look like removed from the hair tie. Spotting me, Stevie pauses on the path, for a brief second, before making her way in this direction.
She drops down beside me with a weary sigh, dumping a gym bag on the ground at her feet. Haunted emerald-green eyes turn to mine before lowering to the silver flask curled in my hand. “Can I have some?” she asks, and I wordlessly hand it over, watching her tip it back and drink a healthy mouthful. I expect her to cough, but she handles it with grace.
“Macallan,” she murmurs. “Of course.” Her lips pull into a tight line as she hands the flask back to me.
“Does scotch offend you or just this particular brand?”
Her eyes lift to mine again. “Garrick, my boyfriend, is a bit of a whisky connoisseur. Macallan is his favorite though he’s quite partial to Laphraoig too.”
“He has good taste.”
My words hang in the air for a few silent beats.
“Yeah,” she whispers, looking more lost than ever.
“What happened to him?”
Air whooshes out of her mouth, and pain contorts her face. I regret asking the question, and I’m about to retract it when she answers.
“We were in a car accident. I got off lightly. Only a concussion, a few cuts, bruises, and broken bones. Garrick was driving, and he bore the brunt of the impact.”
Fuck. That’s rough. And she shouldn’t be downplaying her injuries either. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been. To wake up in pain and discover your boyfriend was in a coma. I can tell from the way she talks about him that she loves him a lot. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Her chin juts up, and her jaw tightens. “The accident is my fault. The only person who deserves your sorrow is Garrick. I deserve nothing but contempt.”
I’m shocked speechless for a few tense seconds. “How is it your fault?”
She worries her lower lip between her teeth before releasing it. Her chest rises and falls. I can tell speaking about this is hard for her, but I think she wants to tell me. I think she needs to get this all out. I take another sip of scotch as I wait her out. When her eyes drift to the flask in my hand, I pass it back to her, instinctively knowing she needs some liquid courage.
We pass the flask back and forth a couple of times in companionable silence.
“Garrick bought me a car,” she says after I’ve repocketed my hip flask. I can’t show up drunk in Brielle’s room, no matter how tempting it is to drown in alcohol.
Stevie stares straight ahead, into the still night air, as she explains. “It was a gorgeous, brand-new, black BMW SUV. We were about to be separated. Garrick still had a year left at UO, but I graduated early, and I was starting a new job in Seattle. He bought it because he wanted me to be safe with all the driving I planned to do. I coveted it the instant he surprised me with it, the day of the accident, but I couldn’t let my own petty hang-ups go. I refused to accept it or even test-drive it.”
