Without hesitation, he reached for my bag, shouldering some of my burden like it was nothing. The second I shut Posh’s door, he pulled me into a hug, one hand cupping the back of my head, the other pressed firm between my shoulder blades.
And I let him.
Even though it wasn’t the right set of arms.
He didn’t smell like Brooks—like clean soap and something inherently comforting.
He didn’t feel like Brooks—didn’t have the same solid weight, the same familiar warmth that made me feel safe even when I shouldn’t.
But he was here. And I needed someone.
I squeezed my eyes shut for just a moment, letting myself pretend. Pretend that when this was all over, when I finally had my father and Victor out of my life for good, Brooks would forgive me. That I wouldn’t have ruined us beyond repair.
The thought was enough to send a sharp, painful ache through my chest.
I didn’t let myself dwell on it.
Instead, I sank onto Brigham’s couch, my body heavy with exhaustion. Grabbing a blue throw pillow, I hugged it to my chest, as if that could somehow hold me together. My phone was still clutched in my hand, my fingers hovering over the screen, hesitating.
One text. Three words.
Michelle: Trust me, please.
I hit send, my stomach twisting into a thousand knots as I stared at the message.
But I didn’t wait for a response.
I couldn’t.
Instead, I tossed my phone onto the floor and took the beer Brigham handed me, gulping down half of it in one go. The burn in my throat was nothing compared to the panic still gripping my ribs. Brigham arched a brow but didn’t say anything. He just waited.
And I told him everything.
The words poured out, the weight I had been carrying for years spilling into the open, heavier than ever. I told him about my father’s arrests, about my mother’s overdoses, about Victor robbing me blind and laughing while he did it. My voice cracked when I told him about the notes appearing on my door every morning, about the pictures of Brooks and Logan walking into the nursing home.
The countdown.
The threats.
The way my father was circling, waiting for me to break.
Brigham sat in silence, his expression unreadable, but I felt his stare before he even spoke. He leaned back in his recliner, letting out a slow breath, his face pale, his lips slightly parted like he was still trying to process the sheer size of the mess I was trapped in.
“Jesus.” His voice was hoarse, low, like the words were being dragged out of him. “I had no idea.”
“Why would you?” My laugh came out hollow, bitter, soaked in exhaustion. “The only person who knows about my past is Brooks. It was easier pretending my family didn’t exist rather than telling the truth.”
Brigham didn’t hesitate—he reached out, wrapping his fingers around my forearm, grounding me for just a second.
Just long enough to remind me I wasn’t alone.
“Does Brooks know about the threats?” His voice was careful, like he already knew the answer.
The words sliced through me, making my throat go tight, my eyes burn. I had lost track of how many times I had cried in the last twenty-four hours, and I hated it
Hated the way it made me feel weak when I had spent my entire life proving that I wasn’t.
“No.” My voice was barely above a whisper.
