CHAPTER 7
Gracie
My eyes are gritty from lack of sleep. I focus on one spot on the gray floral wallpaper of my bedroom, my head pounding and my mouth dry as hell, trying to work out what this morning is going to look like.
At some point during the night, the blankets got kicked down to the bottom of the bed—a nightly occurrence when sharing a bed with Braxton. He’s wrapped himself around me like a vine, one arm curled around my neck and the other a heavy weight over my waist. I’m wearing cotton sleep shorts, leaving my legs bare, and I can feel the rough hairs of one of his legs pushed between mine.
He’s holding me tightly enough that each breath is a conscious effort—tight like he thinks I’ll slip away if he doesn’t, and he’ll do anything to keep me with him.
The thought doesn’t reassure me the same way it used to.
He lied, and that hasn’t changed in the gray light of the dawning morning. I don’t care if it was by omission.He lied.And through that, he’s thrown a blanket of doubt over anything he says.
The longer I lie here in his arms, his warm breathbrushing the nape of my neck, the more my stomach coils into a hard ball, nausea creeping into my throat.
Moving slowly, I wriggle out of his grip, not stopping even when he grunts, trying to pull me back. I’m not ready to face him yet, and I can’t bear to keep lying with him, cuddling, pretending it’s all normal.
I glance at him as I get to my feet, but his eyes are still closed. His dark hair is tousled, and a divot forms between his brows as one hand blindly swipes across the bed. I hold my breath, waiting for his lashes to lift, but then his expression slackens as his breathing evens back out.
I shouldn’t have let him come back here last night.
I press a hand to my chest, feeling like a sharp rock has lodged itself in my sternum and is making it so damn hard to breathe.
I’ve spent over a year falling so deeply for this man,trustinghim. I let him past the protective guards I built to combat my family’s antipathy, opening myself up to him because I wanted our relationship to work. And now…he’s left me questioning everything.
I shower, scrubbing last night off my skin, before dressing in comfortable leggings and an oversized shirt.Perfect comfort clothes for an emotionally wrought Sunday.
By the time my teeth are brushed and my hair is pulled into a messy bun, I feel a little more ready to face him, only to stop short when I walk back into the bedroom and find the bed empty.
Looking for a distraction and delaying tactics, I grab my phone from the nightstand, pulling up Bridget’s messaging thread.
Gracie
Death check. You breathing?
It takes less than a minute before I get a new message—no words, just a green-faced emoji—followed quickly by another.
Bridget
I’m alive, but I may have killed my toilet.
??Bridget
Seriously. Do not expect me at work tomorrow. ??
Gracie
I’ll do a welfare check later. Might need an emergency phone call in, say, 30 minutes. ??
Bridget
You okay???
Gracie
Brax stayed over, and my time is officially up. Wish me luck.??
Bridget
