Braxton
Gracie, can we talk?
New Year’s Eve means the fire station is throwing a party for anyone not on shift tonight and their families. I’ve destroyed Christmas for Gracie, and I can’t stand the thought of her spending another part of the holiday alone.
Braxton
I just want you to know that I’ve spent the last few days thinking. About everything. The party is still on tonight, and I just…I want you to come, Gracie.
Braxton
If you come and you want me to leave, I will. But I’d really like for us to talk. And at least there, it’s neutral ground, right? Like Switzerland.
Braxton
You know what? I’m gonna take your silence as a yes. I’ll be waiting for you, baby. I love you.
CHAPTER 19
Gracie
Bridget brings the bottle of wine in from the kitchen, staring down at the label with a look of consternation. “I don’t know if this is any good,” she mumbles as she sits on the couch. “The label is written in French.” I squint, recognizing one of the bottles that Maryann and Bruce brought back from their vacation.
“Doesn’t that automatically make it good?” I wonder, settling back into my own seat as she tops up our glasses. I’m feeling just tipsy enough that the pain is numb, distant.
“Hmm, you’re probably right.” Bridget hands me my glass and then sits back with hers, cautiously sipping the wine. After a moment, she grins crookedly. “Plus, it all tastes the same coming back up, huh.”
I snort, squinting at her. “You think you would have learned from your last foray into drinking. If I remember correctly, you messaged me about killing your toilet.”
She frowns, shooting me a morose look. “RIP, Ned.”
“Ned?”
Bridget shrugs. “It feels like a Ned.”
I gape at her. “And I feel like you’re insane.”
“And yet, you still invited me here and continue to hang out with me, so who is really insane?”
I pretend to think about it. “Still you, actually.”
My phone chimes on my coffee table, and I tense automatically. Braxton has been messaging every day since Christmas, and so far, I haven’t read a single one, digging deep into a well of self-control that I wasn’t aware I have.
I want to keep pretending that I have some kind of control over the situation a little longer, and that I haven’t been shoved out of an airplane without a parachute.
Picking up my phone, I frown down at the notification telling me that an event I was invited to started a couple of hours ago. Apparently, my phone is out to torture me as much as anyone else, reminding me about what I should have been doing tonight before Braxton detonated a bomb on our lives.
“You said you were going to try to call your parents this morning,” Bridget reminds me with as much tact as someone seeing a bruise, jabbing their finger into it, and asking,Does it hurt?
“Yeah,” I say, swiping out of the event notification and setting the phone back down. I take a big, classy gulp of wine, the crisp liquid sliding too easily down my throat.
“And…?” Bridget asks pointedly. “Are you going to tell me or not?” I can feel her eyes on me, but I keep my attention focused on the television across from us, where a movie is playing quietly—a rom-com that’s based around New Year’s and the lives of several intersecting characters.
“Gracie.”
“I didn’t know this was another therapy session,” I complain, shooting her a dirty look.
She scoffs. “All our sessions are therapy sessions. And my parents are dead, so I need to focus on your drama.” I blanche, making her laugh. “Oh, come on, that’s not new information.”
