Once we were back home, it was as if nothing had changed. We should have been nominated for Oscars for the amazing job we did acting like nothing had happened between us in LA. Braydon texted occasionally, asking me for coffee or for a walk in the park. Even though it was painful to see him, to be near him, I usually caved in and said yes. But we were still strictly friends and hadn’t slipped up with any physical contact again. It seemed we were more careful around each other than ever before—going out of our way to avoid touching at all costs. When he reached for the bill, I conveniently needed something from my purse, and when I grabbed a sugar packet for my coffee, his hands tucked themselves into his pockets.
I was still waiting for him to realize that he couldn’t live without me, just like Emmy kept saying he would. So far, it was a no-go. And I was more depressed than ever.
It hadn’t helped that I’d come down with the world’s worst case of the flu. For the past several days, I felt achy and exhausted and had been regularly puking my guts out. The first few days I’d called in sick to work, but now it seemed that my body was growing accustomed to living with the sickness, so I ventured into work but kept a plastic garbage bag under my desk for when the urge struck. Oh, joy.
A text from Braydon was a nice distraction later that afternoon.
Braydon: Hey you up for grabbing coffee or a drink tonight?
I stared down at my phone. Another half-hearted attempt. I didn’t want a coffee date out with a friend at this point. I wanted him, no holds barred. Even if I had wanted to say yes, the crappy way I felt prevented me. I hadn’t kept down coffee in nearly a week. I’d taken to drinking ginger ale in the morning. And though the relaxing buzz that came from a nice glass of wine sounded nice, I doubted I could stomach that either.
Me: No thanks, I’ll have to take a rain check. I have the flu.
Braydon: Shit. That sucks. Let me know if you need anything—I’m on it.
Me: Thanks, I will.
And that was that.
Until two days later.
I was home. Saturday, thank god.
Braydon: Hey, you feeling better?
I didn’t want him to worry, to insist on coming over with soup or something, and I wouldn’t put that past him. The truth was I just wanted to be alone. I felt like shit. I looked worse. I was in sweatpants with greasy, matted hair and I wanted to stay that way, warm under my covers for the rest of the day.
Me: I’m on the mend, but not there yet. Sorry to disappoint.
Braydon: You never disappoint. I just wish you were feeling better.
I released a heavy sigh. He was in his famous sweet, gentlemanly mode. He held my beating heart in the palm of his hand, little did he know. He had the ability to crush it or put me back together, make me whole. I feared what he’d choose. I knew he’d been through hell in his past relationships, losing his mom and watching what his dad went through afterward.
I needed to swallow my pride and move on. Maybe he’d never be ready—or maybe I wasn’t the girl to get him there. Something inside me told me I was, though. I was the girl for the job. He’d said himself that the chemistry we shared wasn’t something he’d ever experienced. Me neither. That had to count for something, right?
Every remembered whisper, every sweet thing he’d done, the way he’d owned my body, made me crave him. I shuddered, and not from the fever chills wracking my body.
Braydon: Can I do anything? I don’t like this.
He didn’t like it? Shit, I was the one who’d lost five pounds in the last week alone. Actually, I counted that as the one and only benefit of this flu.
Me: Nothing you can do, but thanks. I think it just needs to run its course.
Braydon: Well I’m checking on you tomorrow, no matter what.
I appreciated his concern, I truly did, but it wasn’t making it any easier on my heart. The one organ that hadn’t been affected by the flu from hell. What I’d done to deserve this, I had no clue.
I went to bed that night with my head swimming from the combo of nighttime sleep meds and pain reliever and collapsed into a heavy sleep.
When Braydon texted in the morning, the threat of him coming over and actually discovering my raggedy state prompted me to lie.
Braydon: Hey kitten, feeling better yet?
Me: Yes, actually, quite a lot.
Braydon: That’s awesome. I need you to meet me somewhere today. It’s important.
An address off Fifth Street followed in a separate text. He wanted me to venture all the way to the West Village near NYU.
Keeping up my ruse of being healthy, I agreed. I had no idea how I’d ride the subway, which was likely to feel like a bad roller coaster to my ravaged stomach. Big-girl panties today. Suck it up, buttercup.
Just the act of getting showered and ready was exhausting, but I rallied. Leaving my apartment forty minutes later, I was presentable in dark-washed jeans, a bright pink cotton knit sweater, and my tennis shoes. Here goes nothing. I didn’t know where I was meeting him, but I figured casual dress would be fine. Braydon was never one for fancy outings.
Once I arrived in the neighborhood, I didn’t know what I was looking for since he’d given me an address and not the name of the establishment we were meeting at. It was a rather artsy area. I passed by Tompkins Square Park, where street performers sang and danced for tips, and a poetry club that was open to walk-ins. I approached a building bearing the address he’d given me. A rehabbed industrial building in soft gray brick with a big red front door.
I texted him, unsure of what to do next.
Me: I’m here. What is this place?
Braydon: My apartment. Come inside. Sixth floor. Apartment 601.
What? Whoa. I suddenly felt dizzy with the cars and people zooming past. He’d invited me over? Simple as that?
I headed inside and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. I arrived at unit 601 and gave a light knock on the door. The door swung open to reveal a smiling Braydon. He pulled me to his chest and gave me a squeeze. “Hi,” he murmured against my hair.
“Hello,” I returned, still a bit dazed.
When he released me, my eyes darted behind him to take in the light-filled loft. It had tall ceilings that were crisscrossed with wooden beams, an exposed brick wall running along the living space, and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the city street below. It was charming and cozy. Just like him. Simple furniture and a color scheme with dark gray, tan, and splashes of blue made it feel inviting.
“Come in.” He ushered me inside and shut the door. The scent that enveloped me was every bit Braydon. All male and warm and delicious. I wanted to just stand here and inhale, but Braydon’s hand on my lower back guided me into the living room.
“Would you like a tour?”
I nodded slowly. His eyes locked on mine and told me he knew that this was a big step in the right direction, which made me happy, though I wasn’t totally sure what to make of this gesture. Was he opening his life up for me?
I followed him forward, stepping onto a comfortable shaggy rug that warmed up the space. The wooden plank floors creaked lightly as we walked. I liked that I had somewhere to picture Braydon when we were apart.
He showed me the living room, which included a framed photograph of his mom and dad, his tiny but ultraneat kitchen that contained an impressive coffee and espresso maker that I was dying to try. I imagined waking up to the smell of roasting beans. Then we ventured down a narrow hallway that led to his bathroom, with a glass-enclosed shower, and his bedroom at the far end. It was open and bright with a large bed dressed in white and gray linens. He had a tall dresser and a small writing desk and a chair positioned against the far wall. It was here that I imagined him working on the finances for Ben and Emmy’s charity. Black-and-white photography prints were hung on the walls and a small throw rug was positioned at the foot of his bed. It was a lovely room, but I was hit with a pang of sadness that he was only just now sharing it.
“Kitten?”
My gaze lifted to him, pushing away the solemn thoughts. “It’s a beautiful place.”
His frown lines deepened. “You don’t look well.” His hand raised to smooth down an unruly lock of hair. “You’re pale. Are you sure you feel okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lied. My stomach was turning somersaults, but that feeling was nothing compared to the uncertainty and sadness in my heart. “Maybe we could just go sit down.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
We returned to the living room and I slumped onto the sofa. The throw pillows smelled like him, and even though I’d wanted nothing more than to be here at his place, it now felt too intimate, too personal and I was too weak to handle all the emotions it caused.
Braydon leaned over me and placed a palm against my cheek. “Hmm, you feel okay. Warm, but not overly so.”
I blinked up at him. The journey across the city and the emotional backlash of finally being here had caught up with me. I needed a nap. I yawned.
“I’m going to make you some homemade chicken noodle soup. That sound good?”
I nodded, weakly. “Yes, thank you.”
I dozed while he cooked and woke a short time later to the sounds of him moving about in the kitchen. I sat up, stretched, and ventured in to join him. The discarded remains of chopped carrots, celery, and onions sat on a nearby cutting board and a pot of soup was bubbling on the stove. Braydon glanced up from where he was stirring the concoction.
“It’s almost ready. Just waiting for the noodles to become tender.”
“Okay.”
“Go sit. I’ll serve you.”
“Do you have crackers?” I asked.
“Sure do. I’ll bring them.”
I smiled and went back to the couch to wait. A few minutes later, Braydon emerged carrying a bowl of steaming hot soup and a box of crackers.
“Here, eat up. This was my mom’s recipe and she made it for me whenever I was sick.”
“Thank you.” I started in on a cracker first, needing to test my stomach. It went down easily enough, so I moved on to the soup while Braydon supervised. “It’s delicious.” I could taste a hint of parsley and the warm broth was divine. I ate the entire bowlful.
“More?” he asked.
I shook my head. My belly was full for the first time in weeks. No need to tempt fate. I lay back and rested my head on the sofa.
Braydon played with my hair and hummed quietly while I tried to relax.
Opening my eyes several minutes later, I turned to face him. “Well, the soup was delicious, but I should probably get out of your way. I’m not going to be very good company tonight.”
“Stop it. You’re not going anywhere. I invited you here because I wanted to spend time with you.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why did you invite me over?” Today. Finally.
“Because it was time. And you belong here with me.” His hand closed around mine and he gave it a squeeze. My heart pumped wildly in my chest. “And I didn’t invite you over for any funny business. I know I lost those privileges a while ago.”
I looked down at our intertwined hands, thankful that he didn’t mention our slip-up in LA a few weeks ago. “So what do you propose we do then?” If I was feeling better, there would have probably been a hint of suggestiveness in my tone, but I truly felt too crummy.
“We stay in tonight, and not because we’re hiding out here, but so you can take it easy and heal. We’ll watch a movie and get some more of that magic soup inside of you.”
I wanted to make a quip about the soup being the only thing tonight that was getting inside me, but I was too weak and exhausted to even be funny. Sad day right there. “Okay,” I agreed. Honestly, a movie and cuddling with Bray sounded like the perfect evening. Much better than sulking alone in my apartment for the millionth time.
Braydon pulled a woolly throw blanket from the back of the sofa and covered us both. “Come here, kitten. Lean on me.”
I did as I was told. God, he felt perfect. This felt perfect. How did he not feel this between us? He lay down on the couch and pulled me closer, aligning our bodies until we were pressed nice and close. As great as this moment was, there was still a conversation we needed to have. I needed some answers about this puzzle of a man. I looked up and met his eyes, bringing my palm to his cheek. “Thank you for bringing me here today.”
“You’re welcome.” He closed his eyes, relaxing while my fingertips grazed lightly across his stubble.
“Bray?”
“Hmm . . .”
“I have a few things I need to say.”
His eyes slowly opened.
I took a deep, fortifying breath to steady myself. “I know there are things in your past that are preventing you from moving forward. And I’m so glad you told me about your mom. It helps me understand things a lot better. But as for your ex, I just wanted to say whatever she did to you, I’m sorry. We can take things slow, do things your way.”
He remained silently watching me and blinked twice. “Fuck.” That single word was his acknowledgment that I was right, and that I knew more than he realized. “What are you saying, exactly?”
“That I accept you. And your past, and these flaws that make it impossible for you to have a relationship.”
“You don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Then tell me. Explain it to me,” I begged. I was here, in his apartment, and as far as I was concerned, there was no better place or time to have this discussion.
“I already told you there was a girl.”
“And? You’re no longer capable of relationships?”
He frowned. “Not exactly, no.”
I waited, holding my breath, hoping and praying he’d open up and explain it all to me finally.
He licked his lips. “It’s just that my last relationship ended disastrously.”
I listened silently as he opened himself up to me. We lay side by side on the sofa and Braydon told me a little more about the story he’d begun earlier—that his last girlfriend became unstable once he broke things off, and she began harassing him and his family. She couldn’t accept that things were over. That he couldn’t date in the public eye, because she’d harass the new girls he began seeing after her. I could only imagine how the stress of that, coupled with the loss of his mother, made him hesitant to enter into another serious relationship.
“What finally happened, with the girl?” I pressed him. We hadn’t covered that last time.
He shrugged. “She’s still not over me. I told you I have a restraining order against her. She sends long handwritten letters to my agency since she doesn’t know my address anymore. And she somehow showed up at a photo shoot of mine a few months ago and I had security remove her.”
Oh my god. That was where I’d met Katrina.
“She’s a stalker, basically.”
“What’s her name?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Kat.”
Holy mother. “I-I know her. I mean, I-I met her . . .”
His brows pinched together. “Where? How?”
“At that photo shoot. The day I came, I met a girl there—she said she was a fan of your work, but later she admitted that you two dated. She said her name was Katrina.”
“Shit,” he cursed and rose to his feet and began pacing in front of the sofa. “You spoke to her?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“You didn’t tell her anything about yourself or me—did you?”
I swallowed a hard lump in my throat. “Well, um, sort of, but I had no idea that . . .”
“Fuck!” he swore loudly and pushed his hands into his hair. “Ellie, this is important. Tell me what you told her.”
“We met for a drink. We’ve texted . . . but it was all innocent, I swear.”
“How could you do that, Ellie?”
He continued pacing. “You know how private I am. Didn’t you think that maybe, just maybe, I had good reason for being so guarded?”
I rose to my feet, standing directly in front of him. This wasn’t my fault. And I truly believed I hadn’t done anything wrong. “It’s not like I told her much—I didn’t even know where you lived until today. It was harmless girl talk, commiserating together over broken hearts. Not that I would expect you to understand that—your heart’s never been in this game.”
The pulse in his neck was racing, and his eyes were blazing with anger, but Braydon remained silent.
“You know what. Never mind. It was stupid to think coming here meant something.” I grabbed my purse and stuffed my feet into my shoes. “Good-bye Braydon.” I was out the door and in the elevator without a backward glance.
