10. Chapter 10

"Ican't believe Thad got us tickets to the Colts–Patriots game!" Bryce exclaims, running into the living room where I'm curled on the couch watching a movie with Asher.

Thad is our older cousin on our dad's side. He's a cousin who is closest in age to me and Bryce. We haven't seen him in a while, not since he graduated high school and spent a year in rehab.

"Dude, I'm seriously so jealous," Asher says, folding his arms across his chest.

Thad scored 50-yard line tickets and asked Bryce and me to go with him.

Pushing myself up in a sitting position, I look up at Asher and glance over at Bryce.

"Why don't you go with them?"

"Are you serious?" Asher asks me, eyes widening in surprise.

Smiling up at him, I say, "Yeah, you should go with them. Make it a guys' night, and you can crush on your man, Tom Brady."

Grabbing my face between his hands, Asher leans down and gives me a kiss that makes my toes curl. Every time he kisses me, I swear he makes my cheeks flush and my blood pump harder.

"Would you two knock it off?" Bryce says, making a gagging noise. "I'm still having a hard time seeing you two together."

Asher looks me in the eye and smiles against my lips before replying to my brother. "Seriously, dude, it's been almost two years."

Making his way farther into the room, Bryce plops down on the other side of the sectional.

"Yeah, seriously. That's my sister. It's weird to think about my childhood best friend and my sister making out and…" he trails off, his body shivering at whatever thought just crossed his mind.

Pulling away from me, Asher gives me a wink. I know that smirk on his face. He's about to make my brother and me uncomfortable. Running his hand up my thigh in a slow, seductive movement, Asher looks over at Bryce.

"And what, Bryce? Cuddling and touching—"

Asher's voice is immediately cut off as a pillow hits him directly in his face.

"Dude, shut the fuck up."

I laugh at the two of them, even though my cheeks are red. It's only been a couple of months since Asher and I took things to the next level in our relationship. He waited until my sixteenth birthday this summer before surprising me with a sleepover. The night was perfect. The moment was perfect. And Asher was perfect.

Pounding sounds in the distance.

What the hell? Where's that pounding coming from?

More banging, and it's getting louder and louder.

"B, you're going to be late!" Chloe yells from the other side of my door.

Jerking up from my dream, I reach for my phone on my nightstand. Shit, I overslept. Ripping off the covers, I jump out of bed. Racing off too quickly, I stub my toe against the metal bed post.

"Ow, fuck!" I scream. "Shit, shit, shit!"

Hopping on one leg, I rub my toe and stumble into my bathroom. Flicking on the bathroom light, I quickly pee, flush, and wash my hands. Pulling out my toothbrush, I swiftly clean my teeth before brushing out my hair and tossing it up in a messy bun. There's no time for makeup. Instead, I strip out of my pajamas, leaving them lying on the bathroom floor.

Let's face it, that's not because I'm running late. I'm the worst at leaving clothes lying around, even though I have a super cute hamper.

Not all of us girls care about the whole "tossing the clothes next to the hamper and not in the hamper" situation.

Turning off the bathroom light, I head back into my room in search of clothes. Slipping on my glasses, I find a pair of black bike shorts and an Eagles Baseball tee. Bouncing from foot to foot, I get my socks and tennis shoes on, my toe still throbbing. Grabbing my phone off the charger, I take off running down the stairs.

"There's a protein bar and water on the table by your keys," I hear Chloe yell from her room.

"Thanks, Chloe! You"re the best!" I yell back, swiping the protein bar off the table and tossing it into my backpack that's sitting on the floor.

Tucking the water bottle in the outside pocket on my backpack and grabbing my keys from the hook, I take off out the door toward my car, hitting the automatic start on the key fob. I have twelve minutes until class starts.

I make it to campus in seven minutes—don't ask me how. Getting out of the car, I hit the lock on my fob before taking a jog toward Rogers Hall. My phone chimes in my pocket and I pull it out, trying to read the message while avoiding running into anyone.

Of all days to oversleep, today wasn't the day. Today is already stressful, and I just added more stress to myself by having to rush. Rushing immediately overwhelms me, and my body breaks out in stress sweat, which is the worst type of sweat.

Throwing open the doors to Rogers Hall, I jog up the stairs, making sure I don't trip over a step. Slowly opening the door, I slide inside, hoping not to disrupt Professor Peters. He glances up from the front of the room as I make my way to the middle of the rows where Cody is saving me a seat. I slide into the desk next to him and reach inside my backpack to pull out my laptop.

"I wasn't sure if you were going to show," Cody leans into me and whispers. "Here, I brought you a coffee."

"Thanks, Cody," I whisper, taking the coffee from him. "And no, just running late. Since we had girls' night Wednesday, I had to spend all day catching up on assignments. I underestimated how late I'd be up finishing a paper for next week. Q and I leave this afternoon for the Chicago trip."

Nodding his head, he bumps my shoulder, a grin spreading across his lips.

"Go show Chicago the badass Brynn."

We make eye contact with each other as a slow smile spreads across my face.

"Excuse me," Professor Peters yells, bursting the bubble Cody and I are in. "Not only do you show up to my class late, but you are distracting those around you with your talking."

Cody and I both turn our faces to the bottom of the lecture hall, my face flushing with embarrassment. Someone must've peed in Professor Peters's cereal this morning, because he continues humiliating us.

"After reading your papers this week. I have decided that today we are going to do a little introduction and find others with like-minded career prospects. Tardy, you can kick us off. Please stand, introduce yourself, and tell us your career plans."

Of all days to show up late, it had to be today. And of all days to talk about our career plans, it had to be today. Clearing my throat, I slide out of the desk and stand.

"I'm Brynn—" I start before I'm rudely interrupted.

"Speak louder, it's a big room."

Exhaling, I start again. "I'm Brynn Wilder, a junior. After graduating, I'm planning on continuing into the master's program with plans to become a youth grief counselor," I finish, eyeing Professor Peters.

"Ambitious," he responds. "Youth grief is a tough career. What makes you want to make that your career?"

Looking around the lecture hall, I see that heads have turned to watch me talk. Public speaking is not my forte. My heart rate is accelerating while my palms grow damp with sweat.

"I'd rather not answer that to a room full of strangers."

He doesn't like that answer, and honestly, I don't care. Most of my friends have no clue about my history, I'm not about to share with a room full of strangers.

"You show up late to my class, and then decide that you don't want to answer. I can't say that I'm impressed."

You know what, screw this. Might as well raise my defenses now, since they are going to be on high alert this whole weekend around my parents.

"And with all respect, I don't care. We all have our demons, and you pushing me to share because you have authority is deplorable."

Pausing, I reach down and stuff my laptop back in my bag, zipping it up as I spill my past.

"I want to become a grief counselor because, five years ago, my twin brother was killed. Not only did my twin die but, along with him, I lost two other people I was extremely close with. No one was there for me. No one cared about my grief. I was alone. I want to be there for someone who, unfortunately, has to go through what I did but, unlike me, they won't be alone. And if that's all," I pause, throwing my backpack over my shoulder. "I have to catch a flight to honor my brother and friend in a memorial tonight. Thanks for the humiliation, Prof."

And with that, I hightail it out of the hall, working hard to keep the moisture pooling in my eyes from spilling over.

At quarter to one, I'm packing the last of my bags. After getting back to my room, I decided to take a nice, long soak in the bathtub, since I had extra time, thanks to storming out of my class. It might have been childish and immature, but my mind is all over the place today.

Every year, I struggle with the anniversary of my brother's death, but this year, I'm going to be home. I haven't been home around the anniversary date in three years. Pushing the thoughts out of my mind for now, I wheel my suitcase down the stairs. My roommates aren't home. I grab a piece of paper and write out a quick note for them and leave it on the counter. Making sure I have everything, I head to the front door. Just as I approach the door, there's a knock.

When I open the door, my eyes widen in surprise to see Quinton standing on the other side. He's standing there with his hand in the pocket of his dark wash jeans. A tight athletic shirt stretches tightly across his broad, muscular chest. The black ink from his eagle tattoo barely peaks out from the neckline. His dark-brown eyes grow darker as he watches my perusal of his body.

Mouth going dry, I find myself needing water.

He clears his throat and I snap my gaze back up to him. Quinton's eyes are waiting for me, a smirk stretching across his lips. That perfect dimple makes its appearance.

"Hey, I thought I was picking you up?"

"JP is going to take us," Quinton answers, gesturing over his shoulder toward Jeremiah's black, crew cab, pickup truck that's parked out front.

"Oh awesome, thanks," I say, wheeling my suitcase to the door.

Looking behind me, I grab my backpack purse that's doubling as my carry-on, and step onto the stoop with my suitcase. Quinton reaches down and picks up my suitcase while I shut and lock the front door.

"Ready?" he asks.

"As I'll ever be," I mutter as we head down the steps.

Quinton leads me to the passenger door, but before he gets a chance to open the door, I stop him.

"You sit up front, I'll sit in the back."

He gives me a look before opening up the door behind him. Him sitting up front while I sit in the back goes against every chivalrous bone in his body. Climbing up in the back seat, I toss my backpack next to me. Glancing up in the rearview mirror, I find JP's eyes waiting on mine, concern lacing his gaze.

"Thanks for the ride, Jer," I say with a smile while Quinton loads my suitcase into the covered truck bed.

Jeremiah gives me a small, knowing smile. All of my friends here know that I hate going home. They might not have the whole story, but they know that I rarely make the flight home.

"There's a little something in the cup holder for you," he says, as Quinton climbs into his seat.

Quinton snaps his head in my direction before directing his attention back to Jeremiah. His eyes bore daggers into the side of Jeremiah's face. As Jeremiah pulls out of the parking lot, I reach for the cup holder. A cold, skinny pen brushes my hand. I pull it out and see a plant sticker on it. Holding the device in my hand, I look up to find Jeremiah watching me. With a slight nod of his head, I know what kind of pen it is. I mean, I could've figured it out based on the sticker, but his nod confirms my hunch. He rolls down my window for me as I bring the pen to my lips. Leaning my head back on the headrest, I take a nice long drag from the weed pen and my eyes fall close as I inhale. Holding my inhale, I let my mind relax before exhaling the plume of vapor out the window.

One long drag is all I take.

A little something to take the edge off. A little something to get me through the next few hours. A little something to forget that I'm going home—a home that hasn't felt like home in what feels like forever.

Twenty minutes later, Quinton and I are wheeling our suitcases into a busy Austin-Bergstrom International. Making our way through security, we find our terminal, which is chaotic. Everyone must be heading to Chicago. Most of the chairs are occupied, but we manage to find two empty seats, collapsing next to each other. My head drops to his shoulder as I inhale a deep breath. His hand finds my knee, and he squeezes. His touch is all I need. It's calming and comforting. But this time when he squeezes, I feel flutters in my stomach trailing lower.

Well, that's new.

"Have I ever told you about the time I snuck into the Dallas cheerleaders' locker room?" Q asks.

I shoot up, eyes turning into saucers at his random comment.

A low, rumbling chuckle escapes his lips before he continues. "Dad was playing for Dallas when I was ten. I thought I was going into the football team"s locker room, but I got turned around. Turns out I was in the wrong wing. I walked right into the locker room that was designated for the cheerleaders. They were all in the process of changing." He pauses, adding drama to his story. "Tits everywhere."

A cackle bursts from my lips before I have a chance to stop it. Heads turn toward us from the surrounding people. There was just something about the way he said "tits everywhere" as if it's just another everyday occurrence to Quinton. Hell, it might be.

"Oh my god, Q. So ten is when your fascination with tits began?"

"Shit, B, it was probably sooner, but damn, seeing those ladies with their tits out in those tiny cheerleading shorts. I was in fucking heaven." He laughs, eyes rolling up to build up the sexual encounter. "I just stood there staring at headlights. Dallas cheerleaders are every boy"s wet dream, and here I was, in their damn locker room."

"You're such a perv," I say, appreciating the distraction.

And this is what I love most about our relationship. Quinton can read me like a book. He knows what I need to get out of my head. Somehow, he has a way of knowing if I need a laugh, if I need to go to a party to drink away my thoughts, or if I need a movie day in bed. I didn't come with a manual, yet somehow, Quinton is able to figure me out. Which is saying something, because half of the time, I don't even know what I need.

A few minutes later, our flight is announced. The perky attendant greets us, taking our boarding passes from our outstretched hands as she scans the barcode.

"Have a wonderful time in Chicago," she says, handing our boarding passes back.

Quinton thanks her for the both of us. His hand finds my lower back. And dammit, there are those flutters again. What is happening right now? Guiding us into the jet bridge, I feel the movement as Quinton's hand moves from my back and finds my hand. His fingers intertwine with mine. My eyes snap to our connected hands. Quinton squeezes before leaning down, his lips finding my temple. Swoon. I could melt into a puddle at that simple gesture. Quinton is going to make a fine husband someday and, whoever the lady is, well, she's damn lucky.

Because that's the thing about Quinton Boyd. If you have the good fortune to find yourself in his close circle, you're truly one of the lucky ones. Quinton doesn't let a lot of people in. But when you're in, you'll be loved hard and cared for.

Climbing into our first class seats, I buckle my seat belt before resting my head against the window.

I'm coming home, brother.

The flight from Austin-Bergstrom to O'Hare goes off without a hitch. Thank God. Flying is not my favorite. I always break out in a stress sweat. Quinton spends the three-hour flight studying and watching a 30 for 30 documentary while I zone out and watch a few episodes of Schitt's Creek. There's nothing like a little bit of Alexis to forget the world. I mean, seriously, the Roses are so dysfunctional, yet hilarious.

After gathering our bags from baggage claim, we make our way outside. My parents have sent a private driver to escort us to the house. Walking outside, we are greeted with the crisp air of Chicago in the fall. I take in a deep inhale. Being in Texas for so long, I have forgotten what it is like to be in the Midwest in the fall. The air is cool and crisp, there's a sense of calm—yes, even in the crazy Chicago environment—leaves are falling, and life is hibernating before it is born again in the spring. The weather is starting to cool, summer has faded away, and there's always a breeze, especially closer to the lake.

I feel at home.

I feel at peace.

If only the rest of my trip could be spent reminding me of the love I have for my city. Instead, I'll be forced to fake a smile, hide my grief, and be the prim and proper daughter my parents hope to have raised. This weekend isn't for me. Hell, it's not even for Bryce. It's for my parents. It's for status and image. It's for showboating. It's sickening. And I'll have to endure it all. A part of me really wanted to skip everything this weekend. I debated multiple times on just saying "screw it." But I'm doing it for Bryce. He would've told me to suck it up, to be the bigger person. So, that's what I'm doing. It's not for my parents, that's for damn sure.

But at least, I'll have Quinton next to me.

My head whips from one direction to the other, scanning the cars. I spot the blacked-out SUV with the driver standing next to it, holding a sign that reads "Miss Brinley Wilder."

"Looks like we are over here," I tell Quinton, pointing toward the Tahoe.

"Damn, didn"t know I was hanging out with royalty," Quinton jokes, nudging my shoulder as we wheel our suitcases.

I ignore his comment. Out of the two of us, he's more "royal" than I am. His dad is a well-known professional athlete, his mom is known because of his father's celebrity, and he's on his way to being a first-round NFL draft pick. I'm no one. I'm the daughter of a crooked politician and an unfaithful surgeon. Hell, both of them are unfaithful—vows mean nothing to Mr. and Mrs. Wilder.

"Miss Wilder?" the driver asks.

"Hi, I'm Brynn. This is Quinton. Thank you for picking us up."

Our driver opens the back door before placing our suitcases in the back. Fastening my seat belt, I inhale and exhale a deep breath.

Forty hours until I can head back to Texas.