7. Chapter 7

The next couple of weeks seem to fly by. October is officially here. Classes are starting to get busier, homework is starting to pile up, and I'm finding myself in the library a lot more than normal.

After the first home game, the next three games have been away, which means I've barely seen any of the guys from the football team, including Quinton.

Am I avoiding him? I wouldn't say yes but I wouldn't say no.

Rumors circulated that he had quite the threesome during the first game celebrations. While I'm far from a prude, obviously—Tiffani and Mrs. Boyd calling me a whore ring any bells? —Q having a threesome shocked the hell out of me.

I don't even know why.

Maybe because he just fucking dropped me at the party and disappeared. One minute I"m dancing on the dance floor, the next minute Will"s hands are gripping my hips as he sidles behind me, pulling me closer for a dance. The whole time we were dancing, he admitted that he had Tiffani waiting on him to make me jealous. Will isn"t happy with our ‘friends with benefits' situation and wants to take things to the next step.

Why? Why do people have to change a good thing?

By the time Will and I were finished with our conversation, Q had disappeared. Which is ridiculous for me to be upset about. I'm a big girl, for god's sake. I don't need Quinton by my side the whole damn night.

Ugh, why am I being so dramatic?

Is my period coming?

Yeah, now that I think about it, that bitch Flo is about to make her appearance.

But also, don't ever be late Flo, please and thank you!

Studying has never been an issue for me. Surprisingly, I get good grades. I enjoy school, and I enjoy writing papers. There's just something so calming about sitting down with my AirPods, lighting a candle, drinking endless amounts of coffee, and letting words fly from my fingers.

It used to be easy to sit at the town house and focus on homework, but lately, it's a distraction. Macy is officially dating Gregg and they bang 24/7.

Ah, that new relationship bliss.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for my bestie, but damn, take a fucking break to come up for air every now and then. But according to Macy, it's the best dick she's ever had, and I'm not about to be a cockblock.

Then there's the whole "sitting in my room" issue. My mind is constantly wandering about being back home, especially with October thirteenth getting closer. Five years later, and that date still gets to me.

This is why I've been choosing to let Wednesday nights be my late night on campus to work on any homework. Nothing happens on Wednesdays. Mondays are for Monday Night Football on TV. Tuesdays are Taco Tuesdays at the Mexican restaurant. Thursdays are Thirsty Thursdays. And then, it's the weekend, which means endless football.

Leaving the Student Union, where I grabbed a quick bite to eat—burger and fries—I begin my trek to the library. Why is it that the library is the farthest building on campus? Wouldn"t most schools put it right in the center of campus to encourage students to do their studying? Nope, not at Central Texas University.

Walking along the concrete sidewalk, I let the songs coming through my AirPods lull me into a trance. The campus is busy for it being six o'clock in the evening. Groups of students are gathered on the sidewalks. A handful of students are speed-walking to get to class on time. The trees on campus are slowly starting to change colors as fall weather is taking her sweet time getting here. Being from Chicago, I miss the changing of leaves, but Texas doesn't get the memo like the Midwest.

Still lost in my head, I don't notice the large person standing in front of me until I nearly run into him. Quinton grabs ahold of my arms to keep me from running completely into him. Jumping in panic, I remove one side of the AirPods.

"Jesus, Q, I didn't even see you there."

He laughs. "No shit, Brynn. Where the hell were you just now?"

Tucking a piece of hair that had fallen from my claw clip behind my ears, I chew on the inside of my cheek before answering. "I was thinking about Chicago."

A knowing look passes Quinton's face. Even though Quinton is my best friend, there are still some parts of my life that I've kept hidden from him. I know it's shitty, believe me. I know that, if I'm going to call someone my best friend, then I need to be open and honest with him. But there are some parts to our stories that are just plain hard to talk about.

"Are you heading in to study?" I ask, gesturing toward the library.

Still staring at me with a sympathetic look, which I freaking hate, it takes him a second before he answers. "Yeah, some of the guys are meeting for a study sesh, per Coach's orders." Rolling his eyes he continues, "Some dumbasses are letting their grades slip, so now we all have mandatory study sessions. It's bullshit."

Both of us turn toward the library doors, and we finish our short walk to the entrance. Quinton opens the door wide for me to enter before following me.

"That sucks. But at least you get your work done."

Even after three years of attending Central Texas and visiting the library a handful of times, I'm still amazed at the pure beauty that makes up The Benjamin Liberty Library. The Liberty Library is original to the campus with beautiful brick craftsmanship. The east wall has a variety of stained-glass windows that give the building such a classic look. Vintage chandeliers take over the ceiling, casting a warm and inviting glow. The center of the main room is completely open to the ceiling, with tables for studying and a large antique desk that the head librarian sits behind. Around the sides of the library are floors housing books on different topics. On each floor, you can find individual cubbies, small group tables, and rooms that can be reserved.

Once again, I let my mind take over as I look around, soaking in the glorious library. I don't even realize that I have stopped walking until Quinton whisper-yells my name.

Shaking my head, I face Q again. "Sorry," I add, catching up to where he's standing off to the side of the stairs.

He's standing there eyeing me up and down, and it's at that moment that I know he knows I've been avoiding him. "Seriously, B, what the fuck is going on?"

Bypassing him, I start walking up the stairs, but he's right on my heels. "Nothing is wrong. I'm fine."

Placing my hand on the handrail, I make sure to let it help guide me up the stairs. No one wants to cause a scene and trip walking up a flight of stairs in a quiet library.

It'd be so embarrassing…no, it'd definitely be embarrassing. I made that mistake freshman year, thinking I was so cool and could just walk up the stairs without the handrail. I didn't realize that my tennis shoes had come untied until I tripped over the laces and ate it. It was loud, and everyone on the first floor turned to the stairs to see what had happened. Oh, you know, just a clumsy idiot freshman falling on her face, no big deal.

Changing the subject, I stop on a landing and ask, "What floor is your study room?"

"Fourth floor," Quinton responds.

Turning to continue walking up the stairs, I let him lead the way, deciding to study on the same floor. Moving off the stairs, I weave my way through bookcases until I find a single cubby outside Quinton's study room. Before he moves past me, Q stops and wraps his arms around me. Just that connection makes me want to cry.

Seriously, screw you, Flo. You're making me a weak bitch, and I hate it.

"Love ya, B," he whispers before leaving me alone.

Settling in at the desk, I open up my backpack and pull out my MacBook, planner—yes, paper planners are far superior to digital—and my psychology textbook. Reaching into my pocket, I grab my AirPods and turn on my alternative study playlist. "Ophelia" fills my ears, and I zone out the world.

After what feels like forever, I've written a paper for my social psychology class, and I've completed my reading for Psychology of Personality. Glancing down at the clock in the right-hand corner of my screen, I realize I've been here for almost two hours. Seriously, that flew by.

Pulling up my email, I want to double-check that I'm caught up before my Thursday classes. There's an email from my mother. Thinking back on it, I haven't heard from my mother since the middle of summer.

Do I open it now? Or do I wait?

Ugh, just get it over with Brynn.

Hovering over her email address, I decided to just rip off the Band-Aid and open it.

To: [emailprotected]

From: [emailprotected]

Subject: Five Years

Brinley,

The fifth anniversary is approaching. Your presence is required Friday, October 14 thru Sunday, October 16, as the high school is doing a tribute. We must be a united family front and I expect you to be there.

See attached for your flight information and let me know ASAP if this works for your schedule.

-Dr. Carolyn Cabot-Wilder

I reread the email. And for shits and giggles, two more times. The nerve of that woman to require that I attend some bullshit ceremony and look like we are a loving family. That ship sailed five freaking years ago. Even before that, a happy family was far from what we were. The only people happy in that family were Bryce and me.

Not only does she require my presence, but not once does she even ask how I'm doing. The audacity. This shouldn't surprise me. It's typical Carolyn Cabot-Wilder.

Sitting here, I can feel my blood pressure rise and my chest tighten. The anxiety is creeping in. Not only does dealing with my mother bring out the bad in me, but she's so nonchalant with it being the fifth anniversary. How can she be so cold?

You know what, let her sweat it. I'll reply to her later. Slamming my laptop shut and shoving it in my backpack, I quickly gather all of my things before storming down the library stairs.

Moving through all the students, I'm in a daze as I make my way from the library to the opposite side of campus where my car is parked. Fuming, I cannot get over how cold this woman has become. There used to be good times with my parents before the shit hit the fan, and our lives were changed. Right?

"Mommy, Mommy!" I call out. Closing the front door, I began searching our large house for her. "Kitchen, Brinley." I hear her voice from the back of the house.

Running, I make my way into the kitchen where the smell of freshly baked cookies greets me. Standing in front of the oven, placing freshly baked sugar cookies on a cooling rack, is my mom. She's still dressed in her scrubs from work, and her hair is tossed haphazardly in a messy bun at the top of her head. Mommy looks tired, and her smile doesn't quite meet her eyes, but I know she's excited to see me.

Pushing a bar stool next to her, I climb up and reach out to grab a cookie. With a ‘thwack,' my mother gently smacks my hand with the spatula.

"They just came out of the oven, baby."

"But sugar cookies are my favorite," I whine.

Leaning down, my mother places a big kiss on my forehead. "There's some sugar to hold you over." We laugh. "Now where is your brother?"

Shaking my head, I push the memory out of my mind. That was the last time I remember my mother baking cookies for Bryce and me. We were seven. Any other time we wanted cookies, we would have to ask Isabella, our housekeeper, to put a request in with the chef. Because shortly after, my mother was promoted to chief resident at our family's hospital, Cabot Presbyterian.

Finding my polar white Mercedes Coupe and placing my thumb on the door handle to unlock it, I climb inside. I let my body relax against the black leather as I reach inside the center console for my vape pen. Bringing the pen to my lips, I take a long drag, letting the inhale expand my lungs. Holding the vapor in, I close my eyes before releasing a long plume of vapor. Before I think about it, I'm bringing the pen back to my lips for a few more deep inhales.

In and out. In and out.

The act slowly brings my body into a state of relaxation.

Why did I let her get to me? Why are they having a tribute and making this whole situation another publicity stunt?

Thinking of the tribute only brings me pain. And the sense of peace is now gone. Pushing the automatic start, I switch my playlist over to my ‘in my feels' playlist. "I Think I'm Okay"by MGK and YUNGBLUD blasts through the speakers. Reversing out of the parking spot, I start my ten-minute journey back to the town house.

During the drive, my phone continues to notify me of text messages. The alerts coming through my speakers every two to four minutes are really annoying.

Can't people take a hint? If I don't respond right away, I'm not interested in talking.

The parking lot of the townhouse complex is surprisingly not full, and I'm able to score a parking spot close to our unit. Putting the car in park, I climb out and sling my backpack on my shoulders. I can see the lights are on at home, and I can't decide if I'm happy to have my roommates home to distract me, or if I just want to wallow in self-pity alone.

Storming into the house, the door slams behind me. Three heads whip in my direction from the couch—Chloe, Macy, and Gregg. Not bothering to acknowledge them, I go straight to the kitchen. Alcohol is calling my name.

"Woah, you look like shit," Chloe calls from the couch.

My middle finger flies in the air instead of a response. Digging through the fridge, which needs to be cleaned out, I grab a Coors Light. Shutting the door, I make my way back into the living room where sounds of one of the Housewives shows fill the room. Plopping down in the armchair, I swing my legs over the side and make myself comfortable.

"It's cute she's already got you whipped enough to watch the Housewives," I snark, taking a long pull of my beer.

"Someone's in a bitchy mood tonight. Not getting laid enough this week?" Macy quips back.

Staring at the TV, I add, "Nope, it's about to be shark week, and I got an email from my mom."

"That explains the mood," Chloe adds.

Silence ensues in the room as we watch the housewives fight, and one of them flips over a table. Seriously, why is someone always destroying dinner, especially when there's hired help at the dinner party? Wouldn't that be so embarrassing to show your ass in front of the help?

For the next half hour, I find myself zoned out staring at the TV, nursing my beer.

"Brinley, you ungrateful, spoiled brat," she says, and I roll my eyes. It's two forty-five in the morning, and I'm just coming in from another party. You would think that, given what happened six months ago, a party would be the last place I'd be, but we all grieve in our own way.

"Look who decided to be a mother," I crack, slurring my words. "Did you finally remember that you still have a child?"

Smack. Her hand flies across my cheek. I can't even say that I'm shocked. Did I deserve to be smacked? Probably. Am I surprised she did it? No.

Carolyn Cabot-Wilder is the picture of the perfect woman. She's climbed the ladder at the hospital. No surprise there since it's our family's "legacy," a legacy I have absolutely no desire to continue. Even if I wanted a career in the medical field, being under the scrutiny of the Cabot name is a big fat "fuck no." She wears her fitted dress with her perfectly poised attitude while clutching her precious pearls. But what most people don't know is that Carolyn is a ticking time bomb.

Every woman in this society has her secrets.

And Carolyn Cabot-Wilder has many.

"Did that make you feel good, Mother?" I ask, rubbing my cheek. "Does it make you feel powerful to hit your daughter?"

"Do you really think you're the first daughter to be slapped? Get over yourself, Brinley," she scoffs. "It's about time for you to grow up and start preparing to join your family's legacy. Lucky for you, you've got two legacies to choose from."

I laugh, actually laugh, at the audacity of this woman.

"Please Mother, like I'd join either one of the family legacies." Making my way to the fridge, I pull out a water bottle and start guzzling the ice-cold liquid. "Do I take after the adultering mother and her many conquests? Or the crooked politician who floats to whichever side has the most money?"

"Speak ill about your father or myself one more time young lady and see where that gets you. We will not allow you to disgrace our family's reputation any longer," she snarls.

"Bryce lucked out," I whisper.

"Why couldn't it have been you?" she mutters, knowing it was loud enough for me to hear. And, oh how she hit her target with that shot.

On the six-month anniversary of losing my brother, my twin, and my best friend, I lost the remaining respect for my mother. I was hurting. I just wanted to feel loved. And she told me she wished I was the one to have died in that accident, not her son.

That night, I lay in my bed, wearing my brother's favorite hoodie and cried myself to sleep. I dreamed of more time together. Of the time I fell and cut my leg. Bryce sat next to me with his arm wrapped around me, wiping my tears, just like I wished he would do for me tonight.

Only this time, in my memory, I can feel him.

I feel him wrapping his arm around me. I feel him brushing the tears from my cheek with his thumb. I hear him trying to console me. "Wilder!"

Wait…Bryce never called me Wilder.

"Wilder! Wilder, stop crying. Hey, Wilder."

Waking up, I look over to find Quinton squatting in front of me. He lifts me up from my spot on the armchair before taking my place and pulling me tight against his chest. I was so lost in my memory that I didn't even hear him come in.

Wait, how did he even get in?

Scanning the room, I realize that the space is empty aside from me and Quinton. The Housewives are still on the TV, but everyone else is gone. Clutching Q's shirt, I pull him close to me as the tears continue to fall. Quinton doesn't say anything. He lets me cry, rubbing my back and whispering consoling words.

"What the fuck happened, Brynn?" Quinton mutters. "I saw you take off in the library. I've been trying to call and text you, but you won't respond. What's going on?"

Leaning up, I wipe the tears from my face. Pulling my hands away, I see that they"re streaked with the black mascara that's running down my cheeks.

Jesus, I'm a freaking mess.

Looking up, I ask,"Why are you here?"

"Why am I here? For fuck's sake, Brynn, it's me. After you stormed out and didn't respond, I texted Chloe." He stares at my tear-stained face. "You blew past Cody in the quad. He said you looked like a ghost and didn't even acknowledge him when he said your name."

"I didn't even see him," I mutter.

"No shit, you didn't. He said you looked like you were in a trance, so he texted me to see what was wrong with you. That freaked me out more. All I kept thinking about was you drivin' home in a trance, wrapping your damn car around a pole." Taking a breath, he continues. "Then I show up here, and you"re staring at the TV, sobbing. Brynn, you don't cry. At least, I've never seen you cry. Stop avoiding me, and fucking talk to me."

Shock eclipses my face as I look up at him.

"Yeah, I know you've been avoiding me. That's somethin' else we need to talk about, but I need to know you're okay."

Clearing my throat, I look away toward the window. Still staring out the window, I feel around the chair, and under the pillow for my vape. Feeling the hard pen touch my fingers, I pull it out from behind the pillow and bring it to my lips. I start to inhale, but it's batted out of my hand.

"What the fuck, Quinton?"

"Don't ‘what the fuck me.' Quit using that thing as a crutch to avoid talking."

Groaning, I force myself out of his grasp and up off his lap.

"Don't come to my house, demand I talk to you, and lecture me. You're not my parents."

"Thank God for that. They suck," he quips.

"Yeah, they do."

"That's what it is, isn't it?" Quinton stands and walks over to me. "Brynn, what did they do now?"

Sighing, I stand there with my arms crossed, looking up at Quinton. I can see the worry lines etched across his face. There aren't many days where we fight. Sure, we have days where we bicker, but that's because we spend too much time together. He knows my likes and dislikes, my quirks, that I can eat as many wings as most men on the football team. He knows my secrets—well, most of them—my fears, my dreams, and my ambitions.

While he knows most of my secrets, he doesn't know everything. Some things in my past are just hard to talk about. It was ingrained in me at a young age that what happens in our family, stays in our family. Not only could it hurt my dad's political career, but it could hurt the precious family legacies. Our family legacies not only affected my brother, my parents, and me, but all of our relatives, the generations before us, and the ones to come. Secrets are what keep our family mighty.

"I have to go home next week. It was demanded, not requested."

"Okay," he drags out, not quite getting what the big deal is.

Inhaling, I continue. "The high school is doing a tribute during the football game. Then on Saturday attend some kind of formal event. That was all the information I got." Pausing, I run my fingers through my tangled hair. "She sent me a fucking email after not hearing from her in almost four months."

I can see the moment it clicks, and he looks down at me. "Five years."

"Five years," I sigh.

Quinton pulls me in for a hug. He drags his hand up my back and starts rubbing the turtledove tattoo I have on the back of my neck.

"You"re lucky," he says.

Jerking my head up, I look at him in shock. After everything I just said, I can't believe he just said that to me. He just grins.

"We have a bye week. There's no way in hell I'm letting you go alone."

"Thank you, Quinton."

"Anything for you, Wilder." He squeezes me before releasing me from his grip.

It's in this moment, with his arms wrapped around me, I'm clued into how different this hug feels. This hug isn't a brotherly hug. In fact, if I let myself accept the truth, his hugs have never felt brotherly. The heat between us is rising within me, like lava about to erupt, as he holds me, caressing my skin with his gentle touch.

What if I look up? Will I find him looking down at me? Would his eyes be darkened with lust? Would my own desire be reflected back? And where did these feelings come from?

With his grip released, I take a much-needed step back. Shit just got way too serious. With a pep in my step, I turn toward the kitchen.

"Ice cream and a movie?"

"Grab the ice cream, and I'll go up and pick something," Quinton answers, giving my butt a love tap as he bypasses me.

Startled, I jump in surprise at his contact. Fire spreads throughout my body.

The rest of the night is spent lying in bed with my best friend, watching Anchorman, eating ice cream, and laughing.

It felt good to have the old Q and B back, laughing our asses off, and quoting a movie we've seen too many times to count.