Brielle.
She’s standing several feet away, watching me interact with Chrissy. Wearing her red coat, she looks so beautiful and fragile, I want to weep. Her eyes have welled with tears, which she works to blink away.
I want to go to her, want to tell her it’s not what it looks like, but the cliché of a lie dies on my lips.
Brielle’s watchful eyes don’t miss a thing. Not the bruises decorating Chrissy’s neck, or the way she has a death grip on my hand. Deep hurt and betrayal is written all over Brielle’s face.
Sensing the tense standoff happening between me and Brielle, Chrissy shifts beside me. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” I lie.
Brielle sucks in a deep breath and straightens her shoulders. I know she’s hurt, but pretending she’s okay. She’s pretending we didn’t just fuck each other’s brains out last night, that we don’t have a connection neither of us can explain.
“Are you guys ready to see the house? I think you’re going to love it,” she manages, her voice lifting with a slight tremor.
Goddamn it.
I’m itching to take her into my arms and hold her, quiet all her fears, tell her everything, expose myself, and beg for her forgiveness. Instead I merely stand here. I’m not about to expose Brielle as one of my clients. We both signed that nondisclosure agreement, and I took that seriously. It could affect her professional reputation if word got out; not that Chrissy would say anything, but still, I wouldn’t put her at risk.
It takes Brielle several tries to get the lockbox open, her hands are shaking that badly.
When I reach for her, she tugs her hand away as if I’m poison. Maybe I am.
“I’ve got it,” she barks, then realizes her mistake and puts on a smile for Chrissy. “See? We’re in.” She pushes open the front door and motions us inside out of the cold.
The house is a two-bedroom, two-bath fifties-style bungalow, as is common in this area. The hardwood floors creak when we walk from room to room, exploring. The bathrooms need updating, but the kitchen was recently renovated, and the walls and carpets are all fresh and neutral.
Chrissy has done a good job. She’s been saving for three years to buy a place of her own, move out of that rundown shoebox she calls an apartment. When I told her I’d help her with the down payment, it sped up her timeline significantly.
Chrissy stops to face me in the living room, where a quaint stone fireplace sits under a rustic wood mantel. Brielle is never out of sight, and I can feel her presence as if she’s cast a shadow over me.
“What do you think?” Chrissy asks.
“I think it’s great. More important, what do you think?” She’ll be the one with her name on the thirty-year mortgage, not me.
“I love it. I feel like it’s already home. Fires burning right there,” she points to the fireplace, “and a little garden in the backyard…” Her voice trails off and her eyes glisten.
“Merry Christmas,” I whisper to her, and she wraps her arms around me, squeezing my waist.
She looks into my eyes and wipes at her own. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
I force a smile, painfully aware that Brielle is watching this entire exchange.
Before I can process what’s happened, I’m standing outside on the sidewalk, watching Brielle get into her car and speed away.
Goddamn it. I’ve never felt so out of control.
It’s time to start taking on clients again. Stop this bullshit fantasy from playing out any further.
Chapter Nineteen
Brielle
My vision blurs as I sob big, ugly tears the entire drive home. I make it there in record time and tear through my apartment. The first thing I do is strip off my new red coat and stuff it in the trash can.
Something’s come up, his text said. Hell yeah, something came up! He’s apparently buying a house with a woman—a woman who looks like she’s been used as a punching bag, which I can only assume was during a session of rough sex.
I’m not even angry; I’m broken. Destroyed. A man I had fallen head over heels for is not who I thought he was. It was all some game. I paid him handsomely for his services, and that was all it was to him. A down payment on his future with another woman. The painful realization that I meant nothing to him slams into me, and I feel weak.
Grabbing my laptop, I delete my profile from the dating site, delete every stupid message I saved. I delete his texts, and then his number from my phone. It’s as though he never even existed. If only my aching heart could mirror that feeling.
I sink onto the couch and let the tears flow. I consider calling Julie, but the idea of admitting how foolish I’ve been doesn’t appeal to me. Of course I knew better than to fall for him, yet I did it anyway. I gave myself to him completely, in every sense of the word, but it was all for nothing. Now he’s done with me, and I feel lost. I don’t know what comes next.
As painful as it is, I can’t stop the memory of seeing him with that bruised and battered woman from replaying in my brain. I recall the careful way he was with her, the way his hand danced at her lower back, and she gazed up adoringly into his eyes as they spoke in hushed voices.
Not only did he lie about having a girlfriend, but he’s not at all who I thought he was. He’s violent. Brutal. Not at all the man I dreamed him to be.
Several hours later, I’ve had two glasses of wine and am soaking in a hot bath when my phone rings.
It’s Kirby.
I consider letting it go to voice mail; I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. But then I remember what this entire experiment was about. Taking charge of my future.