We Go Down (Bremmy 2)

Chapterish 58

SHADOWS

Another few days crammed with Go Zen expansion plans to keep my mind busy and several more sleepless nights later, it's April 9th. T-minus three weeks until Trix and Travis get hitched, until I (maybe) come face to face with Brooks again.

Still no texts or calls. No anything.

If I'm being honest, I've pictured our encounter a thousand times and each time I come out on top, each time I take the high road. Trix told me to find the sexiest man I could and bring him as my date, but the idea of babysitting at my best friend's wedding is hardly appealing. Again, being honest, I did entertain it for a hot second.

12:13 AM

My phone buzzes with yet another text from Zöe trying to lure me out to the bar. I shoot her a quick denial, for the tenth time, and toss my phone on to the counter.

I drain the last bit of my green juice and toss the cup in my bathroom trash bin. The water steams quickly as I turn the knob on the shower and let the hot water turn my back red. Shampoo suds drip down my neck and over my chest.

Midnight yoga was intense tonight and I'm glad to be purging myself of all this sweat. If it wasn't for Demi's lavender spritz, I would have smelled much worse than I do right now.

My mind floats back to its usual fixation: the Wedding.

#LoveMarkstheScott

Three weeks.

I haven't started packing, but it's not like I need much. My burnt coral bridesmaids dress is currently hanging in my closet doorway, sealed in plastic wrap and ready to be shoved into a carry-on.

I have my shoes and my full collection make-up bag, stockpiled with every shadow palate, brush, and applicator I've ever owned. A bathing suit, because Florida. Some leisure wear and yoga pants for pre-wedding lounging. Some jewelry, sans one label ring.

I towel dry my hair and toss it into a nest on top of my head. I pull on my long-sleeve top and yoga pants and crawl into bed, the minty taste of toothpaste still lingering on my tongue.

12:29 AM

I stow my phone safely away at the foot of my bed, determined not to give any social media the time of night. I pull the nearest book from my bedside. I flip through A Game of Thrones to find the crumpled receipt I'm using as my bookmark.

Part of me wants to quit reading before I invest too much time, especially considering the dumpster fire of a finale the TV series had. Still, I'm committed to finishing at least something in my life. At least reading I can control.

I yawn for the tenth time in the space of five minutes. The colossal book slips from my hands and sticks a rough landing on my collarbone. I rub my eyes clear of all the tiny words and throw the book away.

Light pours inside my loft, casting monstrous shadows against the far wall. I watch these phantoms dance across my cabinets like they belong to some war tribe; they keep beat with the pitter patter of the rain and they drip raindrops of war paint.

I roll over and close my eyes tight.

Dreams of swords and royals flash behind my eyelids. The rain pounds against the building, competing with canon blasts and galloping horses.

Bang.

I roll over and stifle a yawn.

BANG.

I sit upright against my headboard. I strain my ears, listening for voices outside my door.

BANG.

Cue pounding. Cue heart-thumping.

What the fuck?

More pounding. It takes me a second to realize it sounds like fists.

I jump from the couch, trailing the blanket behind me, and walk to towards the door.

I lean my ear to listen, but it's quiet on the other side.

BANG.

Another smash makes me jump back from the door. I regroup, place my hand on the knob, and slowly crack open the door.

My eyes fall on a dark figure hunched over in the dim hallway. He's sitting slouched against the wall beside my door, his head hung between his knees.

Brooks.