Page 48 of Brash for It
He answers on the second ring, his voice that deep rumble that always grounds me.“Yeah?”
My voice shakes.“He was just here.”
Silence for half a beat.“What’d he do?”
“He—he dropped off the car.The keys.An envelope.”I stare at it like it might explode.“And then he left.Didn’t even say anything else.Just,” My throat tightens again.“Just walked away like I was supposed to open this and crumble.”
I hear Kellum exhale through his nose, steady and controlled.“Do you want me to come there and you read it?Or do you want it all to disappear?”
I blink.“What?”
“This is your boat, Kristen.You’re the captain.I’m just the first mate.You tell me what you need me to do.”His voice is so steady, so damn certain.The calm I need.“You want it gone, I’ll burn it.You want to read it, I’ll stand next to you while you do.Your call.”
Tears prick hot behind my eyes, not from sadness this time but from the sheer relief of having someone give me the choice.“Stay on the phone with me.Please.I’ll open it.”
“On the line,” he replies, firm.“Go ahead.”
My hands shake as I pick up the envelope.The paper’s thick, expensive.Of course it is.I slide my finger under the flap and tear it open.The sound is too loud.My pulse is louder.
Inside, a single sheet of paper with his letterhead.His handwriting, sharp and arrogant.
Kristen,
The car is yours to use as you need.I decided you’d only wreck your life worse without it.When you’re done being trash, you can come home.The code is the same as before.Your phone is in console of the car.You can call any time.I’ll forgive you for leaving.
Yours,
Brian
That’s it.That’s the whole note.
I stand there, letter crumpling in my fist, heat crawling up my throat.“He said… he said when I’m done being trash, I can come home.And he’ll forgive me.”
Kellum’s silence on the other end isn’t empty.It’s loaded.I can practically feel him clenching his jaw.
“Kristen,” he speaks finally.“That’s not a man.That’s a coward throwing stones from a house he didn’t build.”
The rage surges through me before the tears can.My skin feels hot, my chest tight.“Trash?He calls me trash after everything he did?After taking my phone, my car, my—my whole life?He thinks he gets to dangle forgiveness like it’s a gift?I don’t need his forgiveness.”
I’m pacing now, behind the desk, the letter a mangled wad in my hand.“No.No.He doesn’t get to define me anymore.He doesn’t get to call me anything.He doesn’t get to—” My voice breaks with fury.“God, I hate him.”
“You should,” Kellum remarks, calm like steel.“Hate’s honest.”
I laugh, bitter.“I don’t want to waste energy on him anymore.”
“Then don’t,” he states like it’s easy.“Use it to live better than he thinks you can.”
My pacing slows.My chest heaves.The car sits outside, glinting in the sunlight like a snake coiled and waiting.
Sensing I’m about to crash out, he tells me, “Stay put, I’m coming.”
“No, you don’t have to?—”
“Not a debate, Kristen.You did the hard part.Let me do the cleanup.”
My shoulders sag.I clutch the phone tighter.“Okay.”
The rest of the morning is a blur.Customers come and go, Trina checks in with her little arched eyebrow that says she’s clocked everything, but all I can think about is that envelope and the Porsche parked smug and silent out front.Every time I glance through the glass, I see my reflection layered over it, like the car is daring me to forget who parked it there.
