Page 78 of It's Always Been You
“Your mom makes the best eggnog I’ve ever had,” I say around a yawn. In the back of my mind, I’m wondering why Brandon didn’t drop me off at Grandma’s house afterward. But if he wants to spend more time with me, I’m certainly not going to complain. “I definitely went overboard.”
“You did, but it’s alright,” he says, laughing gently as he trails his fingers down my cheek in a featherlight touch. I shiver, and he chuffs my chin affectionately, smiling at me as my cheeks warm. I’ll never get used to the way he touches me so intimately now. “Do you want some water? Some aspirin, maybe?”
“Ugh, yes please. That would be great.”
He returns from the kitchen with the goods, and I down the pills and guzzle the water in one desperate gulp. When I’m done, I bring my legs up beneath me, and he sits down beside me on the couch. He reaches out to smooth my hair back from my face, and I lean into his touch, practically purring like a cat.
Then he pulls something out of his back pocket.
My eyes widen. “What’s that?” I ask as he balances a velvet jewelry box on his knee.
“It’s your Christmas present,” he says, as if it’s obvious. He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close, and I can’t help but think about how he didn’t hug me like this at his mom’s house this afternoon. He only seems to touch me so intimately when we’re alone. Which makes sense. But it still hurts.
“You got me a present?” I honestly didn’t expect him to get me anything.
“You got me one, didn’t you?”
“Well, I would have thought you’d give it to me at your mom’s this afternoon,” I explain as I pick up the box. That’s where I gave him my gift, anyway. My excitement grows as I smooth my thumb across the soft box. I look up at him. “Is it really jewelry?” All I got him was a silk tie with little nutcrackers on it and some matching socks . . . A stupid gag gift in comparison to this.
He nods. If I’m not mistaken, he looks a little embarrassed by the gesture. He shouldn’t be embarrassed, though. I already know this is going to be the best Christmas present I’ll ever get.
Grinning, I undo the neat little bow and flip the box open. I gasp quietly. Nestled within the silky satin fabric is a diamond necklace. The heart-shaped gemstone glimmers in the dim light, black as midnight. My hand tightens around the box.
Brandon bought me a diamond necklace.
Everything about it—from the way the dark stone eats the light to the dainty gold chain—is utter perfection. This isn’t just a necklace, either; it’s a choker. If ever a necklace were to have my name written on it, this would be the one. Tears build behind my eyelids, but I blink them away and smile up at him.
A man doesn’t just buy a woman jewelry willy-nilly—not unless she’s special to him. And he certainly wouldn’t buy her diamonds unless he’s in love.
And I know for a fact that Brandon loves me.
His arm tightens around my waist as he drops his chin to my temple. “Do you like it? It’s a black diamond. Since you’re always going on about your cold black heart.”
I laugh. “It’s perfect.”
He grins shyly. “May I put it on you?”
“Yes,” I breathe, reaching up to swipe my hair off the back of my neck. Carefully, Brandon pulls the necklace out of the box and brings it around my neck. I brush my hair back when he’s done clasping it up. A mistake—because the sleeve of my sweater falls down, revealing my marked-up forearm. Brandon’s eyes catch on my wrist. He grabs my hand and pulls it down onto his lap, forcing my palm up.
“When are we going to talk about this?” he asks, using the pad of his thumb to trace one of the raised scars. The tender flesh throbs under his careful touch. I try to pull away, but he holds on to me.
“Why do you do it?”
“I don’t,” I say, blushing. “I mean, I did. I don’t do it anymore. Those breathing exercises you taught me have helped a lot.”
He raises an eyebrow. “When was the last time?”
“Over a year ago.”
He sees right through my lie and pushes my sleeve back to reveal the most recent mark marring my skin. It was made six months ago, when I last had a moment of weakness. “So you’re telling me that this red welt is more than a year old? I don’t believe you.”
“Brandon . . .”
“Evie, please,” he pleads, shifting to face me on the couch. “Tell me why you do this to yourself. I want to understand.”
Of course he does. “You won’t.”
“Try me.”
