Page 87 of It's Always Been You
She hesitates, and I wait, perched on the edge of my seat as her mouth pops open and closed like she’s debating whether she wants to elaborate.
The phone rings, and we both jump.
She grabs it like it’s a life line. “Wright and West Psychiatry, Evie speaking. How may I help you?”
She waves me off, covering her free ear as she turns away. After a moment, I relent and head back to my office. But I’m still thinking about all the cryptic things she’s said as I sit down at my desk andstart up my computer.
I almost forgot that this is what it’s like when Evie confides in me—the total fascination I feel. Her mind is a wild, wonderful place, and every time she shares something new, I’m left wanting to know more than she’s willing to share.
It’s maddening.
Intoxicating.
Addicting.
Just like her.
Chapter 27
Evie
Brandonwouldhaveaconniption if I told him what Ireallyused to write about. Every impure thought that I ever had about him would inevitably find its way onto paper. It wasn’t just my sexual fantasies I’d jot down with a hormone-fueled fury; I used to write entirestoriesabout us. Getting married. Having children. Adopting senior dogs. Vacationing in Europe.
I’m glad I was wise enough to destroy the evidence.
The first time Francine discovered a loose sheet of printer paper describing one of my R-rated fantasies, she took me aside and asked where I learned to write things like that. I reluctantly confided that I had been reading the erotic romance novels I found on the bookshelf in the basement—the only legacy my birth mother left behind. Francine repaid my honesty by confiscating them.
It was probably for the best. Because that’s what happens when you discover your mother’s erotic romance novel collection as a teenage girl, then binge read them over and over. You end up confusing sex for love. But men and women are wired differently when it comes to sex.
I learned that the hard way.
I honestly believed that if Brandon and I just had sex, he’d finally come to his senses and realize that he did, in fact, want to be in a relationship with me. No such luck . . .
At first, I assumed Brandon was afraid of commitment, and that’s why he didn’t want to label our situation. But the more I reflected on his actions in thedays after our rendezvous, the more I realized I was destined to be a pawn in one of his twisted games.
Brandon knew exactly what he was doing that night, too. From bringing me back to his place after I’d been drinking, to gifting me that diamond necklace, to the way he played hard to get, which triggered one of my worst insecurities—that he was getting bored of me because wehadn’thad sex yet . . .
He made me believe he was coming around to the idea ofus.
That was never the case. To him, it was only ever about the chase. As his best friend’s little sister, I was his forbidden fruit. As soon as he finally got his taste, he spit me back out like I was rotten.
Or poisonous.
The truth is so obvious now in hindsight: I was his dirty little secret.
I might have had a moment of weakness with him last night because I was tired and unwell and in pain—but no number of apologies or heart-to-hearts or whispered prayers will ever make up for what he did to me.
Never.
Lowering my head into my hands, I rub my throbbing temples as I listen to the rain patter against the windows. I feel so much worse than I did this morning. It isn’t helping that it’s been a slow morning; loads of people have canceled their appointments because of the holiday tomorrow. I probably could have stayed in bed after all . . .
Fighting my heavy eyelids, I search the desk for my phone, eager to open Pinterest and fall down the rabbit hole. I’m dangerously close to face planting into my keyboard otherwise. But my phone isn’t where I usually set it. I feel around my person out of habit, but I’m not wearing anything with pockets. I reach down and search through my bag, but it’s not in there, either.
I must have left it in Brandon’s car.
I rise and head to his office. He’s in between patients, so I knock on his door and poke my head in. “Brandon?”
He’s on the phone, but he waves me in anyway, seeming eager to see me. I tiptoe into the room and point at the keys in the bowl on his desk. “Can I borrow your keys?” I mouth. “I’m looking for my phone.”
