Page 88 of It's Always Been You
He nods, gesturingfor me to go ahead.
Outside, the air is damp and chilly, with sheets of rain still pouring from the overcast sky. I pull my hood up and hustle across the parking lot. Wrenching the passenger side door open, I climb into the seat to escape the torrent of rain.
Brandon’s car smells like rain, leather, and luxury—his woodsy, masculine cologne permeating the immaculately kept space. I breathe it in eagerly, wishing he didn’t have the effect on me that he does. My boots squeak as I glance around the space, and I lift them up, worried I’m dirtying up his mats. I just know he’s going to have them dry cleaned as soon as the weather is nice again. He’s a freak about things like that.
When a quick scan of my surroundings proves useless, I shove my hands down all the cracks and crevices and wiggle my fingers around. No phone.
Frustrated now, I climb back out of the car to search beneath the seats, but it’s not hiding there, either. Huffing my bangs out of my face, I get back in the car and look around one more time, trying to think like a lost phone. Where would I hide if I wanted a break from a Pinterest-scrolling, battery-draining baddie? On a whim, I pop the center console’s lid and peek inside. I know I didn’t put my phone in here, but I have to cover all my bases.
His center console is just as tidy as the rest of his car. And just as I suspected, no phone. Disappointed, I start to close the lid, but there’s a cracked notebook standing up on its spine, and it looks . . . scarily familiar.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. With a trembling hand, I reach for the journal, gingerly pulling it out like I’m excavating a rare artifact. Heart thumping, I mark the page with my finger and turn it over to look at the front.
It really is my diary.
Mymissingdiary.
I fall back against the seat, my mind racing and palms sweating. Ofallthe worst-case scenarios that ran through my mind about what could have happened to this diary—or who might have been reading it—never once didBrandoncross my mind. No wonder he was asking me so many questions about my journaling habits this morning. Is this his sick way of getting inside my head?
With a racing heart, I flip the journal over to the page I have bookmarked with my finger—the page that the diary was cracked open to. When I see which entry it is, white-hot rage blazes a trail of fire through my veins. It’s the kind offeral anger I haven’t felt since I was a teenage girl—the kind I’d get just before taking a blade to my skin.
Abandoning the search for my phone, I grab the diary and clamber out of the car. My vision tunnels as I slam the door and storm across the parking lot through the rain. The back door bangs against the wall as I throw it open.
I don’t bother knocking on Brandon’s office door this time.
Evie
Sunday, December 25, 2022
It’sover.Technically,therewas nothing between us to begin with, and I knew that. But I was still naive enough to give him everything in the hopes that he might eventually come around to the idea of us.
I’m an idiot.
I should have heeded his warning about complicating our . . . friendship. That’s all Brandon ever wanted from me—friendship. He made that crystal clear from the beginning. And while he might have been a trusted friend, he’s also a man, so he wasn’t exactly going to turn me down when I offered him my body on a silver platter, too, now was he?
I could scream.
I still can’t believe we went all the way. And not just that, but the experience was . . . perfect. He was a complete gentleman the entire time. Well, as much of a gentleman as one can be while doing the hanky-panky. He consistently checked in with me, whispered the sweetest nothings, his voice viscous and reverent like warm honey, warming me from within as his lies caressed my skin.
He told me he loved me. Said it like no truer words had ever been spoken.
And I believed him.
I’m trying to unbelieve it, but that’s like trying to untangle a million knotted necklaces. An impossible task.
I was confident we were making love. I was as sure of that as I am that the sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening, east to west, burning up everything in its path. Under Brandon, I felt safe. Loved. Adored.
For him? It was nothing more than a lust-induced rendezvous. Devoid of any genuine meaning.
But he told me he loved me.
How could he do it? How could it mean so much to me but so little to him? It doesn’t make sense.
When it was over, the spell I was under lifted like the morning fog. I woke up to a warm, sunny room in a cold, empty bed. After getting dressed, I found him downstairs drinking coffee in silence at his kitchen island. Foolishly, I was expecting him to be making breakfast in his boxers, smiling and dancing like I was the best sex he’d ever had.
But there was no music, no inviting aroma of eggs or bacon, no laughter or smiles. Just stone-cold silence and the trickle of coffee into the pot . . .
Suddenly, I felt shy. Unsure. So unlike the night before—when I was confident that he wanted me. I wasn’t sure how to act around him anymore.
