Won’t I?
“Britta.”
I shake my head no.
He closes his eyes.
Blindly, I speed back into the house, stammering apologies and goodbyes while gathering my purse, my phone, and car keys, bundling them to my chest while I head out the front door. But instead of getting into my Honda, I steer toward Sluggers and begin to run.
I’m sitting in the center of the quiet dining room of Sluggers two hours later when Bryce knocks on the locked door. And waits, his breath fogging up the glass.
Eventually, I stand, floating like a ghost to let him in. “Hey.”
He studies my face, nodding once. “Hey.” There’s a wrapped package beneath his arm, and he hands it over, saying, “Don’t open it yet.”
Weird, but okay. I don’t have the brainpower to process anything beyond. Breathing and blinking are about all I can handle. “I’m not really in a talkative mood.”
“I know. I’m coming in anyway.”
“Suit yourself.”
I set the package down and drop back into my seat. My half brother takes one on the other side of the picnic table, folding his hands in front of him. “So . . . he’s leaving.”
Those words make me want to curl into myself. “Yes, I know.”
Silence permeates the dining room.
“I guess you’re just going to watch him go.”
“I don’t have much of a choice,” I say with a humorless laugh.
“Nah, there hasn’t always been a choice for you, Britta, but there is one now.” Bryce shifts side to side. “You’ve been through some bad shit. I think about it every day. How you must have felt, being on the opposite side of . . . the life I was living. Being left behind like that. I hate knowing that I was happy, hitting pucks around with our father, while you were carrying all this baggage. You have every right to carry that weight however you want.”
We talked about the past exactly once—the first time we met in person
—and it was the first time I spoke about it with anyone. It’s not easy. It’s never easy hearing it all out loud. “Thanks,” I say hoarsely. “I told you. It wasn’t your fault. I don’t hold it against you.”
“I know. I love you for that, Britta.” He swallows. “But I’m also a hockey player, so I’m on the verge of giving you a little tough love. Sorry in advance.”
My defenses are screeching to the rescue. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Yeah. Like I said, sorry.” He exhales, jabbing a finger into the table.
“You’re too fucking brave to hide in Sluggers for the rest of your life. You are not confined to this place. You are confining yourself to it.”
Those words hit my chest like bullets. It’s impossible to speak.
I want to beg him not to continue, but I can’t find my voice.
“You found this way to overcome the past, right? This place became your purpose. You kept people at a safe distance. But now? Now, the past is beating you. It’s winning.” He drops a heavy fist onto the table. “So come on. Don’t let it do that.”
“I can’t just give up everything familiar and move across the country for him. We married so he could stay and play hockey. So he could get his green card—”
“You’re lying to yourself, Britta.” That pronouncement catches me off guard, because I have no idea what he means. All I can do is wait for him to elaborate. “We all know it was love at first sight for Sumner. Maybe it took you a little longer to fall for him, but there has always been something there. The whole team saw it. You’ve always smiled more when he’s around. You relax. Maybe something inside of you knew you could trust him, even before you loved him. Otherwise, you never would have agreed to the marriage.”
I’m beginning to feel slightly dizzy, because snippets of time are playing in my head, and I . . . Is he right? Did I have a thing for Sumner
long before I accepted it?
“I notice you’re not denying that you love him,” Bryce remarks dryly.
“Go on, admit you wouldn’t have agreed to marry anyone else.”
“I wouldn’t have,” I whisper, staring at the bar and seeing Sumner there. Leaning forward on an elbow and watching me work, oblivious to everything around him. How safe I feel whenever he is around. I’m going to lose that. I’m going to lose him. Unless I take some terrifying leap that I am not even remotely prepared for.
“You love him.”
“Of course I do.” I throw up my hands. “He made me.”