Wherever It Leads (40 page)

T
he fresh air feels good against my skin as I walk along the beach. There aren’t a lot of people this morning, just me and a bunch of seagulls swooping over the water. It’s still early, the sun not directly overhead yet, and I’m glad I slipped out of the house before Presley woke up. I needed this time by myself.

I sat in the sand for a long time and looked across the rolling sea. The water soothed me, calmed me, brought a little peace to my battered heart. Now I walk along the waterline, a couple of runners passing me and giving me a little wave. I smile back and think I should be running too, but there’s no one chasing me, so that’s not really a possibility.

“Hang in there, Brady,” I whisper, my voice drowned out by the waves. “I don’t know how, but we’ll bring you home. We’re trying so hard. We all miss you so much.”

I don’t feel panicked or shaky or like crying. A bit of serenity has dipped into my psyche, a calm I went to bed with and was pleasantly surprised to find still around when I woke up.

“There’s this guy, someone I think you know, actually.” I blow out a breath, letting the wind take it away. “I really like him, Brady. He’s handsome and kind and all the things I wanted in a man. But he lied to me about you. And I don’t know if I can trust him, although my heart says I can. But what does it know? You said to always trust your heart, but it’s the one organ I’m starting to question.”

My fingers hold on to the elephant around my neck as I pad across the sand.

The sun comes out from behind a big, fluffy cloud and shines on my face. I know I’m right. For the first time, I know I can’t trust him and things between us will never work out. Whether that’s fair or not, I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter.

I turn up the beach and head to my car parked in the lot on the cliff. Once there, I hop inside and see my phone displaying a missed call. My heart sinks when I see it’s Fenton.

I hold it in my hands, trying to decide whether to call him back or not. I want to, the thought of hearing his voice is like a Siren’s call, yet I just decided it was better to just write him off.

Before I can decide, it rings in my hand again and I can’t help myself. I answer it.

“Hello?”

“Brynne?” His voice is muffled, like he’s talking through a sweatshirt.

“Yes. Fenton? What’s going on?”

“Hang on.” After a little rustling, everything clears. “Sorry about that. I basically have to stand on one foot to get good reception,” he sighs. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

“Yours too,” I smile. It sounds just like I remember it—smooth and warm like cashmere, although a little more tired since the last time I heard it. I wonder what he’s been doing and who he’s been with, and if he’s been happy or sad or working. “I called you yesterday.”

“I got your message this morning. I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I was busy.”

I wait for it to rub me the wrong way, but it doesn’t. I hope he was busy trying to find Brady, but I don’t ask. I don’t want to spoil the moment because, right now, I don’t hate him.

“Will you meet me for dinner tonight?” he asks.

My breath hitches in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself not to blurt out that I will. Because I shouldn’t. It’ll make things worse.

“Please, Brynne,” he pleads. “I know where you’re coming from and I understand. Just . . . give me an hour to talk. I want to talk, do you get what I’m saying? I want to tell you things, explain things. And after that, if you don’t want to hear from me again, that’s up to you. But hear me out. Please.”

“Okay,” I breathe before I can change my mind.

“Be at Ruma at six. Unless you need a ride and in that case—”

“No,” I interject. “I’ll be there at six.”

“I can’t wait to see you.”

“I’ll be there.”

T
here has been an air of urgency this evening. Presley had to basically dress me, do my hair, and put me into my car. I couldn’t function because all I could do was flip out that I was seeing him again, and then flip out again because I felt like I shouldn’t be. I’m a walking, talking, stumbling heap of confusion and I can’t force any of the puzzle pieces in front of me to go the right way.

The valet whisks me inside Ruma so quickly I can barely keep up. My heart is pounding so hard and loud that by the time we reach the door to the private room, I can only see the server’s mouth move; I can’t hear anything she says. She swings the door open, her lips moving and then twisting into a smile, and I step across the threshold. The door creaks shut behind me.

Fenton’s already here. His clean, spicy scent floats breezily through the air, a complete contradiction to the tornado I feel inside.

He comes around the corner and I literally can’t breathe. I force the air in and out, make myself remember that I have to have air or else I’d just pass out.

Talk about contradictions—this is it. He’s in deep grey dress pants and a white button-up shirt. The sleeves are rolled up, giving him a look of casualness. But I know the look in his eye, the way they crinkle at the corners, the way his lips are pulled tight—he’s not feeling carefree in the least.

He doesn’t peruse my body like he once did. He doesn’t try to remove my clothes, make me combust under his gaze. Instead, his eyes plead with mine, burn into me with all the angst he’s apparently holding inside.

I remind myself not to cave. That things between us are different now and they’ll never be the same. They won’t. They can’t. And as much as I want to run to him, press my face against his chest and feel his arms wrap around me, that’s impossible now.

Fenton starts to speak but catches himself. With a slight shake of his head, like he’s unsure what to say or how to act, he takes a couple of tentative steps towards me.

“How are you?” I ask, my voice pitchy.

“Fine,” he says, extending his hand to mine. “How are you?”

“Fine.” I watch his hand dangle in the air between us. I don’t take it. Taking it would be insinuating that we are at some sort of level like we were before, that touching is okay. I can’t break that boundary.

His hand drops to his side. “Come this way.” He turns and heads to the little table by the windows. I follow a few steps behind, watching him move in front of me. His posture is rigid, his shirt slightly wrinkled in the back.

He pulls out a chair and I sit before he takes the one across from me. There’s no food, just two glasses of red wine and one candle that’s been pushed off to the side. There’s nothing between the two of us besides the expanse of the table itself.

He catches me noticing and clears his throat. “I didn’t order. If you want something, we can get it. I just thought . . .”

“No, you’re right. I don’t want anything either.”

“Did you get my letter?”

“Yes.”

He blows out a deep breath and the candle flickers with the force of the exhale. The exhaustion in his face, the stress in his body kills me, and my resistance crumbles a bit. I realize what Presley said while she helped me get ready is true—this is so hard because I do love him.

Fenton glances at his watch and forces a swallow. “I’m just going to cut to the chase.”

“Sounds good.”

“Everything I’ve told you is the truth. I want you to know that.” His voice is firm, controlled, his eyes boring into mine. “From how Brady started working for me to what happened with him in Zimbabwe, to how hard I’ve worked to get him back to how I knew you were you and when I knew it—it’s all the absolute truth, Brynne. I might be guilty of omitting the truth, but I have never lied to you. My omissions may have been the wrong thing to do, they probably were the wrong thing to do, but I did it because I knew there was a chance you’d leave me and I didn’t want that. I knew it would feel like this.” He chuckles to himself. “No, it feels worse than I even imagined.”

His face falls and so does my heart.

“I have never felt this way about a woman. Never. I’ve never considered that I’d ever feel the way I saw my father look at my mother. And now I know without a doubt what that feels like because that’s how I feel when I look at you. I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life but
that
—seeing
that
look on your face—it’s the worst thing I’ve ever had to deal with.”

“Fenton . . .”

“Let me finish, please.” He looks at his watch again and takes a deep breath. “I want you to know I love you. And not because you hate me or because I feel guilty or because I feel like I wronged you or want you to absolve me of guilt. I love you because . . . my life is better with you in it. Because you make me want to be a better man. Because you blur things. Because when you’re around, I feel like things are the way they’re supposed to be.” He forces a swallow, a few beads of sweat dotting his forehead. “Because you make me want to do anything I can, without fail, to protect you and give you everything that makes you happy.”

Tears burn my eyes as I watch his absolute sincerity. My resolve crumbles because I know he means it, and I feel the same way.

“I knew better,” I say, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

“Better than what?”

“Better than to fall in love with you.” My words flutter through the air and he smiles as they hit him, and I can’t help but smile back. “Even if I believe you and that you were going to tell me—because I want to believe you, Fenton, I do. Even if I do, there’s still this part of me that will always wonder about what you knew about Brady. I can’t—”

A loud knock raps through the room and we both jump. My arm knocks over one of the glasses of wine and it spills off the table and onto the floor, splashing as it hits. The sound pitters through the room, an eerie, steady background to the chaos ensuing in front of us.

The sweat on his forehead increases two-fold and he reaches for my hand. His eyes drill into mine. “Listen to me. I love you. Okay? No matter what happens, you have to know that.”

“What’s going on?”

“Brynne,” he pleads. “Do you hear me? I love you. I. Love. You—”

The knock sounds again and echoes through the room again, cutting him off. My heart is in my throat, my legs shaking as I try to stand as Fenton does.

The next few seconds play out in a whirlwind, and I can only stand by and watch as the door swings open. Fenton shoots me one final glance and braces himself.

“Mr. Abbott? FBI.” The words come from one of three men in suits, their faces somber, streaming through the door. They make a beeline for Fenton.

As they draw closer, I attempt to round the table to stand next to him. To hold his hand. Maybe to protect myself and maybe to protect him. I’m not sure. I just need to be close, but he waves me off, casting me a sad, resigned smile. I halt, a lump in my throat.

The burly man flashes a badge towards Fenton, eyeing me quickly, and then faces him dead on. “Mr. Abbott, you’re going to need to come with us.”

Fenton nods like he knew it was coming before placing his arms at the base of his spine. Handcuffs are swatted onto his wrists immediately, the chains rattling as they cuff him.

“What’s happening?” I shriek, panic ripping through me. I take a step towards him. I’m stopped by one of the men from getting any closer.

“Stand back, Miss.”

Fenton looks straight ahead—not at me. Not at the man. Not at anything but the painting in front of him.

“Fent!” I say, too scared to cry, too scared to ask questions. But he won’t look at me. He just stares straight ahead.

My head spins, my jaw hanging open, my tears coming so fast I can’t see through them. I hear murmurs through the buzzing in my ears as I watch Fenton being led out of the room. He gives me one final glance, a look filled with such sorrow it breaks me in absolute pieces, as they pause in the doorway.

“I love you,” I say, my voice shaking so hard the words are hard to make out.

“I love you.” A sad smile on his face is the last thing I see before they disappear from sight.

My hand trembles uncontrollably as I search for my bag, unable to take my eyes off the doorway. I grasp frantically to find my purse, through the puddles of spilled wine, until I find it on an extra chair. I swipe it up and rummage through it to find my phone as I head to the door.