Take Your Time (Fate and Circumstance #2) Read online

  “Shhh, Sarah. It’s okay.” She knelt next to me and held onto my forearms while I buried my face in my hands. “No one is pretending she’s still here. We don’t think she’s just taking a nap. You’ve had it in your head this whole time that we don’t care. That we haven’t grieved over losing her. But you couldn’t be further from the truth. You’ve just pushed us so far away that you haven’t been there to see the pain we all live with every single day.”

  “Don’t…” I warned her with a deep, sharp tone. I dropped my hands and glared at her, ignoring her wide eyes, dropped jaw, and sharp gasp. “I know what you’re insinuating, but don’t. I may have pushed you all away, but that was after everyone made me feel alone. It was bad enough that you had Axel and Clari had Joel to lean on. But then you two go and lean on each other, leaving me completely and utterly alone. So don’t make it sound like I pushed y’all away first so you can sleep better at night.”

  Bree stared up at the ceiling and took in a heavy, long gulp of air before releasing it slowly through pursed lips. It was either to calm herself before lashing out at me, or to gain the courage to say something meant to be helpful, knowing it would only cause me distress.

  “Sometimes in grief, we see things that aren’t truly there. Yes, Clari and I both have someone in our lives to lean on when we need it, but so do you. You have us, as well as my dad. But you’re the one that chose not to lean on us. Over time, as we learned to move forward, Clari and I took those steps together. You have always been welcome to take those steps with us. In fact, we’ve encouraged it on multiple occasions. We’ve always wanted you to move forward with us. But you’re the one that chose to stay behind. You’re the one that chose to live in the grief, to live in the darkness without anyone there for you.”

  “You’re right, it’s all my fault,” I said with a cold, dead voice before she could continue with her lecture. It wasn’t necessary, because I knew Bree hadn’t meant it in a hurtful way, but that logic didn’t register with me at the time. I couldn’t see past the bright light of sorrow that blinded me.

  “That’s not what I’m saying, Sarah.” Her voice rose, coming out harsh and bitter, portraying her irritation. “Again, you’re only seeing what you want to see. Hearing what you want to hear. Because it makes it easier for you to push us away. It justifies your cause to be alone and sad. But you don’t have to live like this. You don’t have to be so isolated. I just wish you’d talk to someone. Be it Clari, me, my dad…I don’t care if it’s Mrs. Witherson down the street with that ugly ass poodle. I just wish you’d open up and get all this darkness out from inside of you. I wish you’d come back to the land of the living and enjoy life with us.”

  I didn’t want to listen to what she had to say, but she wouldn’t stop.

  “Your mom was so full of life and love, and no one knows that better than I do. I came to your house a broken seventeen-year-old, pregnant and barefoot. My dad was practically a stranger to me. You, Clari, and your mom…? For five years, you guys were the enemy in my head. The people who took the only loving parent away from me when I was too young to defend myself. You and Clarissa had replaced me in his eyes, and I never wanted anything to do with any of you. But by the time I came here, I didn’t have a choice. And your mom took me in with open arms. I remember the very first time I met her. Dad hadn’t even gotten out of the car before your mom was outside, wrapping me up in a hug, ignoring her husband she hadn’t seen in two weeks. She did everything she could to make sure I was comfortable and happy, to make sure I felt loved. She made sure I knew what love was, and she showed it to me every damn day for the rest of her life. She would never want you to live like this.”

  I watched as fat, heavy tears rolled past her lids, cascading down her cheeks before falling to the tile below us. I’d never heard her say those things before—not about Clari and me, not about my mom, how she felt about us before meeting us…none of it. I remembered the day she first came to our home, and thinking back to it formed knots in my stomach. Remembering how Mom had sat us down to tell us about Bree, about how she was going to be living with us, and how we needed to treat her with compassion and love. That was the definition of my mom, compassionate and loving, believing with her whole heart that if everyone treated people that way, the world would be a better place. She knew how unrealistic it was, but that didn’t stop her from greeting everyone within ten feet of her with a smile, or stopping to offer comfort to a crying stranger on the street.

  “I am talking to someone.” Tears blurred my vision, but it felt as if they clouded my brain and thoughts. I had no idea what I was saying or why, but I didn’t care. My contempt had become so instilled in me that I couldn’t just let sleeping dogs lie. I had to constantly fight back, keep the mask perfectly in place so no one would see the truth. Even with Bree. It didn’t matter that she could call my bullshit, or that she knew me better than anyone else. I still found the need to make her believe that I was all right. That I was getting better. Even if it was a lie.

  Her brows arched. She glared at me with skepticism. “Really? Who?”

  Names and faces flashed through my mind at warp speed. She knew all the girls at the salon, and I hadn’t spoken to any of my friends in months. She’d know that was a lie if I’d given one of their names, so I blurted out the first name I knew she wouldn’t question. “Bentley.” It wasn’t a complete lie. After all, I had opened up to him. I did talk to him.

  She sat back, slumping against the dishwasher behind her with a huff, her shoulders hunched forward and head hanging in defeat. “I meant a professional, Sarah. But I guess I can’t complain. At least you’re talking to someone. Even if it is a fuck buddy.”

  “Why would you think he’s a fuck buddy? Because he’s a guy? And Sarah sleeps with every man she knows?” Red-hot anger pulsed through my veins with each passing second, and it showed in my accusations as I practically spat out each word.

  “No. Stop hearing what you want to hear, and start listening to what people are actually saying. You sent me a picture of his license plate Saturday night, as well as his name. Bentley isn’t exactly a name I’d forget in four days. Not to mention, I’m well aware of what you do on the weekends, Sarah. You admitted to going out with him, getting in his truck and leaving with him. So it’s not a far reach to put two and two together.”

  “Not that I need to justify myself to you or anyone else, but he’s not my fuck buddy. We didn’t have sex. We went to Macy’s Diner and talked.” I thought I’d feel better after admitting that, feel like I’d won the argument, but I didn’t. The vindication never came. My chest heaved with exertion from trying to force air in my lungs, my throat so full of fire I could barely swallow. The need to cry became unbearably strong, but the need to hide was even greater. I’d become a liar.

  “Have you seen him since? Talked to him since Saturday night?”

  “Yes. I saw him Monday. And we talked some more.”

  “Is he a therapist or something?”

  “No,” I said with a sheepish grin. Thoughts of Bentley flooded my mind and it began to ease the tension in my body, making it easier to breathe. “He’s a horse trainer.”

  “Does he have siblings?” Genuine interest showed in her barely raised eyebrows and in the faint smile that gently pulled on her lips.

  “Yes, he has two brothers. He’s the youngest of the three. I don’t remember their names, but one is an engineer and the other is a detective.” I wanted to tell her everything I knew to really make it believable. I didn’t want her to doubt my lie.

  But the one thing I hadn’t expected was how much I remembered about him. I never cared enough to remember anything random guys would tell me. But for some reason, what he’d told me stuck. And the more I thought about it, the more of what he’d said to me that night came to mind. And then a smile formed on my lips, growing wide and burning my cheeks at the memory of our Waffle House conversation.

  “You like this guy?” she asked quietly, almost as if she thought spe
aking too loudly would scare me off.

  “What? No. We’ve just talked.”

  “About your mom? About how you feel?” Hopefulness filled her warm tone and it washed over me, flooded me, and then left me unsettled by her compassion. I knew she only wanted me to be okay, and I appreciated that, but I wasn’t her, nor was I Clari. I couldn’t just wake up tomorrow morning and be happy again.

  “I’ve discussed my mom, told him about her dying. We’ve talked about how I’ve handled it since then, how I spend my weekends, how I hold everything in.” I knew I sounded believable, even though it technically bordered on being a lie. But I spoke with confidence, strong and steady words, and I knew she wouldn’t question it.

  Her posture relaxed some as she settled further against the dishwasher. “Well, good. I’m happy you’re finally opening up to someone. When are you going to see him again?” Of course, she had to ask the one question I couldn’t lie convincingly about.

  “I don’t know.” I gave her a one-shoulder shrug, hoping to come across as nonchalant instead of insecure. Truth was, even though I’d walked away from him, practically kicked him out of my life—again—it didn’t mean I hadn’t thought about him. It didn’t mean the bell on the door of the salon hadn’t caused my heart to skip a beat every time someone walked through it, hoping it’d be Bentley’s face I’d see.

  “Just promise me you won’t push him away, too. If he’s getting you to open up about things, getting you to talk about your problems, then I pray he’s around for a while. I really hope you give it a chance instead of closing off. I can’t continue to watch you self-destruct. I love you, Sarah. I just want you to be happy again. I miss my best friend.”

  Her sincerity physically hurt me like a steel rod to my chest, hitting me with the speed of a professional baseball player’s pitch. The pain was probably more from my regret than her words, but whatever it was, I had to rub the spot over my heart in order to ease the ache left behind by yet another emotion I’d tried to lock away. Ever since Bentley had nudged my shoulder at the bar, my emotions wouldn’t stay buried, as if he’d pushed me back to reality.

  “I miss you, too.”

  “Enough of this sappy shit,” she said with a laugh and stood up, pulling me with her. “You promised to be my maid of honor, and you have yet to even try on a dress. The wedding is in less than six weeks and you’re about to bring out the bridezilla in me.”

  I’d avoided going dress shopping with her, knowing I’d do nothing but sit there and sulk at the thought of my mom not being part of it all. And then I’d completely break down at the realization that one day, it could be my turn to try on wedding dresses, and Mom wouldn’t be there for that, either. It was utterly selfish of me to keep from being a part of this journey with her, but I couldn’t help it. Just the thought of sitting in a bridal shop surrounded by white wedding dresses, watching other soon-to-be brides and their mothers, it felt like a hundred sharp knives to my heart. But Bree was right—I had promised to not only be in her wedding, but to be her maid of honor, and I had to follow through with that. If only she’d asked me after I’d gone to check on my mom, then my answer would’ve been different.

  “Fine. Let’s go. I know you well enough to know that if I don’t, you’ll have me wearing the most hideous dress imaginable. Which, I want you to know, will only lead to me giving the worst toast in the history of toasts. Things could get very ugly after that.”

  Her contagious laugh bounced off the walls as she made her way to the living room to get Ayla. “Yes, Sarah, for the safety of our future relationship, let’s get you fitted for your dress.”

  I ended up needing to try on three dresses—the first two being too big for my now slight frame—and then a woman with an honest to goodness mustache stuck pins in the fabric and used a measuring tape on practically every part of my body. I had an odd feeling that she was really a man in disguise, and used this job to see and touch nearly-naked women on a daily basis. The way her hands held my ass could in no way be considered appropriate.

  Being there hadn’t been as bad as I’d expected. Probably because I didn’t have to see anyone try on gowns, and I’d spent most of my time in the fitting room. I was just thankful Bree didn’t push the issue. Not once did she talk about the wedding other than to mention the colors. It made it less formal and easier to deal with.

  After leaving there, I went back home while Bree met up with Axel for dinner. She’d asked me to join them, but I politely declined the offer. It seemed as though I’d had enough girl time for one day. I wanted to be alone. I needed space to breathe and think. I needed the quietness of my house in order to gather my thoughts, to settle down, to allow myself to feel without being forced.

  But that proved to be a bad decision. Breathing, thinking, feeling…it was all too much for me. Every thought and emotion that had evaded me at the bridal shop came roaring to life in the silence around me, burning me from the inside out, choking me until I couldn’t take a full gulp of air. I thought I’d been in the clear, but once the chaos of sizing, colors, and Ayla’s energy vanished, my mind fell into the darkness once more. I’d managed to avoid the planning process of Bree’s wedding, and had convinced myself that I’d never get married—I didn’t want it. But then I’d gazed into Bentley’s eyes and had seen this bright and promising future. Even if it were only for a moment, I’d allowed myself to believe it could happen. It wasn’t until coming home from the bridal shop when everything hit me all at once. No matter how nice it would be to love again and find happiness, I’d never be able to walk down an aisle. My mom wouldn’t be there. And even though I had Wayne— technically my dad—my father wouldn’t be there. I was literally an orphan.

  I became overwhelmed and fraught, convinced I needed to turn off the emotions, needing a physical release to erase the compounding feelings that coursed through me. But I had no one to call. I thought about heading to a bar, grabbing the first guy I saw, and taking him someplace quiet. But I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to do that, either. My hands shook from anxiety, and I knew they’d assume I was a crack addict looking for a fix. Not to mention, the idea of finding someone for a quickie turned me off for reasons I didn’t want to comprehend. I didn’t want a stranger that I had to imagine a connection with; I yearned for a real connection. The kind that would make me feel scatterbrained and weightless. A connection that left a person impulsive. But the only time I ever felt that kind of link, that kind of impulsivity, was when Bentley crossed my mind. However, I couldn’t have him.

  So why did I constantly think of him? If I truly wanted him out of my life, like I’d claimed so many times, why couldn’t I get him out of my head? It was as if I loved the idea of him, but hated the reality of what he stood for.

  Contentment.

  Completeness.

  Commitment.

  I hated how he’d managed to effortlessly dig so deep within me that I now felt inside out. But what I hated most was how I wished I’d see him again. I guess I was a glutton for pain.

  Addicted to the agony.

  Craved the ache only he could give me.

  At least that meant I was capable of feeling something. I wasn’t completely dead inside.

  As I curled into a ball and cried, letting it all out like I’d grown accustomed to, I thought about Bentley’s effect on me. I thought about all the ways he’d embedded himself in my mind, all the ways he’d been able to make me feel something when I’d closed myself off. And it only made me want him more. It made me yearn to have him rip me open, bring my suffering to the surface, and then heal me with his touch. Heal me with his words, his deep voice. I needed him to break me, and then put me back together again.

  If only I hadn’t pushed him away.

  Thursday morning, I woke up late and had to run through the salon to the back, needing to put away my things in my cabinet space and catch my breath before going out on the floor like a disheveled mess.

  Carrie, one of the other stylists that had been there almo
st as long as I had, was already in the room, pouring a cup of coffee. She held out the pot, offering me a cup, but I shook my head, declining the gesture. I reached into the small fridge and found the last can of Coke in the back, and made a mental note to restock my supply.

  “So what’s up with the hottie?” Carrie asked, leaning her back against the counter. Her question came as a surprise, considering we’d never really spoken about guys. She was nice, and we got along at work, but our conversations never really drifted into the friendly subjects, typically sticking to hair and client gossip.

  I shrugged, lowering my gaze to the floor. Just the mention of Bentley did something to me—made my pulse speed up, my cheeks redden, and my thoughts jumble. “Nothing to tell.”

  “Are you seeing him, or is he fair game?”

  It was an honest question coming from a single, good-looking woman. Yet it annoyed me. It wasn’t like I owned him or anything, and I definitely had no idea what I needed from him—wanted from him—but the mere thought of someone else going after him had my mouth going dry and my head spinning.

  “If you’re interested in him, it’s cool. I wouldn’t step on your toes. I was just curious if there was anything going on between you two. I couldn’t get a good read on it Monday.”

  I set my can down on the counter. I’d meant to gently place it down, but I ended up nearly slamming it, sloshing some of the brown-colored liquid out of the mouth hole and onto my hand. “To be honest with you, Carrie, I have no idea what we have, or what I’m looking for. I met him less than a week ago, and then he popped in to see me. I don’t even know how he feels about me, so if you want to take a go at him, feel free. Don’t let me stop you.” I’d said it because I wanted to appear strong, in control, yet the words tasted and sounded acrid as they came out. They left me feeling anything but strong and in control. They made me weak and frantic.