Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The words pulse through my brain like a fight song as I thunder out of the arcade with the soft lilt of my mom and Chelsea’s voices behind me.
My mom says something about watching Libby so we can talk, which is one more shred of evidence I’m an asshole. I didn’t even think of that when I stomped off expecting Chelsea to follow.
I’m not thinking straight, what with all the clutter in my head. In an hour’s time, I’ve gone from feeling like the luckiest son of a bitch in the world with a warm cluster of siblings and friends and community, to feeling pretty sure it’s getting yanked out from under me like a shabby rug.
I reach the door of the supply closet and grab the handle with a shaky hand. “In here,” I say as I wave my key card in front of it and push the door open.
If I were in my right mind, I’d head for a conference room or something. There are a zillion in the next building, but Chelsea doesn’t complain as I hold the door open and usher her into a room filled with toilet paper rolls and cleaning supplies.
Further proof I’m the world’s shittiest communicator. I can’t even get the venue right.
“This is—um—nice.” She fingers the sleeve of a cowgirl costume, one of dozens we bought for the cowpoke cookouts we do here as part of the kids’ programs.
Libby would love it.
The thought flits through my brain before I stomp it under my boot. I can’t afford to think that way. Not with Chelsea looking at me like she doesn’t know who the fuck I am.
That makes two of us.
I drag a hand down my beard, trying to get my bearings. Trying to find a way to start this conversation. “What did my mom say?”
Chelsea doesn’t flinch at the roughness of my words. “We don’t have to do this now, Mark.”
“Do what?”
“Talk about—whatever the hell you don’t want to talk about.” She chokes out a sad little laugh. “I don’t even know.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?” My voice cracks, and I hate myself even more. “Like you’ve never seen me before.”
She hesitates. “Maybe I haven’t. Not really. Maybe I’ve only seen what I wanted to.”
Her words aren’t accusing, that’s the hell of it. They’re cushioned with kindness and understanding, which I sure as fuck don’t deserve.
I have no idea what to say to that. I stand there like an idiot, fists balled at my sides, wondering how the hell I’ve fucked this up so royally. How I can fix it.
Chelsea’s still waiting, waiting for me to offer something. Anything that shows I can carry on a normal, adult conversation.
“We don’t have to do this now,” she says softly. “It’s your birthday. A big one, right?”
I nod. That much I can offer. “Thirty,” I tell her. “Today’s my thirtieth birthday.”
“Happy birthday,” she says automatically.
There’s a forced cheer to the words, but also a quiver. Hurt or anger, I’m not sure.
“It is a little strange, isn’t it?” she continues, leaning back against a rack of paper towels like this is a normal conversation. Like there’s anything about this that’s normal. “We’ve been sleeping together for days—living under the same roof—and you didn’t mention a milestone birthday?”
“I forgot.” It sounds lame even to me, so I try again. “I don’t like making a big deal.”
“Okay.” She’s forcing as much brightness as she can into that one syllable. She wants to believe it. That’s the hell of it, she wants to believe in me. “Seriously, Mark, it’s fine. We don’t have to do this now. I want you to have a good birthday.”
I shake my head, knowing we’re long past that. “What did my mother say?”
“Okay, we’re doing this.” She bites her lip, weighing her words. “Something about questionable paternity.” She laughs, but it’s a hollow, brittle sound. “I thought at first she was talking about Libby. That you’d told her something or—”
“I wouldn’t,” I tell her. “I’d never breathe a word to anyone.”
Tears flood her eyes, and she nods. “I know you wouldn’t,” she says. “That’s exactly it. You’re like a steel door with the hinges welded shut.”
I don’t think that’s a compliment.
“Look, Chelsea,” I begin, but then I stop myself. What can I tell her that won’t send her running the other way, convinced I’m a fraud or a failure or a misfit or—
“Tell me, Mark.” Her eyes are pleading, her voice shaky. “Tell me something, anything real. Let me in.”
Jesus Christ, that’s the scariest thing I’ve ever heard. I don’t know what to say so I say nothing at all, which isn’t helping. Not a damn bit.
She waits a long damn time. Longer than I deserve. When she speaks again, her voice is so soft I can hardly hear. “I’ve let you into the most private, guarded rooms of my life,” she says. “Doors I’ve never opened for anyone, ever. But I’m still standing here on your front porch with my breath fogging up the glass, just peering through the window because you won’t let me in at all. Not even a little bit.”
“I—don’t know where to start.”
“Start anywhere. Your life, your scars, whatever the story is with your father.”
I close my eyes, playing it out in my mind. Once I say the words out loud, it’s all over. It becomes real, and my whole world unravels.
I’m not Cort Bracelyn’s son.
Which means I’m not Bree’s brother, not Sean’s brother or James’s or Jonathan’s. I’m not anyone at all, not a part of this resort or a part of this family or this life I’ve managed to build for myself.
I’m no one.
I open my eyes to find Chelsea watching me.
The words scrape their way up my throat like barbed hooks. “I can’t.”
She jerks back like I’ve thrown two bricks at her, one after the other.
I. Can’t.
She looks me in the eyes for a long time. “I see.”
When she drops her gaze, I know that’s a bad sign. “I guess I’m the idiot,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m the one who thought this was different. Who thought you were different because you had so much to offer. Affection. Protection. The kind of strength and selflessness I’ve only dreamed of.”
“But that’s not enough.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. “Not if you’re just going through the motions. If I’m offering you my heart and soul and all my darkest secrets, and you’re offering me a shield. It’s wonderful, it’s noble, God knows I appreciate it—but it’s not enough. Not for me.”
Say it.
Tell her you love her.
Tell her what you’re afraid of.
But my tongue lays frozen in my mouth, unable to form the words. Unable to figure out who the fuck I even am. I’m standing on the edge of a cliff that I’ve known all along was probably there, shrouded in mist and thick nets of moss. I pretended it wasn’t there, but I always knew, and it would be so damn easy to jump right over the edge. To grab Chelsea’s hand and trust love to be our fucking parachute.
I’m not who you think I am.
I’m not who anyone thinks I am.
I’m not a Bracelyn.
I don’t belong.
I can’t say it. I can’t let it be real.
“I’m going to go now.” Her voice is soft, her steps even softer as she moves backward toward the door. “When you decide you’re ready to let someone in, give me a call.”
My hands ball into fists, and I close my eyes, willing myself to say something, anything.
But as the door clicks shut behind her, I know I’ve made a choice.
And she’s made hers.