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“Bah, you millennials.” He winks at me and takes a sip of his whiskey.
“Can I show you the startups I’m looking at?”
“Absolutely.” He stands and drags his chair closer to me as I pull them up on my phone and tell him about them.
“You’ve got an eye, you know. A real aptitude for this stuff.”
I shrug. “You think so?”
“I know so. That’s why I say you’re like your mother. She might not have loved the finance or business world either, but when she saw a potential, she was always right. You’re wise beyond your years, B. Don’t doubt your gut or your decision-making. Listen to that intuition, it’s God-given.” He points to his head.
“Yeah, I think I’m still trying to find that confidence in myself,” I say as I look down at my tumbler, still feeling like I didn’t do the right thing by walking away from Beckham before we even got the chance.
“Are you sure you’re okay, sweetie?” My dad looks over at me with concern.
“Yeah, I will be.” I raise my glass and clink it to his, taking a small sip of the whiskey, instantly taking me back to when I shared a glass with Beckham.
“Knock, knock,” Chantelle says as she opens the study door. “Do you mind if I steal Brontë for an ice cream outing? The boys are begging for me to take them over to Gerald’s for a lemon custard.”
“Not at all.” My dad smiles as he looks down at his phone. “Perfect timing actually. Beckham just hit me up to join him for a drink. You ladies enjoy custard with the boys, and I promise, I won’t be out too late.” He winks at Chantelle, kissing her softly before giving me a hug and a kiss on the forehead.
“Come on,” Chantelle says, looping her arm through my elbow as we walk out of his office.
We walk the block over to Gerald’s and the boys get their custard. They’re busy eating, Silas explaining to Jenson that technically custard is different than ice cream. Jenson seems completely confused and shrugs, shoveling a big bite of the creamy treat into his mouth and doing a little happy dance.
“You don’t seem like yourself, are you okay?” Chantelle rubs my back as we sit on a bench a few feet away from the boys.
“I ended things with him,” I say, my head hanging down as I kick at some loose gravel. “And I quit working for him.”
“When?” She half gasps. “Did you—did he not feel the same?”
I shrug. “I didn’t ask him. I put my resignation letter on his desk this morning. I’m not giving two weeks.” I feel tears start to well up. “I can’t do it. I can’t see him every day and put on a fake smile like I’m happy.”
“Oh, sweetie, why didn’t you tell him?”
I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t want to tell her about Venus and the baby. It doesn’t feel like it’s my business to tell.
“I guess I just realized it wasn’t worth it. After our conversation I just decided it was easier for me to walk away than bring all this chaos into everyone’s lives.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you just need time away from each other to realize what you want.”
“Maybe, who knows.” I feel like a shell of myself. My emotions stunted. “I think I realized that I do want the things that he can’t offer me. I want what you have, a family and a husband but”—my lip trembles and a few tears begin to fall—“the shit thing is, I want it with him.”
I hang my head in my hands, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes to try and stop the tears. I really don’t want Jenson and Silas to see me like this. Thankfully, they’re still too preoccupied with their custard to notice.
“You deserve happiness, Brontë. I hope you know that. Maybe he wants those things with you too?” I look over at her and see real concern in her eyes.
“I don’t think so.”
“Did he fight for you? Ask you to stay?”
“Kind of, yes. He begged me not to go the night things kind of went to shit, then asked me later if we could ever work it out, get back together.” She looks at me questioningly. “I said no. I did tell him when we last spoke that I loved him, but I left it at that. He didn’t say he felt the same way so I walked away. I know that if I had stayed, I would have talked myself into settling for what we had been doing. I can’t be another woman who stays too long, trying to convince myself that he’ll change his mind for me.”
“I understand.” She wraps her arms around me and I lean my head against her shoulder. “Oh, Brontë, my heart hurts for you. I feel silly that I told you to tell him, to put your heart on the line. I truly believed—” Her words trail off and we sit in silence for several minutes.
“I think I’m going to head home. I’m exhausted. Tell my dad I said good night when he gets back?”
“Of course. Boys,” she says, turning to her sons, “your sister is heading home so come tell her good night.”
