Page 37 of Sincerely, Mr. Braden

I give her the side-eye.

“Brutally sweet,” she backpedals, and I glower. “Brutal. Just brutal. Awful. No wonder you left.”

I laugh, wiping away more tears. “It was brutal. And sweet,” I admit. “It was exactly what I wanted to hear, which is why I couldn’t stay, and now I don’t know what to do. This morning I didn’t even want to walk into my office. My clients have always been able to trust me, and I’ve ruined that. When I finally looked at my Taylor Mitchell inbox this morning, I had no messages from Seth since Thursday night. I knew that, right? I was with him, and I would have seen the messages on my phone, but for a few treacherous seconds, I thought he’d found out the truth and gone radio silent as a way of getting me back. Showing me what it feels like to have someone disappear from my life.”

“If you told him about Mom, why would you think that?”

“Because I’m messed up! It was my guilt talking, not him. He promised to stay out of Taylor’s hair until Tuesday, and he was keeping that promise, but that’s how fucked up my head is over this.” I force myself to lower my voice. “I ruined whatever might have been.”

“You don’t know that,” Becca insists. “There’s a lot riding on how you handle this, so stop beating yourself up long enough for us to figure out what to do.”

“I have to tell him the truth.”

“We have to figure out what that means,” she says gently.

“You want me to continue lying to him?”

“No. I’m saying that you can’t unring this bell, so don’t rush to hit it again.”

“Now you sound like Dad.” I down the rest of my whiskey.

“Good. One of us has to.”

A weak laugh escapes me. “What if Seth hates me?”

“From what you’ve said, he doesn’t sound like the hating type.”

“He’s not. That’s what makes it worse. He deserves better than this.”

Becca refills my glass. “Maybe he does. But you deserve a little grace, too. You set up the alias of Taylor Mitchell to keep you safe, and you’ve been walking a tightrope for years. Give yourself a night or two to stop balancing the world on your shoulders, and just breathe.”

“You make it sound easy. Like I can snap my fingers and turn off the hurt I caused.”

“Easy? No. But necessary.” She sets her glass down and opens the pizza box with a flourish. “Now, you’re going to eat two slices of this delicious pizza before you start spiraling again. Doctor’s orders.”

Somehow Becca being here, not judging me, makes it a little easier to breathe. “You’re not a doctor.”

“Please. I’ve seen more emotional trauma than most therapists. I just wear better lipstick.”

I laugh despite myself and accept the plate of pizza she hands me. Mostly because it’s easier than arguing, but also because as she settles beside me with her plate, we lean against each other. She plucks sausage from her pizza and puts it on mine, then steals my mushrooms, and the comfort of that familiarity is exactly what I need right now.

We eat without talking for a few minutes.

“Do you love him?” she asks softly.

I gaze absently at the patio door. It’s dark outside, and my thoughts trail to Friday night, when I found Seth on the terrace before we went to dinner. My heart was racing, and somewhere in the frantic beat of it were emotions so big I could barely contain them. By the end of that night, Seth Braden, my untouchable fantasy, became Seth, the man who makes me laugh and come apart in the same breath. But I won’t share that with Becca. I can’t, because saying it out loud would make it hurt even more.

“I don’t know.”

Becca touches my hand. “Funny, you sound like you do.”

I smile faintly.

Leaning harder against me, Becca says, “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

I wish I believed that.

But as I sit there feeling a little less lost, drinking whiskey to numb the pain, and eating pizza to fill my empty spots, I know one thing for sure. No amount of whiskey, pizza, or sisterly advice is going to fix what I broke.