“Then how do you know somebody loves you?” Emily asks quietly. “You can’t see love.”
No, but I thought maybe Becca and I had something genuine together. Damn it, this talk isn’t helping. It’s only making me feel like shit. “You’re right.” I give her a smile, like I don’t give a fuck, but based on the worried looks on Killian and Emily’s faces, I’m not fooling anybody. “I can’t see love, so maybe it doesn’t exist.” I stand up. “Excuse me. I need to clear my head.”
I walk out, hoping something in this little Virginia town can erase the memory of what happened between Becca and me.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Becca
I’m trying not to bite my nails. But the house feels too large and too empty, when it’s never felt that way before. It’s been three days since Devlin walked out. I tried calling and texting, but he’s ignoring me.
I wish Tasha were here so I could talk to her, but she’s still in Dallas celebrating her aunt’s good health. I don’t want to put a damper on it by talking about what happened between me and Devlin.
Then I try calling Max, but he doesn’t answer. He could be flying. I have no idea when he’s supposed to be coming back from the Bahamas.
Devlin didn’t take his things, not even his drum set. I’m expecting somebody to come by and pack them up any time now. Then maybe I can ask them where he is…or at least where his stuff is being sent. Unless Devlin told them to ignore me. From the way he stormed out, that’s a definite possibility.
I pace in the living room, the afternoon sun glowing warmly inside. I haven’t been able to work since he left, and I don’t know what to do to change the situation.
Somebody knocks on the door. My heart starts racing. It could be Devlin, although he should know he can just walk in. This is our home.
I hurry over, open the door and see Grandma standing outside. And the little spark that ignited in my heart dies a pitiful death.
She’s in a deep plum dress, which is unfortunately fitted and accentuates the belly she’s developed over the years. Somehow, Sylvie managed to convince her that the dark color hides the paunch, and I’m not going to try to set Grandma straight only to earn scorn and verbal abuse. Disapproval radiates from her, as thick as her perfume.
“Hello, Becca. I came by to give Devlin another one of the cows he loves so much,” Grandma says, walking inside without waiting for an invitation.
I purse my mouth. I can’t believe Sylvie hasn’t told her yet. Or maybe Sylvie hasn’t said anything because she didn’t want to confess that she hired an escort to set it up.
“Where is that charming man?” Grandma asks, swiveling her head around.
“Not here,” I say flatly, hating that she’s poking at my wound.
“Is he coming back soon?” She takes the couch in the living room.
I cross my arms and remain standing because I’m not sitting next to her. “No. He went somewhere. I don’t know when he’s going to be back.”
“You don’t…? Did you two have a fight already?”
I look away, since I’m not talking to her when she’s speaking in such an accusatory tone.
“I can’t believe you drove your husband away so fast!”
My chest tightens until it feels like I’m going to puncture my lungs if I take a breath. Grandma always has things to say when my relationships don’t go well. And they’re almost always about how I could’ve—and should’ve—done this or that better.
Men don’t stick around a woman who’s not proficient in the social graces, don’t you know? If you were just sweeter, more polite and nicer, you’d have men eating out of your hand, like Sylvie. Your mother wasn’t like you—I don’t know how you turned out to be so difficult.
And if she doesn’t think I’m properly cowed, she starts complaining about Max. He wasn’t always such a surly child, not until you started to act like a snotty little princess.
And I’ve been putting up with it for the house, I think bitterly. I wish to God my parents had updated their will before they passed away, so Max and I could have been spared Grandma’s genteel vitriol.
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” she demands.
“I didn’t drive him away. We’re having a minor argument,” I say, although Grandma’s closer to the truth than me. But something that’s been repressed for a long, long time is starting to swell in my chest. I don’t quite know what it is yet, but it’s making it hard for me to stand still. There’s too much sharp energy pouring through me. My fingers itch, and my teeth grind together.
“A minor argument? Is this”—she gestures at the empty house and driveway—“what you call a minor argument? You don’t even know when he’s going to be back!”
“So what? And why do you care, anyway?” I demand, suddenly unable to contain the words.