“Maybe it’s a game, darlin’,” he drawls as if he’s from Texas.
I scowl. I never did develop a southern accent. My mom didn’t have one, and I wanted to emulate her. My father does, though.
“A fucked-up game,” I retort.
“Ah, but isn’t that what life is? A fucked-up game?” Brett holds out his hands and shrugs. “I got us an Uber.”
“I’m walking.”
“Are you sure? It’s late.”
“Are you genuinely concerned?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it’s the wine.”
“I’m sure it’s the wine.”
A car pulls up. Brett opens the door, talks to the driver, and then draws back.
“Let’s give you a ride,” he says.
“I’m walking.”
He grimaces. “I want to pick you up and throw you into the backseat.”
And do what to me? That’s the question, isn’t it? To hear that he has been trying to help Georgie isn’t enough to make me forgive him, but maybe the light around him is changing slightly. Not a whole new light but a different one.
I shake my head, and he climbs into the car. It speeds away, and I’m left there confused but full—my belly and my head.
And maybe my heart too.