Lucky Number Eleven

Chapter 21

Branch

The sky is dark, the stars not even that bright as I stand and look over the lawn and into the water. I've dreamed of this place and replayed the things we did here—me, Finn, Poppy, and Layla James—over and over. Standing here again, the magic isn't as palpable.

With no energy to walk all the way to my car, I slump into a patio chair. If she sees me and wants to come out and yell at me some more, she can. Hell, I might even like it. God knows I deserve it.

The little seed of regret that I woke up with this morning was originally about being careless. I kept thinking of how I really messed up and what this meant for my life and how I wasn't built for this kind of thing . . . and don't want it. But now? It's so much more than that.

I touch the pout of my lip and can feel the crack across the middle. There's some flaked up blood that comes off on my finger and I flick it into the darkness.

My body aches, my mind is dead, and it's worse than it is even after a game. Fucking Finn.

"Oh, God," I groan, filling my lungs with oxygen as I realize I can't do what I was going to do—call him for advice.

This emptiness, a complete feeling of having no rudder in this storm, is the most unsettling thing I've ever encountered. There's no one to turn to, no one that I care about that will tell me I didn't completely fuck up this situation because . . . I have. I so absolutely have.

A light upstairs sends a glow across the patio, but my chair is in the shadows. It's on for a few minutes and I wonder what she's doing.

I imagine her washing her pretty face and pulling back her hair and putting on the little jumpsuit she wore when I was here before. She's probably crawling into bed with a magazine of some sort. Then the light goes off.

The darkness feels isolating and I start to feel sorry for myself. How am I, Branch "Lucky" Best, sitting on a fucking porch in the middle of nowhere with a woman inside who hates my guts?

Resting my head against the cushion, I let my muscles relax. It's only then, when I quiet my head, that I hear it.

My eyes shoot open and I sit up straight, craning my neck from side to side to figure out what it is.

My stomach drops, crashing spectacularly into hell, when I hear her muffled sobs coming from above me. Leaping to my feet, I turn to the windows, but they're dark. The closer I get to the house, her cries get just a touch louder.

Choking back a lump the size of Texas, I listen to her. Her tears wash away so much bullshit and my own fucked up ego and the situation looks so much different than it did a few minutes ago.

Here I sit, bitching and moaning about how awful this is for me, when it's her that must be terrified. I could ignore the whole thing, cut her a check at the end of the month, and be done with it if I wanted. She has to live with this. Have her body changed, her life altered, because she's a damn good person.

Despite the crazy things I've done, I've never really felt bad for any of it. Women know what they're getting into with me.

She didn't do anything. She didn't ask for this. And she doesn't deserve it either.

I head to the front door and try the handle, but it's locked. Each window on the ground floor is latched tight too. I spring over the railing and jog to the back, to a little door that leads into a mudroom from the lake. Flicking the lever, it's locked.

"Shit."

Looking up, I see a little balcony off a room that I think is Finn's. There are four wooden posts that hold it in the air and I grab one and give it a good shake. It's solid.

"Here goes nothing."

I grip the wood with both hands and ascend the pole in the same way we do a rope in training. The rough material digs into my hands as I try to keep my sweaty palms from slipping and dropping me on my ass.

The dark night doesn't help, and I have a hard time seeing what's ahead of me, but I reach the floor above a little quicker than I anticipate.

Working my hands to grab the edge of the balcony, I pull my weight up, groaning so hard I swear I bust a blood vessel in my face, then I collapse over the handrail and onto the planks.

Sucking in breath after breath, I lay on my back for a second to make sure I'm not dead. I bring one hand inches from my face and feel the warmth of blood trickling down my palm.

"Great," I groan, getting to my feet. With a press of the lever on the door, I sigh in relief as it swings free.

The room is dark, but I can see through to the hallway. A little light is plugged in out there and I feel my way through until I'm in the hall. The room I stayed in is two doors on my left and Layla's is three on my right.

My heart thunders as I realize she could shoot me or scream bloody murder and I don't know what to do to not completely freak her out over my breaking and entering. But when I hear her sobs coming from her room, I forget about all that and knock gently on the door.

"Layla, it's me."

I hear a rustle of blankets and the cries stop.

"It's Branch. I'm going to open the door, okay? Don't shoot me."

I give her a moment to tell me no, but she doesn't. Carefully, slowly, I move the door into her room. My hand drops to my side when I see her thanks to the glow of a candle from a desk a few feet away.

She's lying on her bed, blankets pulled tight around her. Tears trickle down her cheeks as she watches me come into her room.

She looks so small in the bed, so frightened like a storm is coming that might take her life. Only . . . I am the storm in her opinion and that pummels me.

There are so many things I want to say—things I didn't even come up here to say. Things I didn't even realize I felt. Things that feel absolutely necessary to get out at this moment, yet I can't. The look of misery on her face stops me and all that matters right now is her.

The girl from that weekend, the one I couldn't stop thinking about, the one whose laugh made me feel alive and spontaneous fed something that was dormant inside me for a long time, is hurt because of me. Because I'm an asshole.

I wait for her to tell me to fuck off as I pad across the carpeted floor of her bedroom and expect her to slap me across the face as I kneel at the side of her bed. Assuming she's going to rip into me, I lay my left arm around her narrow hips and slide her to the edge with a frazzled breath. There's no way I don't believe she won't tell me what a dickhead I am as I pull her into my chest.

But none of that happens.

Her cries are hushed against the fabric of my shirt, the same fabric she knots up in her hands. She shakes as she empties her soul into the cotton blend and presses her knuckles firmly into my chest, biting at my skin.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I hold her tight. Saying anything seems wrong and probably would be wrong because this is all new to me. This is territory I'd have to ask Finn about, and he won't speak to me.

Little by little, her hands ease on my shirt and her stifled sounds become quieter until she's completely still and quiet in my arms.

I scoot her back from the edge and tuck the blankets around her once more. She snuggles into the sheets. Rocking back on my heels, she lies motionless before me. She's so goddamn sweet, so simply perfect that I remember just a few days ago I was angling every which way just to see her again.

"You are a fool," I whisper to myself as I get to my feet.

Knowing I shouldn't, but being the rule breaker that I am, I bend forward and plant a single kiss to her cheek. "I am sorry," I whisper against her skin. "We'll figure this out. I promise."

With a final look at her tucked in bed, I leave her room and let myself out the front door into the night.