Brazen Mistakes (Brazen Boys #3)

34. Clara

Chapter 34

Clara

I come to with my head in RJ’s lap, his concerned eyes meeting my own, his ear to his phone. “Oh thank God,” he says, one hand cradling the side of my face. “She’s back. Yeah. Yeah. Got it.”

He hangs up, and it’s all I can do to put my hand on his, holding his palm against my skin. “Sorry,” I whisper, the need to make things right bubbling right past my intention to not take blame where none is needed. Old habits and all that.

“No, Clara, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…I should have known…damn it.”

I turn to press a kiss to his palm. “Not your fault that I’ve got a broken adrenal system.”

“What you have is trauma, Clara.”

I don’t say anything to that. Of course I have trauma. It doesn’t mean I have to bring it up all the time, looking for sympathy and pats on the head. I can make it through this .

I will.

Just like I’ve made it through all the shit that’s come before. All the moments that seemed uncomfortable as they happened, but with hindsight were obviously abuse.

For a smart girl, I can be kind of stupid.

But he doesn’t need to hear about it. None of them do. They’d go all weird and protective, or comforting and soft, when I don’t want either of those things.

I just want all that behind me. So that’s where it’s going to stay.

If only it didn’t keep popping up in the middle of the night.

Or apparently in the middle of a self-defense lesson.

My thoughts spiraling, I press my face against his hand, taking comfort where it’s offered. “I guess learning not to faint should be added to the syllabus.”

He pulls me into his arms, settling me in his lap, and just being surrounded by him makes everything a little bit easier. “I mean, passing out isn’t the best move in self-defense.” I can feel the faint twist of a smile against my head. “But more seriously, Clara, I don’t know what all is going on up there.” He taps my forehead. “But I know that keeping it to yourself is making it worse.”

Is it though? It’s better than turning into a weak, weepy mess every time something doesn’t go my way. Nothing has been going my way for a while now. “I probably just didn’t eat enough this morning. Once I have more sustenance, I’m sure I won’t go floppy without warning.”

RJ’s look aches. “You need to eat more. And sleep more. But neither of those have been going well either.”

“I’m working on it. ”

He shakes his head, the sadness and sympathy I was hoping to avoid blanketing his face. “Right. Either way, we’re done for the day.”

“But we just got to the fun part.”

“Yes, and you blacked out. We can try again later.”

I have no choice but to nod, as the tingling in my fingers and toes tells me I’m not ready to get back to it, as much as I wish I could.

This shit is getting frustrating.

RJ burrows his nose into my neck, and all I feel is shame. So many people have had much worse things happen to them, but here I am, passing out because one of my boyfriends loomed while teaching me self-defense. It’s absurd.

I’m lucky. I know I am.

Sure, I had a shitty boyfriend and was assaulted in a dark alley by a stranger. But really, it could have been so much worse.

If only I could get my stupid body to agree with me, I’d be good to go.

I’m surprised when Summer meets us at the boutique for our alteration appointment. I’m pressed against Walker’s chest, his grip unusually strong after this morning, when she strolls up next to us, a dress draped over her arm and a large purse slung over her shoulder.

Unlike the other day, today she’s wearing a puffy jacket and snow boots, giving off the vibes of the dog walker she claims to be. “Hey,” she says, hooking her dress on a nearby rail, pulling off thick mittens.

“Hi,” I say, still not sure what to make of this strange woman. Nothing about her adds up.

The attendant opens the door to our alteration room, which is similar to the private dressing room we had, but smaller, with a white couch against the back wall and one changing stall to the side. The room does, however, have the same block to stand on in front of a series of mirrors.

Summer moves her dress to the changing room, then turns with a huff. “You should do the dress first. I’ll do mine second, then your pants can go last.”

I brought both new pairs of shoes, but I haven’t seen the dress or the pants since we dropped them off on our way to the consignment shop. Luckily, the attendant hooks my dress and pants in the changing stall, so I don’t have to track them down. “Alright,” I say, not knowing what else to do or say.

Once I’m wearing my new dancing heels and lifting the excess fabric high as I step onto the block, a different woman comes in, introducing herself as the seamstress, and she begins tucking and pinning while I stand awkwardly in front of the mirrors. Walker does a circle, his eyes analytical, and I can’t help but imagine how he would have reacted to the other dress.

I don’t think he’d be calmly agreeing with Summer that the color suits me if I were in that blood-red dress. He’d be kicking everyone out of the dressing room.

With that sad comparison, I force my eyes back to the mirror, letting the two of them discuss why this dress works for the engagement party. And it is a beautiful dress. Really .

But I feel like a girl in this one. I don’t feel like a woman.

My feelings about it don’t matter, though. What matters is being invisible to Trips’ dad. And it’d be hard to stand out when what I’m wearing blends in.

The seamstress takes in a bit of the waist, and I wish I’d been able to eat more than a few bites of a peanut butter sandwich after RJ and I got back to the house.

I’m falling the fuck apart. I can see it. The guys can see it, too.

But I’ll get better. I have to.

What other choice do I have?

Summer comes up beside me, pulling me from my thoughts. “What are your plans for hair and makeup?”

“I don’t know. I thought I’d pull my hair up so the back is visible, and that I’d wear some natural style makeup.”

“Where are you going?”

“Going?”

Summer stares, waiting for something. Walker comes up on my other side, stepping around the seamstress with an apology. “We haven’t booked anything,” Walker says, filling me in with his answer.

I’m supposed to go somewhere to have my hair done? Like rich kid prom? Because for my prom, I got together with a few of my friends from cross-country and we did each other’s hair while drinking sparkling apple cider and spraying too much hairspray in the room, making us all a little lightheaded. It was a blast.

“I’ll see if I can get her in with my people,” Summer answers, immediately picking up her phone to make a call .

“Wait. Why can’t I just get myself ready? This is already costing too much. I don’t need a spa day.”

Walker squeezes my hand, pulling my focus to him. “Remember the goal, Clara.”

“Really? Everyone does a full face and professional hair to go to an engagement party?”

Summer takes a few steps toward the door. “They do for a Westerhouse engagement party.” She leaves the room, her phone pressed to her ear.

“Walker,” I say, knowing I sound pathetic and pleading. But I’m already donning a dress that doesn’t feel like me, practicing walking and sitting like someone that isn’t me, forcing all the bits of myself I’ve finally let out of the box of “good behavior” back into it, and it’s causing me more stress, amplifying the anxiety living in my chest. I’m not a debutante, no matter what I’m pretending.

I will mess up. The parts of myself that I’m finally coming to own, they aren’t small, docile things. They’re unruly and loud. And now I’m going to be shushing them right when I want to feed them, when I want to encourage them to grow and see what they turn into.

He kisses me softly, and I lean into him until the seamstress tuts. “I know, princess,” he says. “Think of this like a costume party.”

“I’ve never been to a costume party.”

“No? Then it’s a good thing we’re fixing that soon.” His grin is warm, inviting, and all I want to do is jump off this platform and into his arms.

When I’m there, I don’t have to be anything I’m not .

Summer comes back in, an honest smile on her face. “I got you in with me for hair and makeup. And because you’ll need it if you’re meeting Papa Westerhouse, I got us massages, manicures, and pedicures before that.”

My eyes are enormous in the mirror. “That’s…that’s a lot.”

“It’s what the event calls for. We can have some girl time. None of your men allowed.”

I blink at her, not sure when she figured out I have more than one man in my life. Also, I’m not sure I want girl time with the beautiful empty shell that is Summer Jones.

She ducks into the changing stall as the seamstress finishes up my hem, Walker’s eyes glittering as he takes in my shocked expression. He squeezes my hand. “New friend?”

It’s not like I’m drowning in female friends right now. Or any friends at all. “Sure?”

The seamstress has me take off my shoes, and she measures from my shoulder to the ground, then from my waist to the ground, around my waist, chest, and hips, then tells me to go change into the pants I need hemmed. Weird.

Summer’s coming out in the stunning blue gown she chose, and once again, I’m struck by how adorably gorgeous she is. Like a chipmunk and an ice queen had a baby. “Hi, Mag,” she says, sweeping onto the pedestal.

“The usual, Summer?” the seamstress asks.

“The last one was perfect. It only took me minutes to remove the stitches, but the hem stayed the whole night, no issues whatsoever.”

The seamstress grins at that cryptic compliment. “You always make it worth our time in the long run, so none of us mind bending the rules for you.”

“And I appreciate that fact more than you could know,” Summer counters, before stilling so the seamstress can get to work.

Walker releases my buttons and ties, his cool fingers brushing along the curve of my spine, a whisper of a kiss falling on my bare shoulder. “I know this isn’t the dress you wanted, but you look beautiful in it, Clara.”

“Thanks.” I turn, pressing a kiss to his lips before slipping behind the curtain.

Trying to shimmy out of it without poking myself with any pins proves to be a challenge. Only two scrape me, and neither of them draw blood, so I figure I’m winning at something today.

Summer finishes quickly, and the pants take less time than the dress, so it’s not long before we’re back in street clothes and heading out.

When Summer goes to the checkout, she returns the exact same dress she just left in the capable hands of the seamstress. She had two of them? The attendant says nothing, but moves the return value of the dress from the card it was initially purchased on to a different card entirely, both women acting like this is something they’ve done before.

Credit card fraud? Is that how she gets the money?

No. I haven’t figured it out yet.

But I will. This problem is one of the few things on my list that I could feasibly knock off with just a little effort.

We share pleasant if meaningless conversation as we walk her to her car, a deep blue Porsche that looks built for a racetrack instead of a Midwest winter afternoon .

The engine roars to life as she waves, the car zipping down the street at what has to be twice the legal limit.

Which only leaves one question: where does Summer Jones get all her money?