Chapter 13
Brenda groans as she sits up in bed and touches her temple. She's lightheaded—from Dylan, the party or from the migraine she can't tell. She also can't tell Dylan. He'll worry. He's done enough of that for her.
Rolling onto her side, Brenda runs a hand over Dylan's pillow. She buries her face in it, drinking in his scent. Saying those three little words to him—she's given her heart to him. Completely. She's where she's meant to be.
The way he tasted tonight, the way they came together, the song on his lips and the love in his eyes. She has a big, big crazy crush on Dylan and it looks like it's not going away anytime soon.
Pushing herself up, Brenda slides out of bed. She contemplates talking Dylan into a shower. Thinking about those big, lean hands soaping her up has her smiling. Only the fantasy has to wait.
Her head throbs so hard she can barely get a breath. Blood pulses in her ears. Her vision blurs. She takes two steps forward. Dizzy, Brenda braces herself on the bedpost.
"Dylan," she whispers. She should call out. Louder.
The world waters at its edges. As the migraine grows big enough to swallow her whole, Brenda makes one last stumble to the bathroom. Before she can call Dylan's name, vertigo reels through her. Her eyes flutter and roll backwards. With one last gasp, she slips over the edge of the bed to collapse to the floor.
Her last conscious thought: Dylan.
"Get a fucking grip," Dylan tells his reflection in the mirror. He straightens up. Groaning, he swipes a hand through his hair. Great. Now he's talking to himself? He was so devastated when he thought Brenda was dead, now he's so lovesick he can't see straight.
He's acting like an idiot, and he owes Brenda honesty.
Dylan sucks in a rallying breath. "Go back in there and tell her. Grow some fucking balls and tell her."
Brenda needs answers. And Dylan's the one keeping them from her. Not anymore. Not after tonight.
When Dylan exits the bathroom, his heart stops. The sight of Brenda's naked body lying facedown on the floor has him frozen.
"Brenda!" His shout a cannon, and Dylan moves. Racing across the room, he falls to his knees beside her. With trembling hands, he rolls her over onto her back. Her head lolls across the carpet, her eyes closed, her face expressionless.
Frantically, Dylan feels for a pulse. He exhales a shaky breath. Thank God. It's there. Steady and true. He grabs a blanket from the bed, draping it around her.
Dylan slips his wife's limp body into his arms and lifts her, cradling her tight against his chest. As he carries her to the bed, he fights the familiar panic threatening to have him hauling ass to the hospital.
The moan that comes from Brenda's lips is soft, pained. He glances down at the woman in his arms. She's stirring, her eyes fluttering behind closed lids, fighting to open.
Gently, Dylan places her on the bed. After covering her shivering body with blankets, he disappears into the bathroom to get her medication and a glass of water.
When he returns to the bedroom, Brenda's awake. Though she looks drowsy, she's alert and watching him. He sits beside her on the edge of the bed.
Reaching out, he smooths a lock of hair from her brow. "I think we should go to the hospital Bren."
"Please, no. No hospitals." Her lips thin out into a humorless smile. "I didn't eat all day. The alcohol went straight to my head."
"And a migraine?" She nods, looking abashed. Staring down at her hands, she traces a finger over her tattoo.
Dylan swears low under his breath. Primal anger has him cursing himself for not taking better care of her. For failing to notice how drained she was. How much stress she's been under. Fuck. To think he was planning to tell her about everything. He's a damn idiot. It's only been four weeks. She's still recovering. And if she didn't want to tell Dylan about the migraine, then she was probably worried about burdening him.
That's Brenda, always wanting to protect others even at the cost of herself, being stubborn and independent.
He scans her pale face. "You should've told me you weren't feeling well."
As close to an admonishment as he can get with her looking at him like that. He takes Brenda's small hand in his, feeling it tighten around him.
"I didn't want to worry you," she says, her voice slurred from the migraine.
"You didn't want—" Dylan lets out a shaky breath. Equal amounts of frustration and pride fill him at his stubborn-as-hell wife. "You scared me, Bren. Do you understand me?" He runs his thumb across her knuckles. "Walking out of the bathroom and seeing you on the ground—it scared the shit out of me." He says firm.
"I'm sorry," she says, her pretty face frustrated and pained. Her voice so downcast it breaks Dylan's heart.
She bites her lip and stares at him with sad eyes. "I just wanted to enjoy tonight. I wanted to enjoy you."
He leans in to kiss her forehead. "I know."
Gently, he strokes the curve of her pale cheek. "Let's get you better. That's what's important." Brenda nods. Although she still doesn't look too happy with herself. After swallowing her medication, Brenda snuggles down into a pillow. Her grey eyes track him as he pulls on a pair of boxers.
"Will you hold me?"
"Baby, you don't have to ask."
Brenda scoots over to make room for him and Dylan slips in beside her. He takes her in his arms. Braces her against his chest, holding her so close it's as if they're one body.
Minutes later, Brenda's asleep. Her breathing even and steady.
Dylan keeps his hand clasped over her heart. His happiness, his life, it's all here, wrapped safe and warm in his arms.
The next morning, Dylan makes Brenda stay in bed. He props her up against the pillow in an exalted position, gives her a laptop and a book, and brings her a breakfast fit for a queen. Amused, Brenda watches as Dylan sets a cup of coffee on her nightstand.
He's fussing over her. He hasn't left her side, hasn't let her lift a finger since last night.
"I'll be fine, Dylan," Brenda says, glancing at the open window where sunlight ripples like water. A light breeze ruffles her hair and she stretches out in the cool sheets. "There's a small army posted outside."
Dylan, who's sitting down in the corner chair to put on his shoes, glances up. His handsome face creases.
"That doesn't make any difference. I still hate leaving you."
Brenda gives him a cajoling smile. "I could go, you know." If she can talk her way out of bed, she'll damn sure do it. She hates the thought of missing out on saying goodbye to Iris and her parents. Dylan is planning to have lunch with his mom and Erica, and take Iris and the Walsh's to the airport. Brenda said her goodbye over the phone but she isn't sure when she'll see them again.
Dylan arches a no-nonsense brow. "Keep fighting me and you can spend tomorrow in bed to." Brenda scoffs, although she doesn't want to call his bluff. He both pisses Brenda off and makes her love him even more. It's not fair. It's frustratingly adorable. She has a feeling this is why they're good for each other. They make each other behave when the other one digs in their stubborn heels.
Brenda tilts her head to the side. "You told them you'd go." Her previously lighthearted tone turns serious. "I don't want you missing things on my account."
Pushing out of his chair, Dylan joins her on the bed.
"I'd miss everything on your account." He takes her hand in his. "Brandon can do it. He can take them to the airport. Say the words. Stay."
"No. Go." She hits his him shoulder lightly. "You go spend some time with your mom and sister and give our families big hugs for me and tell them to plan a trip back out soon. Besides Brandon already said he is working on a dead line."
He lets out sigh, his face turns serious. "I want you to rest, you hear me? If Valerie comes by, you tell her fuck off."
Brenda's mouth flattens into a straight line. She's trying not to laugh at Dylan and all of his hovering. Although, she won't argue with rest. There's still a blurriness around her edges, the borders of her mind dull with the fog and forgetfulness of a migraine hangover.
"Valerie is working too. Relax. I am well stocked with granola bars and water. I'm just gonna curl up here with a book and wait for you to get home."
A shadow of worry crosses his face. She knows he's thinking about Anthony Marchette. Of the cops posted outside. Of her having another fainting fit and him not being around.
"Dylan," she urges gently. "It's only for a few hours."
One last kiss and then Dylan's standing. He pats his pockets for his keys, grabs his wallet and phone off the dresser.
"I won't be gone long. Call me if you need anything."
"I will." She narrows her eyes. "Go."
"I love you."
"I love you," Brenda echoes softly, watching as Dylan makes a quick exit. She doesn't know if she could love a man more.
Brandon spots who he's looking for the second he walks into the bar. Sitting in a dingy corner booth is that dirty rat bastard, Jasper Jones, on what looks like his second drink of the morning.
Brandon's getting answers today. He isn't saying a word to Dylan about Marshall until he gets confirmation for himself.
He slips into the booth. Jasper's eyes narrow, then widen when he realizes who's sitting across from him. He allows himself a few seconds of surprise before his features settle back into their typical smarmy expression.
"Brandon Walsh." Jasper straightens the collar on his cheap tan suit. "You here to interview me for a story…you want to buy some pictures?" He lifts a hand. An eyebrow. "Or wait. On second thought, maybe you're here to attack me like your brother-in-law did."
Brandon shrugs. "You cornered his wife…my sister. He could have done a lot worse than break your camera."
Squaring his shoulders, he leans in. "I want to talk to you."
"What's in it for me?"
"I don't know. How about me not taking you out back and kicking the living shit out of you?" With a sneer, Jasper nips his scotch. "Then talk."
"You took the photo of Dylan and Kelly Taylor?"
"I did. And damn if it wasn't a perfect photo. Should've been nominated for a Pulitzer."
Brandon rolls his eyes. "And why's that?"
"You're already here. You know the answer." Pausing for effect, Jasper says, "It was set up. That's why."
Brandon starts. This. This is what he's been waiting for. "And you sent it to Brenda?"
Jasper shakes his head, adamant. "No. I did a job. I deal in photos. Someone hired me to take that photo. That someone sent it to Brenda."
"Who?"
Jasper's expression turns evasive. "No one could've known how that night would've played out. She wasn't supposed to get hurt, not physically anyway."
Brandon growls. "But she did get hurt. That baby she was carrying died."
He drills a finger on the tabletop. He keeps his voice calm, trying to chase away some of the old anger that's blurred his vision. "Brenda could've died."
Unmoved, Jasper says, "I get paid a lot of money to keep quiet."
"Is it worth it? Hell, THE Brenda McKay, award winning actress, loved by the public is back from the dead and you can't even get a good picture. As tabloid scum as yourself that is your bread and butter. I wonder how much money a picture of my sister would go for these days? My brother hates your fucking guts. You think he'll let you get close to Brenda, you got another thing coming."
Jasper looks like he's ready to leave, but Brandon keeps talking. "Let me break it down for you. Give this person up, and I might, in good faith, think about telling Dylan. And my brother can be mighty generous to the people he likes. Plus I do have connections, been in this business for a long time. The Washington post pays good money for pictures too and they are more respected than a shitty little tabloid."
Brandon lets the offer hang in the whiskey-drenched air between them. He has no idea what it'll entail, probably more like Dylan's boot in Jasper's ass instead of a photo exclusive, but Jasper doesn't have to know that. Brandon knows his boss wouldn't dream of hiring someone like Jasper for the paper.
Intrigued, Jasper nods slow. Even a shyster like him can't resist the dangle of a good deal. Brandon eyes Jasper. "What happened that night? Who told you to take the photo? Why?"
"I don't know the why." Jasper's voice drops, but he looks back up at Brandon. "But I know the who."
"Tell me."
"Marshall Evans." Brandon curses as blood thunders in his ears. He didn't want to believe it, didn't think it possible, but it's true. It was Marshall. A man Brenda had trusted. A man Dylan had grown to trust too.
Jasper licks chapped lips. "Marshall hired me to take that photo. He set the whole thing up. Kelly was in on it. He had something on her, what I don't know. She was upset, she was in love with you." Brandon swallows hard. "After I took the photo, I sent it to him. And he sent it to Brenda from a blocked number."
"Brenda found out it was Marshall, too. Was that you?"
"No." Jasper scoffs as if human decency's beneath him. "Kelly. She reached out to Brenda. Told her the truth. Guilty conscience, I guess. They met up, Kelly came clean about everything, your sister has a mean right hook, she caught me taking pictures of their meeting."
"Who else has the photo?" he asks impatiently.
"Marshall. Probably." Jasper smirks, proud of himself. "I'm not stupid. I got it too. And then some. All of Marshall's original texts backed up and archived. Like I said, I'm in it for the money."
Brandon grins. "Jasper, that's some fucking handy information right there."
"What're you gonna do with it?"
"None of your damn business." Brandon's gaze shifts to the clock on the wall. He's already late. He wasn't lying to Dylan and Brenda about having a dead line. He'd been in Tennessee for weeks, he had to still work remotely if he wanted to stay close to Brenda.
Sick of looking at Jasper, he snarls, "You should get the hell outta here. Now."
Jasper scurries away from the booth. Nearly trips over his own feet as he bolts out the back door of the bar.
Brandon sits back and exhales. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. It's Marshall. Marshall Goddamn Evans. But why? And what the hell did he have on Kelly to make her throw her entire relationship away with him. She had to know what it would do to Brenda and Dylan, she had to know what it would do to them. And the fact Kelly probably was not in love with Dylan doesn't even matter. It doesn't make a difference. Kelly could have came to him. She could have explained everything and what Marshall was doing to her. He would have helped her. But why Marshal felt the need to do this to his best clients. He can't answer that. Because this time Brandon knows Dylan's got to be the one to get answers.
Fresh from the shower, Brenda towels herself dry and slips on one of Dylan's white T-shirts and a pair of underwear. Stifling a yawn, she curls up on top of the already-made bed, wishing Dylan were beside her.
She glances at the clock. It's been five hours since he left. In those hours, she's fielded two calls from Valerie, watched three reruns of Grey's Anatomy and received a text from Dylan telling her lunch was good, parents are off, he was with Steve, they were going to the grocery store for dinner supplies, and then they would be on their way home.
As Brenda lies on the bed, she turns her gaze toward the open window. Late afternoon has the room bathed in a honeyed glow. She stretches in the sunlight, lazy, like a cat basking in the sun.
A moment later, Brenda's eyes begin to droop. She drifts off and memory licks, like the flicker of a flame.
An image of Steve, his arm held out, stretching, reaching for—An image of Dylan's stricken face, of him on his knees by her bedside, swearing he loved her. Swearing—The memory shifts. An image of a blonde woman.
Brenda frowns. The woman from the party. Brandon's ex. Kelly Taylor. Talking about Dylan. Saying sorry, telling Brenda— A park, Dylan and Kelly, they were younger, teens at least, Dylan's face, not being able to look her in the eye. Kelly saying, tears in her eyes, Neither of us wanted to hurt you- what the fuck?
Somewhere, in the distance, a door opens and closes. But not in her memory. In her reality. Climbing out from half-consciousness, Brenda opens her eyes to find the bedroom dim and gray. She must have dozed off. Gone is the high in the sky sunshine; it's moved across the horizon to dip low below the clouds. Now, there are only shadows.
Brenda sits up and the world sways around her. Her gaze settles on a far corner of the room. Rubbing her eyes, she tries to focus, to shake herself from drowsy sleep. As she gets her bearings, unease steals over her. Goose bumps chase their way up her arms.
The shadow moves. Brenda's eyes widen. The shadow is breathing. Moving. Faster.
A man.
Anthony Marchette.
Brenda opens her mouth to scream, but he's on top of her, smothering her mouth with a hard hand.
Roughly, she's shoved back against the pillows. It's the worst kind of déjà vu. Brenda's eyes fill with tears. Images of the cruel confines of the cabin, of him tossing her against the wall, of his hands on her throat assail her every thought.
"Brenda, oh, my precious Isabel," Marchette whispers in her ear. So close his hot breath sears her face. "I found you. I told you I would. So you know your Brenda McKay huh? Well…your husband owes me a life. He owes me you."
Brenda struggles on the bed, letting out a desperate, muffled cry. Her brain screams at her to do something, even as her body bucks like a wild bronco to be free. But Marchette's bigger. Strong. And angry.
"You shouldn't have left me, Isabel. I could have killed you. I had planned to kill you but…you reminded of me of her. My Isabel. But strangely, you remind me of my Antonia. My two best girls in one. I have to bring you back. Dylan doesn't get to be happy, he's taken everything away from me. He killed my daughter. I have to take you home."
"Noooo," Brenda gurgles. Her wild eyes take in the room. She sees the locked door, the open window, and with growing panic she realizes Marchette means to take her with him, or kill her. She doesn't know which is worse. She has to be strong. She has to be smart and save herself. The hand smothering her mouth moves to her throat. And clamps down. Squeezes.
"Did you miss me? Tell me you missed me, Isabel."
She claws helplessly at his hand. "Please . . ." Her throat's on fire.
Black lights pulse in her vision. Still, Brenda fights to stay conscious, fights for a plan.
"Can't…breathe…please, Ant…ony." She tries to speak.
"I'm not Anthony…not anymore. You can thank your husband for that…his and that stupid bitch Christine." He growls angry, squeezing tighter.
Fluttering her eyelids, Brenda feigns unconsciousness.
Her body goes slack and her head hangs limply off the pillows. Marchette's grip loosens. Through slitted eyes, Brenda watches. Breathes shallowly.
As Marchette swings himself off her body, Brenda kicks. And lands a sharp knee to his nuts. He bellows in pain. He doubles over onto himself.
Brenda kicks again. Blindly. This time she hits him square in the jaw with her heel, sending him to the floor. He's hurt. Down.
Brenda doesn't even stop to think. Heart thundering in her chest, she lurches for the open window. Her closest escape route. If she fumbles with the locked door—she's done.
Brenda hits her stomach on the windowsill, hard, driving the air from her lungs. Her body's halfway through when she's yanked back.
Marchette has her ankle. "You little bitch." She screams and kicks, jerking herself loose.
On blind faith alone, she flings herself out the window. She doesn't care if there's nothing to hold her up if she plummets to the ground—all she cares about is getting away from him. Escape is the only thing that matters. Luckily, she lands on a thin, slanted eave. She looks up, certain he's coming after her, but all she sees is his angry, face glaring at her through the window.
Brenda lets out a wild cry of relief when she sees what's coming. Dylan's ranch truck barreling down the thin dirt road.
Plumes of dust billowing up behind it like a smoke signal. Breathing hard, she glances back once more at the window. Marchette's face is gone.
Brenda takes a breath. Takes a leap of faith. She lets go of the eave and falls.
When she lands, she runs for the boys. The truck rips into the driveway and Dylan slams on the brakes.
Brenda's barreling toward them across the grass. Barefoot, in underwear and a white T-shirt, the muscles in her slender legs trembling.
Steve looks up at the open window. Looks at Dylan. "Did she just—"
But Dylan's already out of the truck and running. His heart punching itself out of his chest at the sight of a fear-stricken Brenda scrambling across the dirt.
"Brenda!" Dylan shouts.
Something happened. Something bad. And Dylan wasn't there.
Brenda throws herself into his arms. He catches her like she knew he would. Because she can't stay standing much longer. Sagging in relief, she pitches forward. The only thing keeping her upright is Dylan's arm, hooked around her waist to keep her steady.
"Marchette" Brenda rasps. She's pale and shaking. "He's in the house."
Rage electrifies Dylan. He cups her face, his gaze sweeping over her as fast as it can.
"Are you hurt? Did he hurt you? Brenda?" Her hands go to her throat.
That's all he needs. Tightening his hold, he grabs his wife around the waist. He spins her around to set her next to Steve, who's suddenly appeared.
"Stay here," he tells Brenda. To Steve, "Keep her safe."
Her eyes widen. "Dylan, no!"
As he turns on his heel, she makes a grab for him, but Steve holds her tightly against him. She calls Dylan's name again, her voice faint and far away as he sprints toward the house. Dylan barely hears her. And hell, normally, he'd always hear his wife. But not now, not today. Not when he's existing on lethal rage. Not when he's let Brenda down.
Again.
Guilt lashes him like a whip.
Sprinting up the porch steps, he slips into the house. He hopes Marchette's stuck around for him because he's gonna kill the motherfucker that's hell-bent on taking a piece of his wife. For ruining his life to many god damn times. And he won't feel bad about it.
Inside, it's dim and quiet. Only the squeak of the wood floors beneath his feet. No noise from any direction. Endless, eerie silence.
The thought of Brenda alone, terrified as Marchette cornered and attacked her, fills Dylan with such fury and sorrow he can't see straight.
Marchette came here.
Here.
To their home.
To do what to Brenda—the thought has Dylan spiraling.
Dylan's hands turn to fists. To hammers. He aches to crack a fist against something. Marchette's skull, preferably.
He's furious. Heart racing, he reaches into the closet for his shotgun. There's no doubt in Dylan's mind. He's gonna shoot him and stand over him as he finishes dying.
He turns down the hallway. He yanks open door after door. Blood pumps loudly through his head, and Dylan steels himself for what he might find.
Footsteps behind him. He wheels around, finger on the trigger, leveling the shotgun. "Fuck." Dylan sucks in a hard, deep breath. Lowers the barrel.
Brenda and Steve. The two of them hover in the foyer.
Dylan exhales. He eyes Brenda with frustration. "Bren, I told you to stay put."
It's taking all he has not to get pissed at his stubborn-as-hell wife who just walked into the barrel of a shotgun.
He gives Steve a hard look. "You had one job, man."
Steve's expression is all apologies. "It's Brenda…like she'd listen to me."
His eyes move past Dylan, move to the shotgun. "Anyone here?"
"No."
Brenda goes to him, slipping her arm through his. "If you found him you'd kill him."
She lays a hand on his arm. "I can't let you do that. You'd go to jail."
"I don't care." Dylan huffs.
"I care. He has taken so much from both of us…I can't let him take you away."
The cops stay at the house for hours, questioning Brenda, searching the edge of the woods. They found tracks leading down to the old logging road.
An enraged Dylan ripped the cops a new one for leaving Brenda alone and unprotected. They had left to switch shifts, but due to a miscommunication, a new surveillance team never arrived.
That gave Marchette what he needed. That nearly gave him Brenda.
Brenda knew it. Dylan knew it too.
Her husband's dangerous, but not to her. To Marchette. She sees it in his eyes. He'll tear him apart. Kill. For her.
Brenda shudders, not wanting that for him.
Now, the house has calmed down and cleared out, Steve and Brandon the only stragglers. Her brother came over as soon as Brenda called.
Brenda sits on a chair, curled into herself, a quilt draped around her shoulders. The kitchen is lit up with light, with noise, as if that can chase away the darkness outside.
Glasses clink as wine is poured. The guys huddle together over the breakfast bar making plans, while Brenda sits at the kitchen table.
"We hire someone else," Dylan says, his jaw set in that hard angle Brenda has learned means business.
Steve nods.
"Our own security. I'm not trusting these fucking cops. Not with Bren. Not anymore."
"No." Brandon disagrees. "That's not good enough."
Dylan smears his face in his hands. He looks bone-tired. Wrecked. "Hell, what do you wanna do then Bran?" Dylan fires back.
Brandon glances at Brenda, quick, "I want to take Brenda back to Washington."
The room goes silent. Dylan stiff.
Steve looks at Brandon, this again. "Give it a rest."
Ignoring Steve, Brandon steps close to Dylan. "Please," he begs. "You know I'm right. She'll be safe there. Just until they catch him. Please."
Brenda rubs down her face. She's exhausted by this. Everyone standing around trying to take care of her. Not even letting her have an opinion, like she is invisible.
Only when she glances at her husband, she's horrified to see him relenting.
"Don't be selfish," Brandon needles. "Don't get her hurt again."
Dylan looks down at Brenda, his face etched with pain. Though he looks heartbroken to do it, he will. For her. Because he loves her that much. Because he thinks he should have protected her better.
His voice cracks as he says, "Brenda…maybe he has a point—"
Brenda sits up straight, the blanket falling from her shoulders. "I won't do it. So don't ask."
He sighs. "Bren."
There in the kitchen, she stands tall. A fierce determination fills her soul. She will not let this monster control her again.
Brenda frowns at him. "I can make my own fucking decisions, Dylan. You guys are talking about me like I'm not here. I' not a child!"
He holds his hands up in a surrender gesture. "Okay, okay."
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Dylan smothers a smile at the fire in her eyes. It's his Brenda. His fierce beautiful Brenda.
Turning to Brandon, Brenda asks gently, "Why are you being like this?"
"I just want to protect you," her brother says in a small voice.
"I know you do, and I love you for it, but you don't have to protect me from Dylan. I'm not leaving, Brandon. And that's the end of it."
She turns her gaze to Steve and Dylan. Her voice strong, sharp as an arrow and unafraid, "I'm not living scared. I'm not letting him chase me away from the people I love."
Brenda moves closer to Dylan and links her fingers with his, his touch grounding her like gravity. "I learned what fear and anger and deception were inside that cabin, and I won't bring it here. I won't do it anymore."
Dylan brings her hand up to kiss her tattoo. His voice is hoarse, a guttural growl of affirmation. "You're right. I won't ask you to."
Brenda stares up at him, loving him fiercely. "Thank you."
Brandon sighs loudly, "I have to tell her."
"Brandon, don't you dare," Steve says nervously.
Brenda frowns, confused. Because both Brandon and Steve's eyes are pinned on Dylan.
Dylan, who looks like he's going up against the firing squad.
Dylan, who's squeezing her hand so tight, gripping her closer, like she's a balloon about to float away.
Brenda glances up at Dylan. She wants to ask what's wrong. Why he's suddenly gone so still and so pale. "Tell me what?"
Brandon's mouth opens and closes like a fish.
Half-amused, half-exasperated, Brenda almost stamps her foot. She lifts a hand. "I'm sick of everyone treating me like I'm going to break. I'm not some fragile creature. I'm sick of secrets. Whatever it is, I can handle it."
Beside her, Dylan's voice comes out broken. "Bren, I—"
"I had a funeral for you." The outburst comes from Brandon, whose hand smears his face. "Fuck." Steve braces himself on the counter, a look of relief on his face, his eyes on Dylan. But Brenda's eyes are on her twin.
Perplexed, she tilts her head. "What're you talking about?"
"I buried you, well not really you. I had a funeral for you."
"When?" Brenda asks, feeling an odd combination of confusion and amusement.
"Six months after the plane crash. We all thought you were dead. And in our defense who wouldn't, right? You were in a plane crash."
Crystal blue eyes fill with tears, Brandon whispers, "I'm so sorry, Bren. I had to. I couldn't deal…" He looks at her with the most heartbreaking look. "I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear it without you."
Brenda moves toward her brother. She gathers Brandon in her arms. "It's okay. Bran, it's okay, you hear me?"
When Brandon glances up, Brenda gives him a smile. "At least tell me people came."
Brandon chokes on a laugh. "I mean…yeah people came, your husband didn't."
Brenda fakes a gasp as she turns to him. Dylan rolls his eyes knowing she is being a smart ass. Dylan opens his mouth to comment but Brandon keeps the subject on him.
"You don't hate me?"
"Of course I don't hate you." She laughs gently. "Is this why you've been acting so weird?"
"I was mad at myself. I was mad you were gone. And I took it out on Dylan. I know you don't remember but…Dylan is my best friend, he's always been my brother. I've treated him horribly."
Taking a shuddery breath, he stares past Brenda's shoulder. Shame floats across his handsome face. "I'm so sorry, Dylan. I've been awful and you didn't deserve it. And I've done—believed—awful things."
A flicker of forgiveness passes between Dylan and Brandon.
Dylan, swallowing hard, nods. "Don't worry about it, B."
"Hey, what about me, I'm not your brother…your best friend?" Steve says.
"You're an asshole," Brandon shoots back, then smiles.
To Brenda, "And so am I."
"But you're my asshole." Brenda hugs her brother. She turns to looks at Steve, "you're my asshole too." Steve smiles wide and rushes over bear hugging both Walsh's in a group hug.
When she pulls back, she gives Brandon a little shake.
"I love you. And I love Dylan. And you have to get along. Otherwise it's just going to be like the…May the bridges I burn light the way…thing all over again. What about the time you told Dylan I was really romantic and dreamy and sweet and that I was a virgin! I can't believe I even forgave you for that!" Brenda huffs.
Everyone in the kitchen freezes. Then, straightening up, Steve lets out a long exhale. "Ho-ly shit."
Brenda's vaguely aware everyone's staring at her. "What?" she asks.
"Baby!" Dylan grabs her up and swings her around the kitchen. His voice rings rapturous. "You remembered! You fucking remembered!"
When he sets her on his feet, he kisses her hard and triumphant. When he's finished, Brandon and Steve nearly tackle her.
Together, all of them jump around the kitchen, hugging and screaming. Brenda's heart is in the clouds. She remembered. She remembered something real, something complete.
Brenda gasps, turning toward Dylan, she points a finger at him, "You stood me up! On our first date! Brandon was furious with you."
Dylan laughs out loud, a glorious loud deep laugh, "You had to remember that. It wasn't our first date…it…it was our second." His voice lowering at the end.
Steve and Brandon start laughing, she joins in. They all wrap their arms around each other.
For once, she feels like it'll all be okay. It has to be. This is her family. She belongs here.
So where do I even start! Brenda remembered something about Dylan's and Brandon's friendship. AND her and Dylan. YIPEE! And Marchette is CRAZY. I'm having a little bit of creative juice problems thinking about Kelly and her involvement. UGH If anyone has a good idea, PM me. I have an original idea for when I thought about this story but now I'm having second thoughts. HELP!
Next up: The gang attends the small intimate show for Erica and David, Brenda goes to therapy and remembers MORE, something major and Brandon tells Dylan about Marshall. Brandon and Erica have another moment, a good one. Hit review my friends, I'm loving your reviews so much. Sorry this was a shorter chapter, but how I outlined it worked better if I stopped it here.