Page 82 of Blame it on the Bet
“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it,” Helen says from next to me.
Wait. What?
I open my eyes and gawk at the orange-haired woman with the rhinestone-studded glasses sitting in the window seat. My mouth is hanging open, and my eyes are wide with shock as I try to process a scenario in which she should be here with me on this flight.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome on board Airfleet USA flight 1229 with non-stop service to Charlotte, North Carolina…”
“Charlotte?” I yelp so loudly that the flight attendant pauses to give me a quizzical look. She motions for her colleague to stand by for a moment and comes to hang over my seat.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Truitt?” she asks with concern.
“I–I think there’s been a mistake,” I stammer. “I’m supposed to be on a flight to Los Angeles…”
Helen reaches over to put a pink-nailed hand on my leg. “No, dear,” she says quietly. “You’ve got business in North Carolina. There’s a garment bag with a black suit hanging up front, and I’ve made reservations at a hotel near your mother’s house.”
The flight attendant is looking back and forth between us. “We’re fine, really,” Helen assures her. I’m so stunned that I can’t disagree.
“What the hell, Helen?” I hiss when we’re alone again. “Shh,” she says quietly.
“Helen, I don’t…”
“It’s okay,” she murmurs, patting my shoulder now. “It’s okay, Bryan.”
I have a moment of pure, blinding rage. How dare she?
How could she possibly presume to know what I want or need or…
“Look at me,” she says. I do, certain that the anger I’m feeling is written across every square inch of my face.
She just smiles at me sweetly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers softly, leaning close to me. “About your father. About Hennessy. About all of it.”
“How did you know about Hennessy?” I manage to ask.
She gives me half a smile. “It’s my job to know, silly,” she says, grasping my hand and giving it a squeeze. “And, more than that, I want to know. Because I care about you.”
Her words should surprise me, but somehow, as I study her well-worn face, I realize that she does care, and that I’ve always known that. I squeeze her hand tightly and feel the anger melt away.
Chapter Thirty-Five
HENNESSY
When the alarm goes off on D-Day, I feel as if I’ve been hit by a dump truck. A dump truck carrying five tons of dog crap. Repeatedly.
“Ugh!” I groan, pulling the pillow over my head in an attempt to block out the morning sun and the memories that I know will come flooding back in the bright light of day.
“Henny?”
I jump a full foot off the mattress when I hear a voice in the room with me, even though it’s a familiar one.
“James? What are you doing here?” I demand, my heart feeling as if it’s going to pound right out of my chest.
My sister sits on the edge of the bed. “Father Romance called me this morning. He told me all about what happened with Bryan. Sweetie, I’m so, so sorry,” she whispers, putting a hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”
I struggle to sit up, putting my back against the headboard. I shake my head.
“No, not really. But that’s the least of my worries today. I’ve got plenty of time to kick my own butt for being stupid enough to think…” I can’t finish the sentence.
But Jameson can.“To think that he had feelings for you? That he wanted to be with you, not just use you to get what he wanted?”
