Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Was this the secret? If so, it meant it was real. That this wasn’t a blip of abnormality but a ... lifestyle. A forever. I pulled out my phone, dialed Jillian's number, and damned the consequences.
She answered on the last ring before I lost my nerve to voicemail.
"Hello?" Her voice had aged, or maybe it was just the fact that it was almost three in the morning.
I cleared my throat. "It's Layana Fairmont."
"I have caller ID. I'm well aware of who you are."
"I just ... Brant ... he was downstairs in the hotel bar. And he didn't recognize me." I closed my eyes and hoped that those sentences made sense. This was the test. She would either know exactly what I was saying or jump to the conclusion that I had driven my boyfriend insane. Which, from where I was sitting, was still a fairly good possibility.
Her sigh told me everything I needed to know. It wasn't surprised or irritated. It was resigned. Expectant.
"Who was he?"
Of all of the possible responses, that one caught me off guard. “What do you mean?” “He said he wasn't Brant."
Another sigh. "I had hoped this wouldn't happen."
"Excuse me?"
She was silent for a long moment. When she finally spoke, it was the voice of an old woman. "There was a reason I didn't want you to go away together. You think I hate you. You think I'm trying to fight your relationship. But you were wrong. I was just trying to keep this moment at bay. Trying to salvage any chance of Brant having some normality."
"I don't understand." It was the understatement of my century.
"Brant has dissociative identity disorder, DID. He's had about five different personalities over the last three decades. I wish you'd gotten the name of the side you met tonight. I thought he had improved..." She stopped for a moment, the line going so quiet I worried I had lost her. I glanced at the screen and checked the connection. "I don't know as much as I'd like. He's very good at hiding; his personalities are even better. They are still, to this day, hiding from Brant."
"Hiding from Brant?" I stood up and squeezed my hands into fists, trying to slow the racing of my mind. "He doesn't know?"
"No." Her voice sharpened to a fine point. "And he can't find out. His doctors have been very clear on that. His conscience walks an emotional tightrope. Finding out ... it would be akin to pushing him off the edge of that rope and having him crash. Everything would collapse. His gifts, his personalities ... the doctors don't even know if Brant would be the one to stay in control, in the forefront. We risk, at that moment, losing the Brant that we know—the Brant that you love—possibly forever."
My legs felt like they were going to give out and I leaned against the concrete wall, unable to hold up anything other than my sanity. Pressing my fingers into the lines of my forehead, I closed my eyes and wished I could roll back the last half hour.
The secret. It had finally arrived. I had met it. And my heart felt like it had shattered from the impact.
"It won't last long," Jillian added. "Normally he'll switch back within a few hours."
"I've got to go," I mumbled into the phone.
I expected Jillian to offer some compassion, to extend some sort of olive branch in this horrible moment, but she delivered just one terse command.
"Keep the secret."
"Layana?" Brant’s voice came from behind me. I ended the call and turned, my shoulder scraping against the painted concrete, and faced him.
He stood on the stairwell landing, his hands in his pockets, concern in his eyes. Layana. He had said my name, had remembered my name. A feat I wouldn't have previously considered a victory.
I stared at him, accessing the situation. The wide smile from the bar was gone, as was the girl. Summer. I tested his name on my tongue. "Brant?"
"What are you doing in here?" He stepped forward, his hands running over the sides of my arms as if to warm me up. "Are you okay?" He peered forward, studying my face. “Have you been crying?”
“I'm okay.” That was a lie, deeper than any I’d ever told him. I searched his face, finding everything there that I knew. Responsibility. Gravity. Somberness. I reached out and wrapped my arms around his neck, breathing in his scent, the hang of smoke still on his clothes. I tightened my grip as his arms wrapped around my body. I pressed my lips against his neck as I wondered if he had kissed her.
“Come on.” He lifted me off the stairs and carried me, like a child, to our room. I curled against his chest and, when he laid me on the bed, I pretended to be asleep. I didn't want questions, had too many inside my own head that might burst to the surface. I laid on the soft pillowtop and let him drag the blankets over me. A half hour passed, and then I felt the sink of the bed when he got in beside me, his skin smelling of soap. He wrapped his arm around me and pulled my body back against his.