The camera cut away and went into a long narrative about the psychological aspects of hoarding and how it affected those around them. They gave statistics on the number of hoarders in the United States, and Grant forced himself to listen with impatience. He just wanted to see the segment return to the young, vulnerable Brenna or her mother.
At the very end of the piece, sad music began to play, and they cut back to Brenna again.
“How do you feel about all of this?” the reporter asked Brenna. She sat in a small corner of her bed, the rest of it covered with junk, her room full. The floor was nowhere to be seen. “Do you see your mother’s things and feel like you need to collect as well?”
Brenna gave a vehement shake of her head. “I hate it. I hate all of it.”
“But your room is full.”
“This isn’t my stuff.” She looked almost offended at the thought. “My room has always been clean. But when Mom ran out of space, she started putting stuff in my room. It doesn’t matter what I do—her stuff invades every inch of my space.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
“Like I need to run away. I just want to throw it all away. All of it. It’s not necessary, you know? It’s just stuff. And I hate stuff. I wish I could just get away from all of it. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
The camera faded to black on Brenna’s words.
Grant sat, stunned. Before he could turn off the video, the screen flashed over and began to play the same music. Another segment about a hoarding family played. Fascinated and horrified despite himself, Grant watched it, hoping for another glimpse of younger Brenna, but this was about an elderly couple who acquired things from thrift shops. The next segment was a middle-aged couple with two boys.
He watched every segment. Then he went back to the beginning and watched the prior episodes. Mentally, he was trying to grasp what it must have been like for Brenna.
Her shame and frustration at her mother, at her home life. The bitterness in her voice. It’s just stuff. I wish I could just get away from all of it. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
He’d never understood why Brenna was the way she was before. Why she was such a flake when it came to things like scheduling. Why she insisted on having a no-strings-attached relationship. Why she’d so quickly given up her cabin to Rome and planned on sleeping on the couch in the lodge, more or less without a space to call her own. Why, when he’d dug through her things, he’d found only the barest amount of clothing.
Why she’d given away his presents.
It’s just stuff. I wish I could just get away from all of it. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
Everything made sense now. She’d shown him this video because she wanted him to understand how she was. The look in her eyes this morning had been full of terror and misery. As if she expected him to see the truth about her past and do the same thing that every other man had done—pack up and leave once the truth was uncovered.
And he’d laughed in her face, relieved that it was just hoarding.
God, he was an ass**le.
Grant darted away to get some clothes. He had to go after her.
FOURTEEN
Brenna slammed a fist down on the dashboard of her beat-up Sunfire. When that didn’t make the engine start again, she leaned forward, resting her forehead against the steering wheel and wishing that today would just disappear.
She turned off the car, waited thirty seconds, and then turned the key in the ignition again. Nothing. Figured. With one fingernail, she tapped the gas gauge. The needle moved wildly. Well, that might be a problem. Or was it the battery? When was the last time she got a new battery? Probably the last time she got the oil changed. 2009? 2008? She couldn’t remember. Didn’t matter. The car was a piece of crap. She kept it exactly because it was a piece of crap—that meant it was easily abandoned.
But for some reason, that didn’t sit well with her.
Brenna took the keys out of the ignition one final time, then pocketed them. Her purse was still back at the office. Double-figured. She wiped her eyes, sniffled loudly, and then got out of the car. There was nothing to do but walk. Luckily she was close to town. From over the trees, she could see the roof of at least one building a block or two away. And the weather was decent.
It was just the rest of the world that was crapping on her lately.
Tears began to well in her eyes again, and Brenna swiped them away. She jingled her keys in her pocket, then tossed them on the ground. She didn’t really need those anymore, did she? Her car was dead.
Dead like her freaking heart, now that Grant had stomped all over it.
She’d confessed her big ugly secret. Finally told someone the truth about who she was, when she had never told another soul. She’d changed her last name to get away from her past, ran away from home at the age of sixteen and cut off contact with all family, all because she’d been so desperate to escape. And once she was gone? She’d hitchhiked to Alaska, started fresh, and lived a life of no clutter and no worries. She’d buried who she was so deep inside she didn’t even talk about it to herself.
But after years and years of careless living, she’d finally found something she wanted—Grant. And she’d been terrified of what he’d think. Would he be disgusted? Revolted? Permanently unattracted to her since she was a “trash girl” like she’d been called for so many years? Or would he not care?
She’d never in a million years thought he’d laugh at her.
And that had hurt so badly. It had been like a rush of cold water in her system.
So she reacted like she always did when things got to be too much—she ran away.
Of course, she hadn’t run far. Brenna had contemplated getting in her car and just driving as far as she could. See where the road took her. Start over. She’d done it before.
Turned out the road hadn’t even taken her as far as Bluebonnet.
Luck was definitely not on her side. Brenna kicked a rock in the road, and then she noticed the crunch of nearby footsteps.
She looked up at the same time that Elise Markham turned the corner and waved.
Brenna groaned inwardly. Elise was the last person she wanted to see at the moment . . . well, second to last person. Not that it was Elise’s fault her brother was such an unfeeling douche. “Hey, Elise.”
Elise headed for her, her smile fading a little as she studied Brenna’s pajamas. “Why are you walking into town in your pajamas?”
“I’m running away.”