The Expert's Guide to Driving a Man Wild (22 page)

“
Every inch of the Atlee house is covered in garbage
,” the narrator intoned, and the camera showed the reporter trying to follow Brenna into the house and having difficulty scaling the garbage. Teenage Brenna held aside a shopping bag of junk and assisted the reporter into a clear space in the house. “
Every room of this eighteen-hundred-square-foot house is filled, top to bottom, with things. The room we’re standing in is the foyer. Brenna Atlee says her mother filled this room up last, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at it. Boxes and bags of clothing, dishes, holiday gifts, and even the neighbor’s garbage line the narrow walls of this cozy house.
”

Brenna pulled open a bag and began to dig through the contents of it, showing the cameraman. “
She found this stuff at a thrift shop sale
.” She pulled out a handful of tiny clothes and began to smooth them. “
It doesn’t matter if she needs the stuff or not. She just buys it. These are baby clothes that she got for a few dollars. Boys’ and girls’ clothes. There are no babies here. I’m mom’s only kid, and the neighbors won’t take anything from us because they think we’re dirty.
” She pulled out another piece of clothing, a tiny red sweater. “
This is for a dog, I think. We don’t have a dog. Can’t have a dog. The city found a few dead animals in the house once and the neighbors called the cops on us. The fire department came in and cleaned out the garage once and found the carcasses of four dead cats. Mom was locked up for animal cruelty and my aunt had to bail her out. But once she was bailed out, she went through the garbage and took all her stuff back again
.” Brenna’s small hands smoothed the sweater. “
I always wanted a dog, though. I just figured it’s not safe for them here.
”

“
Indeed
,” the narrator said. “
One would argue that the Atlee home isn’t safe for humans, either. Yet this is where thirteen-year-old Brenna and her mother live, eat, and sleep every day
.
But Mrs. Atlee doesn’t see a problem with her lifestyle.
”

The camera cut away from Brenna and moved to a woman who clearly had to be Brenna’s mother. She was a slender woman with the same dark waves that he recognized from Brenna, and a thin face with a slightly longer nose. She also had deep lines on her face, as if the world had been cruel to her and aged her hard. She sat in a recliner, wedged amidst junk that was piled high around her, and her arm rested on a dry-cleaning bag still full of clothing. A small table next to her was covered with old magazines, dishes, and what looked like a rotten Halloween jack-o’-lantern.

The reporter handed her a box and squatted beside her in the mess, skirting the rotting pumpkin. “
Can you tell me a bit about the objects in this box, Agatha, and what they mean to you?
”

“
Of course
,” the woman said in a reasonable tone. She began to dig through the box of stuff and pulled out the first thing. It was a baby food jar, black gunk stuck to one side. “
This would be good for keeping screws and things in it. I just need to clean it out.
” She put it aside and pulled out the next item—a coffee mug with a broken handle. “
I just need to find the handle for this and it’s good as new.”

“
It’s broken
,” the reporter protested. “
Why not just throw it out?
”

“
It’s perfectly fine
,” Agatha told him, a harder edge creeping into her voice. “
It just needs to be fixed.
”

The film began a narrative montage as Agatha went through the box and pulled out item after item. A shoe with no match. A broken fan. A stack of waterlogged Post-it notes. A jar candle that had been burned down to the wick. Useless crap, but Agatha Atlee had a use and an explanation for all of them.

Brenna’s sad voice cut in again. “
It’s like she can’t see how to throw things away. She doesn’t know how. She sees a use for everything and can’t stand the thought of something being thrown out when there’s still a need for it, somewhere.
”

“
But the rest of the world views it as junk,
” the reporter said. “
It’s a viewpoint that has come between Agatha and her relationships many times in her life.
”

“
I first started collecting
,” Agatha was saying to the camera, “
when I was nineteen. I ran away from home to be with my boyfriend, got pregnant, and then he left me. I lived on the streets for a while, and then a program helped me get a job and my first house
.”

“
But by then
,” the narrator chimed in,
“the damage was already done. Used to living on the streets and having to scrounge for her next meal and the clothes on her back, Agatha found that she had a hard time acclimating to a normal life.”

“
I just kept seeing my coworkers throwing away perfectly good things,”
she said, almost tearful with heartbreak.
“And so when someone would throw something away, I’d sneak in to their garbage and steal it back.
”

“
This stealing caused Agatha to lose that job. But by then, her baby, Brenna, was born, and Atlee qualified for assisted housing and food stamps. She bounced from job to job, and from relationship to relationship. No matter how strongly she felt about a man, the relationship inevitably ended once he got a look at her home life.
”

Grant’s stomach sank. That sounded achingly familiar.

“
I’ve never been able to give Brenna a real father figure
,” her mother said sadly. “
Most men say they can handle it, but when we move in together, it never works out.”

“Atlee has been married and divorced six times.”

“
My last husband
,” Brenna’s mother was saying, “
didn’t understand about my stuff. He told me we just needed to organize and clean up. One day, I came home and found him throwing out a bunch of my stuff. It was like he’d stabbed my heart.
” She gestured dramatically at her chest. “
I didn’t know how he could do that to me. I went to the dump and had to take some of it back, but I couldn’t find all of it. I made him leave after that.
”

“
Each time Mom breaks up with someone, her hoarding gets worse,
” Brenna said, resentment and resignation in her voice and her dark, too-old eyes. “
Once she discovered the dump, it got even worse. She used to just take home one or two things every day. Now she takes whole carloads of stuff.
”

“
And family and friends are at their wits’ end
,” the narrator intoned solemnly. “
Agatha’s sister doesn’t know what to do about her family, but she is concerned for their safety.
”

The camera cut away to a woman with a deliberately pixelated face, clearly too embarrassed to reveal her identity. “
I don’t know what to do
,” the woman said, her voice masked. “
Agatha doesn’t see that there’s a problem, and if you try to help her, she just gets worse. If I say something, she’ll shut me out of her life entirely and Brenna will be the one who will suffer. I don’t know how that kid can stand it, living in all that garbage. The other children make fun of her at school. They call her mom ‘the trash lady.’ They come and dump stuff on the lawn just to play mean pranks, and wait for Agatha to come and take it all inside, which of course she does.
” The sister’s exasperation was evident. “
And poor Brenna has never gotten to be a kid. Growing up, she could never play at that house. She could never have friends over to spend the night. She’s had to hide who her family is all her life. You know it has to affect her mentally. I just worry that she’s going to turn out like her mother.
” She shook her head sadly. “
When she was younger, I couldn’t go over because I’d constantly see that baby sticking garbage into her mouth. And Agatha didn’t think it was a problem. I couldn’t stand it . . .”

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 asshole.

Grant darted away to get some clothes. He had to go after her.

B
renna 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.”

Her brow furrowed. “From what?”

Brenna’s eyes began to water all over again. “From my life.”

Elise’s soft gaze moved over her sympathetically. She went to Brenna’s side and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You want to grab some coffee? We can sit down and talk.”

“I can’t drive anywhere,” Brenna blubbered. “My car’s dead.”

“That’s okay. Emily was baking when I left this morning. We can head back to the Peppermint House and have muffins.” She nudged Brenna down the road. “Come on.”

Numb, Brenna followed her.

The Peppermint House Bed and Breakfast was only a block away, so it wasn’t a long jaunt. And to Brenna’s relief, Elise wasn’t the kind to ask all sorts of prying questions. She just simply hugged Brenna close and offered quiet support. That was good. That was exactly what she needed right now. No questions, just friendship.

When they walked in the door of the Peppermint House, Emily came out of the kitchen with a smile on her face. It faltered at the sight of Brenna’s red eyes and wet cheeks. “You poor thing,” she exclaimed, moving forward to hug Brenna. “Are you okay?”

Brenna sniffed. “Just dandy.”

“I just pulled some muffins out of the oven,” Emily told her. “Why don’t you sit down and eat? I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee.”

Brenna nodded and let Emily drag her to one of the barstools in the breakfast nook. She sat down, Elise sitting right next to her. Immediately, Emily pushed a plate heaping with muffins over to her. “I’m making a batch for the firefighters, but you two can eat these and I’ll make some more. What they don’t know won’t hurt them.” She began to pull out coffee cups, plopping them on the counter with determination.

That brought a hint of a smile to Brenna’s face. Every time she’d met Emily Allard-Smith, she was feeding someone. Even though Emily was only a few years older than her, the other woman acted like the entire town was hers to mother and feed. It was cute. All the guys in town loved her because all you had to do was mention your favorite type of baked goods and she’d make you some. Brenna secretly thought Emily had missed her calling of running a bakery shop, but a bed and breakfast was a decent substitute. She plucked a muffin off the heap and bit the top. It was a delicious chocolate pecan.

“Her car’s broken down,” Elise said softly. “Should we call a tow truck?”

“Don’t bother,” Brenna told her, her mouth full. She swiped at her lips with the back of her hand, then took the napkin that Emily pushed in her direction. “It’s dead. I’ll just leave it.”

“Leave it?” Emily looked scandalized at the thought. “Is someone coming by to pick you up, then?”

“I sure hope not.” Brenna took another big bite of muffin to forestall any questions.

Emily and Elise exchanged glances.

“You want to talk about it?” Emily asked.

“Not really.” Brenna shrugged miserably. “Don’t know what there is to say.”

Emily gave Elise another look and passed two cups of coffee. “Why don’t you two finish eating? I have decorators coming by in about an hour and I want to make sure I have my swatches ready for them.” She gave the counter a little pat, and then bustled away. “Just yell if you need anything.”

Elise watched Emily disappear into the back of the old Victorian. She said nothing until the door shut behind her, then glanced back at Brenna again. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I thought Emily was renovating this place on her own.”

“She is. She’s just lying to give us some time to talk if you need it.”

“Oh.” Brenna’s lower lip stuck out despite herself, and she couldn’t help but confess just a teeny bit to Elise. “Your brother’s kind of a dick.”

“He can be,” Elise said with a subtle smile. “What did he do?”

Oh God.
She was not telling Elise the full story. Not at all. She’d learned her lesson. Uncomfortable, Brenna grabbed another muffin off the plate and began to slowly peel the wrapper down the sides. “I told him a really personal secret and he laughed in my face.” She crammed the muffin into her mouth and began to chew, her cheeks ballooning out like a squirrel’s. She knew she was acting childish, but she didn’t care. “He’s a jerk,” she said between chews, her mouth full.

Elise sipped her coffee, seemingly calm, though her brows drew together in a faint frown. “That doesn’t sound like Grant.”

Brenna snorted.

“I’m serious,” Elise said. “Grant is a lot of things. He’s kind of a control freak and completely unmovable when he thinks he’s right. He can be incredibly overbearing. And he’s arrogant at times. But he’s never out and out cruel.” She shook her head. “That really doesn’t sound like him. I’m sorry.”

The delicious muffin stuck to the roof of Brenna’s mouth, and she had to work to swallow. She grimaced and then shook her head. “I didn’t mistake it. There was a definite laugh.”

“So strange.” Elise gave her a helpless shrug. “Maybe you bring out the worst in him?”

Well, that was certainly true. Brenna said nothing, just slid another muffin toward her. Maybe she could take some with her for the road. “It doesn’t matter. I’m done here.”

“Done here?”

“I’m leaving. Maybe I’ll go back to Alaska.”

Elise looked her up and down. “In your pajamas?”

“I don’t have anything I want to take with me.”

“How about a pair of pants?”

Brenna shrugged again.

Elise looked concerned. “You sure you’re okay?”

She wasn’t okay. Not by a long shot. But she’d scraped herself off the floor before and started over. No reason why she couldn’t do it again. “I really just don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fair enough. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Brenna thought for a moment. “Wanna give me your pants?”

 • • • 

Goddamn it, where were his keys?

Grant tore through the main lodge, digging through his desk drawers again and then tearing through Dane’s normal spot and then Brenna’s desk. They were nowhere to be found, which meant she’d probably hidden them in one of her playful pranks.

Except she hadn’t seemed playful. She’d seemed betrayed. And he desperately needed to find her. Grant growled under his breath and headed into the kitchen, digging through the dishwasher and any bowls he could find. She’d hidden his keys in a bread pan once.

The kitchen door swung open and Grant looked up, hope in his eyes. But it was only Colt and Dane, somber expressions on their faces.

“Have you seen my fucking keys?” Grant tugged out the silverware drawer, and then slammed it shut again. “I can’t find them anywhere and I’ve got to go after her.”

Silence.

Grant looked up, only to find that both Dane and Colt had their arms crossed over their chests, and they were both scowling at him.

“What exactly did you do to Brenna?” Dane asked.

“I know you blow hot and cold on her, but she’s like a little sister to us,” Colt added.

“And Miranda just got a text from Elise saying that Brenna’s been crying. She’s in her pajamas and she’s crying.”

Grant raked a hand through his hair, that frantic panic billowing up in him again. “That’s why I need my keys. I have to go after her and explain. I wasn’t laughing at her—”

“You were laughing at her?” Dane’s normally easygoing features were set into a scowl.

“No,” Grant snapped. “But she thinks I was. I was just fucking glad that she didn’t have cancer.”

“Cancer? What the hell are you talking about?” Colt’s tone was irritated. “You’re not making any fucking sense.”

“I know. I don’t care. I just . . . I need to find her and explain.” He didn’t want to share her secrets. The way she’d reacted when she’d told him? He knew that if he ever told a word of it to Colt or Dane, it’d be unforgivable in her eyes. And he wouldn’t do that to her. “I can’t talk about it.”

“And what makes you think that we’re going to let you off the hook without explaining what’s going on?” Colt asked in a surly tone.

“Because you’ve known me for twenty goddamn years,” Grant snapped. “And I don’t say this sort of shit lightly, but I love her and want to make things right. And I’m not telling you her secrets, because they’re hers, so fuck off about it. Either help me find my keys or get out of my fucking way.”

“Hoo-rah,” Colt said, apparently pleased by that response.

Dane grinned and held up a hand. Grant’s keys were dangling off his finger.

“You stole my keys?” Grant’s hands curled and he stormed toward Dane. “You asshole! I’ve been looking for them for twenty minutes!”

“Wanted to make sure your head was in the right place before you took off after Brenna,” Dane said simply. “You want us to go with?”

He snatched the keys from his buddy. “Hell, no. I can talk to my girl myself.”

“Cause you did so well in the past?” Colt drawled.

“Fuck off.”

His friends just laughed.

 • • • 

Grant tore into Bluebonnet at top speed, his tires screeching at every stop sign. He slammed to a halt in front of the Peppermint House, just as Brenna and Elise were heading down the front porch stairs. Brenna still wore his Tulane shirt, but her hair had been tugged into a clip at the back of her head, her purple bangs brushed, and she wore a pair of jeans that were too loose on her and sagged.

Both women looked his way as he jumped out of his car, and he could have sworn Brenna’s jaw dropped in surprise.

She looked over at Elise with a betrayed look. “You told him I was here?”

“I didn’t tell him to come over here,” she protested, putting up her hands. “I just gave him a little text-shaming from afar for making you cry.” But she didn’t look displeased at all.

“Likely story,” Brenna told her with a faint scowl.

Grant was so relieved to see her that he bounded up the stairs, reaching for her . . . and stopped when she shied away.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Brenna told him in a cool voice. “In fact, I was just leaving.”

“Leaving? Where are you going?”

“Anywhere that you’re not!”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be around you anymore!” The look on her face was stubborn. “I thought I could trust you and it’s clear to me that I was wrong. So I’m done here. Time to scope out the wild blue yonder once more.”

Panic assailed him anew. She was pulling up roots and leaving? Then again, this was Brenna. She didn’t believe in roots. “You can’t leave.”

“Why can’t I?”

He moved toward her again, ignoring the fact that she shied away from him. “Because I love you and I want to be with you.”

“You have a funny way of showing love, Grant Markham.”

He looked over at Elise, who stood watching their exchange, a faint frown on his sister’s face. “Can you leave us alone to talk, Elise?”

“Will you be long?” his sister asked.

“We might,” he admitted. “However long it takes to get through to Brenna’s stubborn brain.”