Chapter 16
sixteen
MAC
The following weekend, my day off aligned with Brady’s once again. He’d mentioned a band playing at one of the clubs in Asheville and asked if I wanted to go.
It must have seemed safer for him to openly spend time together fifteen miles north of our hometown. He seemed to enjoy the sneaking around and secrecy. And despite the smidge of bitterness I’d felt at the invitation, I’d readily agreed.
After months of keeping up appearances in public—the trivia night fights, the social media snipes—it was a relief to hold Brady’s hand on a sidewalk in a city where we were unlikely to see anyone we knew. It made me think dangerous thoughts and wonder what it would be like to do this all the time, wherever we wanted.
But there was no sense in rocking the boat. Things were good. Better than good, actually. This was the longest non-relationship relationship I’d ever had. Maybe the secrecy was why it was working. Who was I to complain?
Either way, I’d enjoy the reprieve we had tonight in a town that wasn’t home.
The club was busy when we arrived. People sat at high-top tables, and others danced while house music played. The stage at the front of the venue was pretty small, and staff milled around, plugging in amps, setting up microphone stands, and hauling things .
We made our way to the bar, and Brady ordered a beer for himself and a Jack and Coke for me. I thought he might balk at dancing, but I should have known better. We finished our drinks, and then Brady followed me out onto the dance floor, perfectly content to move to the thumping beat.
He grinned in the low light, pleased by my surprise. We danced together, limbs grazing and bodies touching in torturous ways. His gray henley was soft beneath my fingertips. I liked being so close. There was freedom in being able to take his hands and place them on my hips as we moved together.
Whenever we needed a break, we’d return to the bar. Brady switched to water at some point, but I kept drinking, the liquor warming my chest, determined to enjoy my night off and the freedom I had with the man at my side. I got looser and happier, less able to keep it contained. Brady and I danced closer, his laughter in my ear even over the loud music.
Finally, the opening band came on. I was delightfully tipsy by that point, everything soft around the edges. The crowd seemed to swell as people pushed to the floor, eager to get close to the stage. Brady planted his big, tall form at my back and kept the surge of bodies and the threat of elbows away from me.
After the opener finished up their short set, we made our way to the bar once more.
“Do you want a water?” Brady asked, lips right against my ear to be heard over the crush.
Grinning, I shook my head. “Grab me a shot.”
His lips flattened, and I laughed, the sound swallowed by the voices around me. “I promise I won’t puke in your truck. Get me a shot, and then I’ll switch to water.”
Because the bartender had enjoyed Brady’s tips all night, he thought he was doing us a favor by bringing two tequila shots with lime wedges perched on the rims.
Before Brady could object, I threw them both back, grinning around the lime wedge in my mouth.
He shook his head at me and mouthed, You’re a bad girl .
That had me laughing. I placed the lime back in the glass and pushed up onto my toes. “You like it when I’m bad,” I said against the shell of his ear. “Order me a water. I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” Then I smacked his ass and turned to go.
But Brady snagged my hand and reeled me back to him. Steadying my increasingly unsteady feet, he said, “Be careful, okay? I’ll wait for you right here.”
I nodded like a good girl, then made my way through the crowd to the bathroom, feeling buoyant and light—carefree in a way I hardly ever managed.
In contrast to the rest of the venue, the restroom was brightly lit by overhead fluorescents. There were several women gathered in front of the long, trough-like sink, adjusting their makeup or typing on their phones.
I found an empty stall, and when I finished up, I approached the sink to wash my hands. There was a woman next to me who was about my age, with long blond hair and a smear of mascara beneath her eyes that said she’d been dancing and sweating as much as I had. She dug through her tiny bag and then gave a frustrated huff.
“Do you need a tampon?” I asked, apparently friendly now that I was feeling the effects of those shots.
“No,” she said, lifting her curls off her neck. “A hair thingie.”
“Oh, here you go.” I held out the black elastic band I kept on my left wrist.
“Oh my God. Thank you!” She threw her arms around me to show her drunken appreciation before accepting the hair tie.
I smiled back. “No problem.”
Drunk girls in bathrooms gave off the energy we should all strive for. The world would be a much better place if we all made connections like we did when we’d been drinking and dancing all night. So much hope and sisterhood.
“Are you here for the band?” I asked as she twisted the strands of her hair into a giant bun on the top of her head.
“Yeah, my boyfriend likes them. What about you?”
I wetted my finger and then went to work on my smudged eye makeup. “Yeah. It seemed like a good time. The guy I’m with doesn’t know them, but he knew I did.”
I admitted that before I even meant to. The wonders of tequila.
“That is the sweetest,” she cooed.
“Yeah, he’s pretty great,” I confessed some more. “He’s like the friendliest guy ever. He gets along with everyone. I just left him at the bar for a minute, and he’ll probably be best man in someone’s wedding by the time I get back.”
The other woman laughed, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “Right? I know exactly what you mean. My boyfriend is the same way. He makes friends on airplanes and usually ends up holding someone’s baby.”
We were still giggling when a gorgeous Black woman with a short floral dress burst into the restroom, stumbling a little. She appeared a little younger than me, maybe in her early twenties. Her cheeks were flushed, and her facial features radiated abject mortification.
“Oh my gosh, you guys,” she rushed out, like she’d known us her whole life and we weren’t just bathroom strangers. “I just crashed and burned so hard, and I’m not even mad about it.”
“What happened?” asked the blond woman beside me, and I had to admit, I was pretty invested too.
The newcomer approached the sink and looked between us before answering solemnly, “I came up to a guy at the bar and asked him to dance. He turned me down in the nicest way possible. He said I seemed like a sweet girl, but he’d finally tricked the love of his life into going out with him tonight, and he’s here with her.”
“Oh. Em. Geee,” squealed my new hair-tie friend. “That is adorable. Was he hot?”
“Yes,” she gushed, cheeks still a little flushed. “Crazy tall. Like six four. Nice brown hair. Bright blue eyes. A gray henley that did amazing things for his shoulders.”
I straightened as the tequila in my belly gave an unhelpful flip .
“The most gorgeous smile,” she continued. “He just seemed really friendly, you know. A good guy.”
Surely, she couldn’t mean . . .
“I could tell,” she finished with a dreamy sigh.
“Sounds like she’s a lucky girl, the love of his life. Whoever she is,” the other woman commented, sounding equally swoony.
I breathed deliberately through my nose in case I was about to puke, but the feeling in my stomach was not nausea. It was something else.
The blond finally noticed me in the mirror, brows creased in concern. “You okay, girl?”
“Yep,” I lied quickly. “Uh-huh.”
But my belly was still swirling, and my heart was beating fast. There was no way that had been Brady. But her description . . . the gray henley. He wouldn’t just call me?—
The blond hugged me one more time and thanked me again for the hairband. Then the women finally left.
I stayed in front of the mirror alone, trying to catch my breath.
I couldn’t even think the words in my internal screeching panic, so I whispered them to myself instead. “The love of his life.”
Why would he say that? Was he drunker than I thought? Could he have been lying to get that girl to leave him alone?
I knew he was attracted to me, and we had fun together. But Brady had asked—no, demanded—to keep our relationship a secret. And, sure, we’d been seeing one another for months now. But did he really feel that way?
When my thoughts had run themselves ragged, my vision refocused, and I looked at myself in the mirror, sure I’d see pale, wild-eyed horror—a cornered animal on the verge of fight or flight.
So imagine my surprise when the face staring back at me was flushed and smiling softly .
Suddenly feeling much more sober than when I entered, I gathered my courage and stepped out into the darkness and the vibration of the club. Brady immediately pushed off the opposite wall and came to me, worry etched into every line of his features.
“Are you sick?” He passed me a bottle of water. “You were gone so long, I got worried.”
I searched his face, looking for the truth like I might find it in his eyes or his dimple or the strong line of his jaw.
When I failed to answer, Brady cupped my cheeks. “Mac, honey, are you okay?”
No , I thought desperately. How could I be? I’m the love of your life .
Instead, I nodded quickly, reaching up to clasp one hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, feeling soft over his concern. “Let’s go listen.”
The band had already started, the drumbeat pounding in my chest. Or maybe that was my heart. I couldn’t separate the two.
Brady still looked worried, so I gave him a smile and then took a long drink from the water bottle to soothe him.
We moved toward the back of the crowd and listened to the music.
I ignored the steadfast warmth of Brady at my back. I ignored how he wasn’t drunk at all and how I knew he wouldn’t be since he was driving us home. I ignored how everything felt so right, like stars aligning.
Without meaning to, I fell asleep on the drive home, Brady’s sweatshirt balled beneath my face as my forehead pressed soothingly against the cool glass. I came awake when he shifted into park behind his building.
“I’ll drive you home if you want,” he said quietly. “But will you stay?”
“Yeah,” I croaked, warm and drowsy.
I hadn’t stayed overnight at Brady’s apartment yet. It felt a little like crossing a line and probably why I’d avoided it all this time. From that very first night together back in October when he’d wanted to make me breakfast the next morning, I’d been uneasy about staying. It seemed like an admission of something I hadn’t been ready to hear at the time .
But, now, looking at him in the pale glow of the dashboard, the tentative slouch of his shoulders, the way his hand lay in his lap, open and waiting for me ... I couldn’t remember why I’d wanted to deny myself so badly.
Once inside the apartment—still as fastidiously tidy as every other time I’d seen it—I drank another glass of water over the kitchen sink. Brady gave me a spare toothbrush, a tee shirt, and a washcloth, then steered me into the bathroom.
I washed my face and got ready for bed, sliding his shirt over my skin, liking how it skimmed my bare thighs.
When I made my way into his dark bedroom, Brady peeled back the covers, and I slipped in next to him. I turned to face the open doorway so he could spoon me the way I liked. His face burrowed into my hair, the tip of his nose brushing the shell of my ear.
Like a big dumb idiot, I asked something I’d been thinking about for a long time now. “Why haven’t you dated anyone in a while, Brady?”
He didn’t freeze like he’d been caught in some lie. His breath remained even against my back, and his hand continued around my waist, tucking itself beneath my rib cage. “No reason. Just hadn’t met anyone I was interested in dating.”
“Tell me you weren’t waiting for me,” I said, voice as unsteady as I expected him to be.
But, once again, he surprised me. He drew his lips confidently along my neck, kissing the sensitive spot just below my ear, weaponizing my desire. I closed my eyes rather than moan the way I wanted to.
“Then I won’t tell you,” he finally whispered. “Don’t make this weird,” he murmured just before his tongue touched my nape.
“Me?” I practically wheezed as his fingers grazed along my stomach to grip my hip.
“You’re so dramatic,” he accused, and I could hear the amusement in his voice.
I rolled to face him, suddenly desperate to see the smile on his face and equally as determined to kiss it off. My lips started urgent and reckless, but he gentled the kiss by degrees, making long sweeping strokes with his hand up and down my bare back and pausing to kiss the corners of my lips and the tip of my nose .
Brady made love to me, and he made sure I knew it. Every reverent touch, every ragged breath, every ounce of pleasure he wrang from my willing body was imprinted with his adoration. For once, I didn’t try to rush things or even the score. I just let him love me. I didn’t question his motives or whether or not I deserved them. I allowed myself to be swept away and swept under.
Afterward, when I finally drifted off to sleep, it was with my head on Brady’s chest and his steady heartbeat calling me home.
I awoke the next morning when a pan clanged down the hall, followed by a hushed, “Damn it.”
I smiled into Brady’s pillow before blindly reaching for his tee shirt on the floor. I pulled it over my head and breathed in the fresh scent of sun and sand. This was better than going into Brady’s shower and huffing his bodywash like a lunatic. If he caught me, I’d never live it down.
The events from the previous night came rushing back. The giddy sort of joy at being out together in public followed by the revelation with the drunk girls in the bathroom. I thought about Brady calling me the love of his life, searching for anger or fear or righteous indignation, but, just like the night before, it never materialized.
Instead, I felt safe and warm, buoyed by his affections.
I was twenty-nine-years old, and I’d been dating since I was fifteen. And never once had I found myself in love. Nothing more than attraction or mild infatuation. Monogamous relationships that hadn’t lasted beyond a few months, but more accurately, a few weeks. I thought starkly, I should have fallen in love by now .
Except for a few teenage dirtbags, it wasn’t like there had been anything wrong with the men I’d dated. They just hadn’t been for me. Safe , Brady had called them all those months ago. And he’d been right. People who hadn’t known me as the outspoken Clark, the permanent fixture on her family’s land and in this town. Transplants who could draw their own conclusions and accept the version of myself I presented as the unflinching truth .
So much of my hometown was tied up in knots inside me, tangled with expectation and shame and disappointment. But that had more to do with me and my own convoluted feelings than my neighbors.
Another metallic scrape drew my attention and urged me from the bedroom. I crept quietly, peeking around the corner and jolting in surprise. I fought my laughter as I watched Brady in the sunny space for a long moment.
All the years blurred along with the faces of the men I’d dated. The whys and wonderings of how none of them ever stuck swirled around the fact that I’d never loved a single one of them.
Some part of me worried that the man moving around this kitchen, wearing an apron and boxer briefs and nothing else, might be the biggest, sweetest, most ridiculous reason why.
“Hey,” Brady said when he finally turned and found me lurking. His smile was bright and infectious, and I found myself grinning back. “You feeling okay? Want some pain reliever?”
Stepping more fully into the kitchen, I shook my head, noting his mussed hair and all the dirty dishes littering the countertops. “No, I’m good. What are you making me?”
“Well, I’ve got a breakfast casserole with baked eggs, some fresh strawberries, and lemon lavender scones in the oven.”
I swallowed. That sounded amazing. And he’d made it for me. Been waiting to make it for me. “Scones,” I teased. “Those are just high-maintenance biscuits.”
Brady laughed. His blue eyes, warm and pleased, stayed on me until a timer went off, and he went to retrieve the fancy scones from the oven.
I watched in amused awe as he expertly drizzled a pale glaze over the tops before delicately sprinkling bits of dried lavender.
The scones were good, all said and done. Everything was delicious. We sat next to one another on tall stools at the central island while I ate every crumb on my plate.
“How’d you get so good at cooking and baking?” I asked once I’d taken the final bite of my casserole, the eggs so fluffy and tender I wanted to die .
Brady finished chewing before replying. “I liked helping my momma when I was a kid. She’d walk me through making brownies or chocolate chip cookies, and it just sort of stuck. Following directions and working one step at a time appealed to me. I kept it up in college, cooking once a week for my teammates. Usually easy stuff like pasta—nothing fancy. But it was something I enjoyed.”
“I actually really like these online videos,” he added shyly while I polished off another scone. “The channel is called Not Your Aunt Linda’s Kitchen , and the baker is real personable and fun to watch. Sometimes, I watch those at night or bake something when I have trouble sleeping.”
“You have trouble sleeping?” I asked, surprised. He’s always slept soundly next to me.
Brady nodded before scooping up another bite of egg layered with bacon, cheese, and flaky croissant. “Sometimes.”
We finished up and washed the dishes together. I knew Brady had dinner plans with his family tonight, so I’d texted Bonnie to see if she was up for a sisters’ night in with me.
Brady hadn’t said a word when I’d pulled my jacket on over his tee shirt I still wore. He’d just watched me with a pleased sparkle in his pretty blue eyes, which was good because he wasn’t getting it back.
We’d said our goodbyes, knowing we’d be texting most of the day and seeing each other again tomorrow. I resisted the urge to throw my arms around his waist and tell him I was sorry I’d waited so long to stay for breakfast. I settled on a long, slow kiss in his doorway. Then forced myself to go.
Dinner with Bonnie was Indian takeout from a new restaurant downtown. We were currently stuffing our faces in the living room of Grandma Nola and Grandpa Junior’s house. Open to-go containers littered the coffee table while North and South played in the background.
My sister and I both loved Richard Armitage, so we’d seen the British miniseries plenty of times. We felt comfortable eating and chatting throughout, but we definitely made sure to tune in for the “Look back at me” scene .
“What’s Danny doing tonight?” I asked as I grabbed another samosa.
“Oh, um,” Bonnie mused distractedly, “I’m not sure. He hadn’t gotten home yet, and I just left a note saying I was having dinner with you.”
That was ... weird. The garage where Danny worked closed at five on Saturdays. Bonnie hadn’t arrived with our takeout until almost eight.
“I see,” I lied. “Well, I’m sure he’ll text or something when he gets home.”
She forked up some chicken tikka and shrugged. “Maybe.”
I eyed Bonnie as she chewed and focused her attention on the television over the fireplace. She was in her weekend clothes—baggy black sweats and a college hoodie from where she’d attended—with a little blond topknot on the crown of her head.
As an elementary school art teacher, she wore flowy dresses throughout the workweek. She said they were professional but easy to move around in. So when she had downtime, like on the weekends, she entered her self-proclaimed “panda mode,” where she lazed about in comfort. I supported that wholeheartedly.
My older sister deserved a break. She took care of everyone. I knew she loved her job and was close with our parents and other family members, but it had to be difficult to try to please so many people all the damn time. She and Danny spent a lot of time with his family, too. I knew they joined the Jensens for dinner several nights a week, with Bonnie usually doing the cooking.
While my sister had worked in the General Store during high school, farming had never been her thing. I admired her for going off to college and finding something just for her. But Kirby Falls had always been home. There had never been a question that she’d come back to start her life. Danny was here, after all.
I watched as another funeral took place on the screen, then asked, “How did you know you loved Danny? That he was the one?”
Bonnie looked at me in surprise, eyes wide. “Where in the world did that come from?”
I could remember her and Danny as fresh-faced teenagers, coming and going, watching movies in the basement at my parents’ house, and attending holidays and birthday parties together. Joined at the hip from the time they were fourteen .
“I don’t know. I was just curious, I guess.” I loved my sister, but I wasn’t about to tell her about Brady. I’d barely begun to acknowledge the swirling nebulous notion that I had some serious feelings for him ... and him for me.
She seemed to think for a long moment before finally replying, “I don’t believe in ‘the one.’” I could hear the air quotes she’d put around the words. “I think there are any number of people you’re compatible with or attracted to. Loving someone is a choice. It’s hard work and dedication, not some sweet-smelling romantic breeze that ruffles your hair and guides you to your one true love.”
That ... was not what I expected my sister who’d married her high school boyfriend to say. “Oh.”
Then Bonnie blinked like she was coming out of a trance. Her eyes met mine, and she smiled. “But, of course, Danny and I met young. So I was lucky enough to find my person early, you know? We grew up together.”
That was what I was worried about. There was so much history to influence your feelings and perceptions. How did you know what was real and what was duty or obligation or nostalgia?
“If my life was a pie chart, Danny would have the biggest slice,” my sister said simply, then went back to her chicken tikka masala and Mr. Thornton.
I frowned, thinking that didn’t sound right. Or maybe it was supposed to be romantic, like a Hallmark card and grocery store roses on Valentine’s Day. But instead, it made me think of missed anniversaries and candles burned down to nubs. The painful act of hanging your hopes on someone who didn’t deserve them. A drain on your resources, an inconsiderate leech who only left you a tiny corner of the pie pan.
My relationship with Brady was nothing like that. He was generous and open, accepting the bits and pieces of myself I offered and never demanding more than I was comfortable with. He was patient and thoughtful. In the last four months, he’d done nothing but make me a priority.
I watched my sister, suddenly feeling helpless and raw. She’d always been the shining example of maturity and success in my life. Someone who’d gone after what she wanted and had a marriage that seemed happy from the outside.
Now, I wondered if she felt loved at all.