Chapter 18
eighteen
MAC
“I can’t believe I missed Brady Judd at family dinner,” my sister pouted at my side.
I took a sip of my beer and continued to ignore the conversation.
Bonnie and Danny hadn’t been able to make it to Aunt Maggie’s last night. Although I didn’t see my ridiculous aunt chasing them down in her side-by-side, but whatever.
We were at Monday night trivia at Trailview, and Larry was giving my sister a complete play-by-play of yesterday’s eventful dinner with Brady in attendance.
Danny was suspiciously absent from the table, but so was Kayla. We’d drafted Becca to come and join us from her normal team. Now, the four of us were ready. If only the emcee would get this show on the road so everyone at my table would stop obsessing over Brady.
“It was something to behold,” Larry said, nodding sagely. “I thought Mac was going to have an aneurysm. But that Brady, he was cool as a cucumber.”
“A natural charmer,” Becca added sweetly.
I caught my eye roll mid-rotation and drained the rest of my IPA .
“It’s not a big deal, y’all,” I insisted. “Maggie happened upon us fighting ,” I emphasized, “while I was busy planting your sunflower field, Becca Marie.”
The blond’s cheerful features turned sheepish. “Sorry.”
“You’re all making a mountain out of a molehill.” I stood. “I’m going to get another beer since they’re running late tonight, apparently.”
Voices called out as I made my way to the bar.
“Don’t be like that,” Larry said.
“Come on, Mac,” Bonnie urged.
“I’m sorry!” Becca chirped.
I ignored them. The sooner they got over this obsession with me and Brady Judd, the sooner things could get back to normal.
If Brady wanted to be a secret, I wasn’t going to be the one to out us.
Sure, I’d been off-balance last night. Mostly, because I knew my family would make a big deal about him being there, but I also knew they’d welcome him with open arms. I didn’t want Brady to feel pressured by them. If he wanted casual, then meeting the family wasn’t really the best way to go about that.
I thought back to the breakfast I’d shared at his parents’ house and tried to compare the two. I’d been there as Candace’s friend, for the most part. No one had assumed anything about Brady and me. There’d been way less expectation accompanying those biscuits and gravy.
My family, on the other hand, had zero chill. I was sure every single one of them suspected something was going on, but the girls were right. Brady had been laid-back and easygoing about it all. He hadn’t been bothered by the questions or the stares or my cousin’s insinuations.
That was just Brady. A charming charmer.
I didn’t want sudden notice from my branch of the family to complicate things between us. It was almost May, and we’d been happy with our arrangement for months now. Something told me that having the secret out—even to people I trusted—would screw everything up .
But there was an insistent little voice in my head wondering how long we could possibly keep this up. What happened if we were found out? Would Brady end things rather than admit the truth?
Maybe it made me weak or a coward, but I didn’t want this thing to end. I was happy. Happier than I’d been in a long time. Between our relationship and my new position at the farm, I felt good—or close to it.
As I passed by Brady’s table on my way to the bar, I caught his eye. He winked, and I made sure my face was nice and even when I held up two fingers discreetly in front of my chest.
We’d worked out a system and pre-arranged our trivia night fights to keep up appearances. Mostly because it was fun. However, tonight I was really not in the mood for the nosy women at my table, so getting out of here within the next twenty minutes greatly appealed to me.
But Brady must not have gotten the message because when the second round started, he didn’t take the bait of my shouted insult. He calmly sipped his beer and didn’t even make eye contact.
Instead, we played on to the end. Neither one of our teams won. The bird-watching group got every question right, and Becca cheered loudly for them when their team was announced as the first-place finisher.
Larry, Becca, and Bonnie were staying on to hang out, but I told them I’d see them later and made for the parking lot.
I hurried to the end of the asphalt where Brady’s truck sat and waited.
It didn’t take long. He approached a few minutes later, his tall shadow stretching across the pavement in the glow of the area lights.
“Hey, did you not see my signal earlier?” I said by way of greeting.
“Guess I missed it.” He turned to unlock the driver’s side. “You want to follow me to my place?”
Something was up. He’d been quiet all night, and now he would hardly look at me. Sudden worry about the disaster dinner last night intruded, and I wondered if it had been too much, after all. We’d texted today. He’d teased me about the damn letter from my keyboard. But maybe he was overwhelmed and wanted space. Though surely, he wouldn’t be inviting me over if that was the case .
I hated feeling so uncertain. This was not my default. I was a direct person who didn’t rely on other people to influence the way I felt.
When I’d remained quiet too long, Brady finally glanced my way. His eyes were wary and secretive—an expression I’d never once seen on his face. “Will you come over? I thought we could talk.”
It took all my effort to keep my face passive. “Sure,” I said finally, voice flat.
If he wanted to break things off, he could do it right now, as far as I was concerned. And if he couldn’t handle one little dinner with the most important people in my life, then he didn’t deserve my insane but well-meaning family.
Brady scanned the parking lot over my head before leaning in and pressing a kiss to my cheek. “I’ll see you over there.”
Worry and confusion and irritation swirled around inside me in a bitter combination. I didn’t even remember walking to my Jeep and climbing inside.
I followed Brady’s taillights out of the parking lot and onto Main Street.
He’d been fine over text this morning. Chatty and sweet. Funny and teasing. What could have changed between then and now?
Brady approached the four-way stop at the intersection of Main and Sixth. My headlights shone in his rearview mirror, and I met his gaze briefly before he checked the empty intersection and pulled ahead slowly.
What was I going to say when he ended things? That was obviously where this was headed. Asking to talk was never a good sign. How was I going to?—?
As I sat idling at the stop sign, an oncoming engine revved sharply from my left. I watched in horror as a late-model truck sped into the intersection and slammed into the side of Brady’s truck. Metal crushed and scraped as the collision pushed Brady’s vehicle up onto the sidewalk and pinned it against the telephone pole.
I was out of my Jeep with my phone in my hand before the incoming truck had fully rocked to a stop.
“Brady!” I shouted, running to circle the mass of metal.
My thumb fumbled to type 9-1-1 as I caught sight of Brady’s brown hair resting on the driver’s-side window .
“Brady,” I called again, my voice distant over the sound of blood and panic coursing through my system.
The flat front end of the older truck was trapping Brady. His vehicle was crumpled around the intruding metal, all sharp angles.
I climbed on the hood of the green truck with the white stripe along the side and tapped on Brady’s window. Vaguely, I was aware of sounds coming from the phone in my hand.
“Brady,” I repeated. “Can you hear me?”
He was starting to rouse. I caught a grimace of pain on his profile before seeing a slash of bright red along his hairline.
I hit the speakerphone button on my cell and shouted that there’d been an accident on Main and Sixth and to send an ambulance. Then I ignored the operator’s questions and shoved my phone in my pocket, trying to get Brady to meet my gaze.
His head kept lolling, and he couldn’t seem to focus on where my voice was coming from.
Hurriedly, I climbed down off the hood of the truck that had T-boned him and ran to the passenger side of Brady’s vehicle. But the hinge of the door was pressed against the telephone pole. I could pull on the handle, but couldn’t get enough leverage or room to tug it open.
Instead, I stood up on the running boards and peered inside. I could see him better from this angle, and his gaze finally found mine through the glass. He tried straightening in his seat, but he was moving slowly, gingerly.
“Just stay still. The paramedics will be here in a minute.” I scrubbed a tear off my chin and tried to smile. “They’ll get you out.”
Brady nodded and then winced. His head drooped back against his headrest, and I called out again. He blinked back into awareness, but he was sluggish and dazed.
I kept talking, telling him he’d be fine and not to worry, but I wasn’t sure if he heard me through whatever head injury he’d sustained. I furiously swiped another tear off my cheek .
The sirens were getting louder now, but no sense of relief came.
I heard the squeak and strain of an old door opening.
Until that moment, I hadn’t given a shit about the other driver. I’d recognized that truck the moment it had crashed through the intersection. But now I was stepping off the running boards and rounding the front of Brady’s ruined truck.
Glassy-eyed and red-faced, Buck Adams was staggering off the bench seat and out onto the street. The smell of cheap alcohol accompanied the middle-aged man, and suddenly, all my useless fear from the last five minutes had a target.
“What the fuck are you doing, Buck? Look at what you did,” I shouted over the sound of approaching sirens, furious and untethered—a snarling, angry dog freed from its chain.
The man caught sight of me and reeled back, intent on escaping back into his truck. He got the door closed, but his window was half down. I climbed up and reached through, desperate to keep him from leaving. I grappled and fumbled for the ignition, trying to reach the keys so I could toss them across the fucking street. But Buck beat me there and turned the truck over. It took a moment to catch as I clawed at his arms and yanked on the wheel.
Suddenly, I was weightless, kicking and shouting as an arm banded around my waist and pulled me backward.
“Jesus, Mac,” the voice attached to the arm grunted. “Your elbow got me below my vest.”
Hair whipped across my face as I watched another uniformed deputy drag Buck out of his vehicle.
The person holding me—Jamie Matthews, I could recognize him now—set me down on my feet. “You good?”
I nodded, content now that the no-good drunk wasn’t going to get away. Buck had lived in Kirby Falls his whole life. His wife, Jolly, had finally divorced his ass a few years ago, and the town had thrown her a party. He’d caused scenes and had been drunk at every bar in the county. Jolly had used all her money trying to put him through rehab multiple times, but it never stuck. Up until now, he’d been a cautionary tale and sob story in my hometown. I knew the man needed help, but I couldn’t see it right now. Not when he’d been driving drunk and had endangered the man I?—
“Brady,” I breathed, spinning out of Jamie’s hold.
“They’re getting him now.”
And the deputy was right. I watched as the firemen used some kind of crowbar to wedge the passenger door open. The metal groaned, but they made enough space to get inside to Brady.
“You wanna tell me what happened, Mac?”
Without looking away from what was going on in the cab’s interior, I told Jamie exactly what I’d witnessed. Brady moving through the intersection. Buck coming out of nowhere and slamming into him.
While Jamie asked me questions and confirmed details, the ambulance arrived. I could see Brady moving and talking, but the clawing fear in my belly hadn’t gone anywhere.
He was out of the truck now, loaded onto a backboard. They weren’t letting him walk. Thank Christ. Because his movements were all wrong. Something must have been broken or hurt.
Jamie passed me a tissue, and I swallowed painfully.
The sirens were off, but blue and red lights flashed everywhere. A tow truck waited patiently behind my Jeep, where it sat, still running, with the door flung open.
The firefighters were still gathered nearby while the two EMTs worked to secure Brady. I saw his lips move, and then everyone standing around laughed. Because, of course, the idiot had almost died and was cracking jokes.
I left Deputy Matthews when they’d loaded Brady in the back of the ambulance, approaching a woman in a navy-blue uniform.
“Louisa,” I hissed as she started to shut the doors.
Brady looked pale through the opening, his eyes closed.
“Mac,” she greeted. “You okay? Were you involved?”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. Is he— Is Brady okay? ”
Her dark eyes took me in. “Yeah. Rattled his cage a little. Probably a mild concussion, but we’ll bring him in and have him evaluated.”
“Can I—can I ride with him?”
Louisa sighed. “No, I’m sorry. You’re not family. And we need to get going.”
“Please, Lou,” I tried. And then I decided to fight dirty. “Remember that time junior year? You went to that college party and had me cover for you? I swear I will call your mother right this minute and tell her you didn’t actually stay at my house that weekend.”
“Mac, come on,” she groaned. “You cannot seriously be trying to blackmail me right now.”
I’d known Louisa Hernandez Cortez since she moved to Kirby Falls in fourth grade. We’d played soccer together and been good friends since we were little girls. She came out to Abby’s bonfire at least once a month, and I ate at her parents’ restaurant all the time. But I was not above using our history and friendship to get in the back of that ambulance with Brady.
“I’ll do it,” I warned.
“Let’s go, Lou!” came a shout from the side of the vehicle.
“Listen,” she said quickly, “drive to the hospital and meet us there. He’s going to need someone to bring him home after he’s checked out. He’ll probably need concussion protocol and someone to stay with him for twelve to twenty-four hours. Meet us at the doors to the ER, and I’ll make sure you get inside with him.”
“Fine,” I gritted out.
Before I could turn, Louisa gripped my arm. “He’s going to be okay.”
I nodded and fled when I felt another tear stupidly well up in my right eye.
I probably shouldn’t have driven. I couldn’t recall the path we took to the hospital, which was just over a mile away. I simply followed the flashing lights ahead of me.
As they worked to unload Brady at the bay doors, I found a parking spot and hustled over to where Louisa waited for me. She said we’d need to hold on for a bit while he was examined. Then she would take me back .
I could see Lou’s confusion and her curiosity, but I wasn’t in the right state to give her some bullshit answer about why I cared so much about Brady Judd and the accident I’d witnessed. The only thing that wanted to come out of my mouth was the truth. One that was likely already written all over my face.
She tried to be kind and talk to me while we waited for the nurses to get Brady settled, but I couldn’t manage it. My thoughts were swallowed up by the sights and sounds of the ER around me. I was reliving the startling moment when Buck’s truck collided with Brady, the way he hadn’t been moving when I’d called his name.
True to her word, Louisa smuggled me back into the temporary room Brady occupied in the emergency department.
He was asleep when I got there. I didn’t know if that was safe or not. I thought I’d read something about keeping people awake who’d sustained a head injury. But if the doctors and nurses weren’t worried, then I guessed it was okay.
The cut above his eyebrow had already been taken care of, a barely there red line that had been closed with a butterfly bandage. The skin was slightly swollen and would likely be bruised by the morning.
My fingers hovered above the wound as I took in the rest of Brady. I didn’t see any splints or slings or anything to indicate he’d broken or dislocated something.
“Mac,” he breathed, startling me.
Brady wore a dopey grin, like he’d had one too many at a frat party.
I swallowed and clutched his hand without meaning to. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m alright. Just tired and a little dizzy. They want to do a scan just to make sure everything’s fine.” His eyes closed. “But said I should be able to go home after that.”
“A scan of what?” I asked quickly, worried he’d drift back to sleep without answering.
“My giant brain,” he said, lips quirking up at the corners.
A breath rushed out of me that might have been relief or amusement, but it was enough to have his eyes opening again.
“Hey,” he said, squeezing my hand. “MacKenzie, I’m fine. Don’t cry, honey. ”
“I’m not crying,” I replied reflexively, but my nose was burning, and the room was going blurry.
Brady tried to rise up out of the bed but winced.
“Stop,” I said, urging him back and pulling myself together. “You’re going to hurt yourself. Just rest, Brady. I’ll be here. I’ll take you home when they let you go.”
He settled after that, closing his eyes once more.
A nurse or technician in pale gray scrubs came in a short while later to take Brady for a CT scan. The man was in his fifties and gave me a kind smile as he wheeled Brady down the hallway. He told me to wait there, that it wouldn’t take long.
They made it back twenty minutes later, just as it was nearing 11:00 p.m.
I’d tried calling Candace to let her know about her brother, but she hadn’t answered. I didn’t want to leave a message or text her and scare the hell out of her. I’d call again once I knew when they planned on releasing him.
Brady was sleeping when a Black man in slacks and a white coat entered the room just before midnight.
He smiled warmly. “I’m Dr. Owens. You must be the fiancée.”
I fought to keep a straight face at the doctor’s pronouncement, barely panicking over how much I didn’t hate the sound of that. Apparently, that was how Louisa had managed to get me into Brady’s room.
“That’s me,” I said evenly, noting that Brady’s eyes stayed closed and his breathing even. “Is he going to be okay?”
The thirtysomething physician smiled again. I could tell it was meant to put me at ease, but I was still all twisted up. “His scan looked good. No trouble there. We’ll send him home with you shortly. You’ll need to monitor him for the next twelve hours. He’ll want to sleep, but you’ll need to wake him every two hours and ask him a few questions. Easy ones. His name. His birthday. Things like that. Give him over-the-counter acetaminophen for any pain. No work for the next few days. Reduced screen time.”
I nodded, grateful to have something to do .
“He may be irritable or have headaches, but bring him back in if things worsen instead of improving.”
“Thank you,” I managed, my voice a little choked.
The doctor dipped his chin. “We’ll get you out of here soon. Sit tight.”
After another two unanswered calls to Candace, a nurse came in with discharge paperwork. She passed me a bag and then went to rouse Brady to have him sign some things.
I looked inside the bag to find his cell phone, keys, and wallet. And, in the corner, nestled in among a handful of pocket change, was the letter D from my keyboard.
My hands shook as I closed the bag and held it to my chest.
Brady was smiling at the nurse, and they were laughing over something. I couldn’t make it out over the beating of my heart.
Finally, the woman met my gaze. “Want to pull your car around, and I’ll meet you out there?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied and stood on shaky feet.
Brady lowered himself into the wheelchair without complaint. He looked tired and sore but kept up the charm for the nurse’s benefit.
We got him settled into my passenger seat. He seemed much steadier as he buckled himself in.
We didn’t speak on the short drive to his apartment. I peeked at him every two seconds to make sure he was breathing, but I couldn’t find any words to say. There were too many bouncing around in my head. Most notable were I was so fucking scared and How dare you get yourself hurt , closely followed by This isn’t fair and I didn’t know it would feel like this .
Brady was quietly amused as I insisted on supporting him up the stairs. And he looked on as I removed his keys from his bag of personal effects and unlocked his front door.
He took two acetaminophen and drank half a glass of water under my careful supervision. Then, I set an alarm on my phone for every two hours. Not that I imagined I would sleep anytime soon. But just in case the adrenaline wore off and I found myself inadvertently passed out in Brady’s apartment, I wanted to make sure I did my duty to check on him throughout the night.
Brady changed into a fresh tee shirt and sleep pants, and I draped the covers over his body.
He gave me a drowsy grin and snagged my hand before I could pull away. “Thank you for taking care of me, Macklemore.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, giving in to the urge to brush his hair back from his forehead.
“Anytime you want to break out the naughty nurse uniform, that’s fine by me.”
A surprised laugh shot out of me. His smile widened even as his eyes drifted closed and his body relaxed into the mattress.
My amusement quickly morphed into something else—something desperate and relieved as my brain catalogued the variety of emotions I’d cycled through in the last few hours like a children’s flipbook.
My throat closed up, and I had to put my hand over my mouth and leave the room before Brady heard me sob noisily into my palm.
I paced his apartment, examining the pictures on the wall and the books on his shelf. I flipped through his photo album from his summer abroad, the images familiar by now. I traced the edges of his smile as he stood in front of the Nike of Samothrace or took a selfie with the Mona Lisa .
By the time my phone vibrated in my pocket around two a.m., I’d probably peeked in on Brady thirty-five times.
I woke him gently by rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. I asked him his name and his favorite ice cream.
“You just wanted to make fun of my love for pistachio ice cream,” he grumbled into his pillow. And I smiled into the dark.
I spent the next two hours on what had become my side of the bed. But I didn’t sleep. With my legs stretched out in front of me, I sat up against the wooden headboard and watched the slow rise and fall of Brady’s chest. At one point, he rolled over and draped his arm over my thighs, snuggling his face against my hip .
When I woke him again, I asked him to confirm his birthdate and the name of our high school.
He blinked slowly up at me, and worry had me straightening. Was he getting worse? Did he not remember?
Then he said, “November 22, 1995.”
But instead of answering the second question, he closed his eyes and gave me another loopy grin. “You had these jean shorts. These little cutoffs with the fringe on the bottom."
“Uh, yeah.” The fear I’d been feeling intensified. I grabbed my phone from the bedside table, ready to search worsening concussion symptoms and when to return to the hospital.
But then Brady continued, voice slurred and sleepy, “They used to drive me crazy. I had dreams about them, Mac. Horrible, wonderful dreams. Teenage Brady lived in torment anytime you wore those shorts.”
My eyes drifted from my screen to scan his features. “Does your head hurt? Can you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?”
He laughed like I was silly. “Remember that time I got an erection in PE freshman year?”
I winced. “Yeah, Brady. Everyone remembers that.”
I’d been an office worker at the time, running an errand in the gymnasium. I’d emerged from the locker room after delivering a message to the girls’ PE teacher, Coach Yates. I’d seen the girls gathered on the volleyball court, giggling. And Brady was attempting to dribble a basketball on the other end of the gym while his athletic shorts did little to hide the situation at hand.
It had been all over the school by lunchtime. But in true Brady fashion, he’d laughed it off and made fun of himself along with everyone else. And the incident passed with little impact on his popularity. Two seniors got in a fight the next day and everyone moved on to the next thing, like typical teenagers.
“It was you and those fucking shorts. You came down from the office, and I took one look at you, and that was all she wrote.”
Shock had me squeezing the phone in my hand. “What? ”
“Yep. Even then.” He sighed. “I know. I was so stupid. I think I put that hissing cockroach in your locker that same week.”
I shook my head in disbelief, having no idea what to say. But the screen of my phone lit up with a list of symptoms, and I remembered myself. I needed to make sure Brady was okay. He was vulnerable and concussed. He probably wouldn’t be sharing this stuff if he was in his right mind.
“Brady—”
“Kirby Falls High School,” he interrupted, then shifted closer and pressed his cheek to the top of my thigh, arms tightening around my legs as he did so.
My breathing picked up as his settled.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
We were just having fun.
I wasn’t supposed to be losing my mind at the thought of losing him.
I’d lived a fortunate life up until this point. I had both sets of grandparents, and I’d never had to mourn anyone I’d been close with. My great-grandmother had died before I was even born.
Rationally, I knew that Brady was going to be fine. He’d make a full recovery, big brain and all. But whenever I closed my eyes, I saw his truck skidding across the pavement, the sound of metal crunching. I heard my own voice shouting his name in panicked stereo as his head rested, still and unresponsive against the driver’s-side window.
I’d been afraid. Really afraid. Completely blindsided by terror and unable to function in the face of his potential injury. I didn’t like feeling so beholden to someone else. It made me feel weak and untethered—completely irrational.
Who wanted to let someone else dictate their life? Who wanted to live at the mercy of something so fragile and unpredictable? What kind of person voluntarily signed up for that?
Someone in love , my brain supplied readily enough.
Someone like you , my heart whispered back .
We’d been sneaking around for months, but I could imagine what Brady and I looked like from the outside. A couple. People who texted each other, shared meals, and spent their nights together. He had a toothbrush in my bathroom. I had two hoodies I’d stolen, sitting in my hamper at this very moment. I knew how he took his coffee, and he brought me Twizzlers whenever he knew I was having a shitty day.
I was one big heart-eyes emoji. I could taste orange Tic Tacs and smell sand and salt and sea air whenever I closed my eyes. He was a visage of my past and the future I’d been inadvertently barreling toward.
I worried there was an impression on my heart. Some stupid, tender part of me warned that if I bothered to check, it would be the depth of that dimple in Brady’s right cheek or the perfect pressure of his thumb in the divot on my chin.
With effort, I forced my breathing to match his—slow and even.
I waited until 5:15 and texted Abby. I stayed put until I got a response.
Then I put on my jacket, slid on my shoes, and shut the front door quietly behind me.