18. Chapter Seventeen #3
I looked at Brady, searching for my anchor and reminding myself why I was doing this. His eyes met mine—trying to reassure me—and warmth unfurled in my chest.
The maid, Annabelle, began pouring wine. I quietly turned my glass upside down and declined with a polite smile, not thinking anything of it. I never drank. My aunt watched my daddy kill himself with that stuff, and it had broken her heart. She ranked alcohol among the vilest of all vices.
Out of respect for me, Brady turned his glass over, too.
Mrs. Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “So, now you don’t drink?” she asked, lips pursed.
“Momma, you know I’ve never been one to drink much,” Brady replied calmly. “And I wouldn’t tonight anyway—I’m driving.”
His tone was light, but the silence that followed was anything but.
She glared at me like I’d created some kind of monster. Like the fact that her son didn’t want wine with dinner was a personal insult. I wanted to say, I know—it’s awful. Your son’s refusing alcohol. Clearly, I’m evil and must be destroyed.
It was painfully obvious I would never please this woman. And, honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
As we sat there, my perception of Brady’s home life began to unravel. I’d always imagined he’d grown up like me—with adoring parents and a house wrapped in warmth.
Maybe he had. Maybe she was only like this because I was here. But the chill in her eyes didn’t feel circumstantial. Maybe her second car was a broom. Just sayin’.
Dinner was formal— too formal for my taste. Served in quiet, intentionally elaborate courses, the silence between bites was deafening.
I tried to eat what I could, but Brady’s momma had perfected the art of the scrutinizing glare. Her eyes flicked over me like I was being appraised—and constantly found lacking. My stomach twisted tighter with every glance.
Brady did his best to ship reassuring looks from across the table, crooked smiles meant just for me. But every time he turned his attention my way, she redirected it—clearing her throat, launching into irrelevant commentary, anything to pull him back. She didn’t even try to be subtle about it.
Honestly, it felt . . . jealous.
His daddy sat silently at the far end, drinking enough wine for all three of us. I didn’t blame him. I wanted to escape, too—but not like that. Alcohol never solved anything. I’d seen firsthand how much damage it could do.
To say I was uncomfortable was an understatement. I was unraveling.
Halfway through the lamb chops, Brady’s momma finally struck—knife sharpened, target acquired. She’d had enough wine to loosen her manners and tighten her aim.
“So, young lady,” she said, voice smooth and barbed, “our son informs us he may be moving—even though his family and career are rooted here. Don’t you think that’s selfish of you?”
Brady opened his mouth to come to by defense, but I beat him to the punch. She needed to know I could stand up for myself. “Mrs. Jackson, Brady and I haven’t made any final decisions about where we’ll live once we’re married.”
She definitely did not like me using the “M” word, judging by the way she flinched, which made me want to say it all the more.
“Any decisions we make will be mutual and for the benefit of our family. And I realize Brady has a career here, but I have one, too.”
She wrung her napkin between tight fingers, searing holes into my soul with her eyes. “Yes, I suppose now that you’re famous, you expect your career to take precedence—and Brady to follow you.”
“I don’t believe any such thing. And fame has nothing to do with why I wouldn’t want to live in Kaysville.” And honestly, it wasn’t like I was that famous. Well known in some circles, yes, but I was no Jeff Kinney.
Her face darkened to match the wine in her glass. “And what’s that supposed to mean, young lady?” She had a lot of nerve to ask why I wouldn’t want to live in Kaysville.
I shouldn’t have let her get to me. But I did. “I won’t insult your intelligence—or mine—by answering that.”
So much for my winning his parents over. I hadn’t meant to be so biting.
While Mrs. Jackson sat seething. I caught Brady’s gaze, so afraid he would be upset with me for sassing his momma.
“I’m so sorry,” I mouthed. I shouldn’t have risen to Mrs. Jackson’s obvious attempt to unnerve me, but I didn’t deserve her accusations or implications.
She had no right to judge me or talk to me like that.
Brady said nothing, making my stomach clench. He threw down his napkin and rose. “Ellie and I will be leaving now.”
My head snapped up, fearing Brady was upset with me.
“What? You barely arrived, and we haven’t had dessert.” Mrs. Jackson sounded desperate for Brady to stay.
Wasn’t this the woman who, moments ago, had turned her nose up at my cake?
Brady pressed his hands against the table, a vein pulsing in his neck. I’d never seen his veins pulse. It was unnerving.
Did he hate me?
“Momma,” he gritted out. “I asked Ellie here tonight in hopes that we could mend some fences and move forward. We want there to be peace between our families, but I see now that you don’t care for that to happen.”
Not giving time for his momma to answer, he directed his gaze my way. “Ellie, I’m so sorry I brought you here.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Mrs. Jackson tsked. Was that her favorite question, or did she just like being rhetorical?
I immediately felt a weight lifted off me. Brady didn’t hate me. I smiled, relieved.
“You ready to go, darlin’?”
So ready.
“Yes.” I stood wanting to sprint out in my heels. But before I could break any speed records, I felt this strange pull to the other end of the table. Mr. Jackson sat there staring darkly at his wife, anger rolling off him, but he said nothing.
I found these words spilling out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Thank you for letting me play your piano.”
In slow motion, he turned his head toward me. A faint smile touched his lips. “Thank you. You remind me of a girl I once knew,” he said with such fondness it hurt.
I knew who he was talking about, and it broke my heart. I opened my mouth to ask him why he had left my aunt. She deserved answers after all these years, but before I could get the words out, Mrs. Jackson shrieked, “Isaac!”
Mr. Jackson’s chin fell to his chest, defeated.
Brady appeared at my side, took my hand, and led me out of the brittle, beautiful mansion that looked perfect on the outside, but inside it was anything but.
And as we fled, one thought echoed louder than the rest: We have a problem.