Chapter 38
NIA
F lipping open the lid of the suitcase in front of me, I quickly run through the items inside to double check that everything which needs to be packed has been. Satisfied, I close the lid again, pulling the zipper before carting it to sit next to the front door.
“Thank you for this,” I tell my mom as Keith walks Katie out to their car.
With a pinch to my cheek, she tells me, “You never have to thank us for spending time with our grandbaby. We were worried we’d miss out on time with her, with everything going on.” Turning to look at the man she’s loved for the past twenty years, she smiles before facing me again. “It’s precious, and we’re thankful for it.”
I gratefully press a kiss to her cheek as I wrap her in a too-tight hug. “If I’m done before bedtime, I’ll pick her up on the way home.”
I was never that adventurous in my teen years; while all of my peers were sneaking their significant others into their houses right under their parents’ noses, I wasn’t. Now, however, it feels like I’m getting the chance to live that out.
As I watch my parents’ car disappear down the street, I hold my breath. They were here longer than I expected them to be and Brody could have pulled up at any moment; it would have felt exactly how I imagine it feels for a teenage girl to be caught with a boyfriend hiding in her closet.
Not unlike a teenage girl, I battle with a swarm of butterflies which come to life in my gut as I hurry to the hall bathroom to make sure that my hair is just right. I rarely curl it. I rarely put much effort into it at all, really, but I want to look my best if I’m meeting his family tonight.
“It’s one thing to leave your door unlocked as often as you do,” a deep, silky voice says as it carries through the house. “It’s another entirely to leave the door open. ”
I laugh with a shake of my head as I adjust the collar of my rolled-neck sweater, smoothing the fabric into place. With a quick swipe of lipstick to touch up, I step out of the bathroom and head down the hall to find Brody waiting for me in the living room.
He greets me with that same warm smile that he wore at our first meeting, and I melt over it all over again. As his eyes rake over my body, I find my hands moving to smooth the front of my sweater.
“Is this ‘Catholic mom approved?’” I ask him.
With a soft laugh, he pulls his hands from the pockets of his dark slacks, which are paired with a sleek brick-red dress shirt. Closing the distance between our bodies, his finger hooks beneath my chin, pulling my gaze upward to meet his eyes.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells me.
I let my eyes drift closed as he pulls me closer to him, pressing a gentle kiss to my lips that forces my hands to rest at his jaw. He makes me melt. He makes me feel strong. He makes me feel safe.
He makes me feel seen.
“You don’t have to do this tonight,” he tells me for what has to be the fifth time. “I would understand.”
My eyes drift toward the vase of flowers on the coffee table, a beautiful arrangement of orange roses and calla lilies that compliment the fall décor I’ve laid out in the house. A matching centerpiece sits on the dining table in place of the flowers we’d wrecked together.
I haven’t had to buy myself flowers since; Brody has kept them coming, never giving enough time between deliveries for the petals to start to wilt. He’s sent Katie flowers, too. Small bouquets to match her room – and always free of hydrangeas.
“Unless you’re ordering me not to go, I’m going,” I insist.
His parents’ house isn’t far from mine, maybe fifteen minutes, but it feels like entering another world as we pull onto their property. The driveway seems miles long and the building itself may be the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a mansion.
He’d prepared me for their excess, but I guess I hadn’t really absorbed it until now.
Five cars sit parked on the drive. Whether they belong to Brody’s parents or to guests for the evening, I’m not sure.
Brody brings his car to a stop behind a sleek black Cadillac sedan and as he reaches for the door handle, my heart makes itself known with a slam against my eardrum and a pulsing in my vision.
As he climbs out of the car and around to my door, he pulls it open and reaches for my chin, forcing eye contact from me.
“I want you to be yourself,” he tells me, lacing each word with authority, “and I don’t want you to worry about what they think or how they might feel about us seeing each other. That , sweet girl, is an order. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I nod.
“Yes who?”
“Yes, Sir,” I correct myself.
“Good answer,” he tells me with a quick but loving kiss to my lips.
We walk toward the house together hand in hand, his fingers interlaced with mine, and the heat of his body radiates through me. Daniel’s parents are the only other family I’ve ever had to meet. If Brody’s family doesn’t like me, I might start to think it’s a me problem.
But Brody likes me.
We’re met with the sound of conversation as soon as the door pushes open, accompanied by the incredible smell of what I assume is our dinner nearing completion.
A young man from some of the photos I’ve seen strides toward us wearing a wide, friendly grin as he wraps his arms around Brody, squeezing him tightly.
“Nia, this is my baby brother, Graham,” Brody tells me proudly. “Ham, this is Nia, the woman that I’m seeing.”
Warmth washes over me at his words, comforting me as if I’d been worried this whole time that whatever we are, we weren’t, and I’d somehow made the entire thing up. I barely have a second to open my mouth before his brother lights up with another megawatt grin.
“Oh wow,” he says, reaching forward to shake my hand, “I’m so happy to meet you.”
“I’ve heard so much about you,” I tell him. “All good things, of course.”
Without exchanging words, a conversation seems to pass between the two of them, and from the looks of it, I’ve already managed to earn his brother’s approval. I think he might be the family member that I was most hopeful about. He’s clearly important to Brody, and I’d rather not be on his bad side or risk him not liking me.
Edie’s familiar face is a comfort as we step further into the house, but the surprise that she wears as she looks between Brody and I is not. She quickly stuffs down her shock at my presence tonight, offering me a friendly greeting instead as she introduces me to her children, Clare and Colby.
Clare looks to be maybe thirteen or fourteen, and her brother seems to be in his ‘disinterested older teen’ phase, which would have me place him somewhere between sixteen and seventeen, if I had to guess.
The five of us are joined not more than a few minutes later by an older woman with silvering hair and a smart suit dress, trailed by a man who seems a few years her senior, unless time has been unkind to him. He’s wearing a dark dinner jacket and a look of disapproval as his eyes land on me.
“I wasn’t aware that we were expecting guests,” the older man says, angling his gaze toward Brody, who offers him a one-sided shrug.
“I texted.” His arm, wrapped around my shoulders, tightens. “This is Nia.”
“Molly,” I say with a smile as I stand to reach for the hand of the parent that he thinks he may still love sometimes, “it’s nice to meet you.”
I don’t miss the irritated clearing of her husband’s throat, or the proud twitch at the corner of Brody’s mouth as I glance toward him.
“Brody has told me all about you,” I tell the two of them as I move to shake his father’s hand with a plastered-on smile.
I was angry when he told me what they did to him, and I didn’t expect that I’d like them, but I’m surprised by just how badly I’d like to pull the pendulum clock from the wall behind them and use it to smash in their heads.
I could probably keep them alive afterward.
“Come,” Molly tells all of us, resting her hand on my elbow, “let’s not let dinner go cold.”
As she ushers all of us into the massive dining room, we’re met with a spread that could rival my family’s Thanksgiving meals. Glazed ham, crispy baked potatoes and a rainbow of sauteed and baked vegetables wait for us at the center of the large hardwood table.
Jefferson takes the seat at the head of the table, which doesn’t come as a shock to me and, according to everyone else’s lack of reaction, it seems to be the norm. I listen – only in mild discomfort – as each of them make the sign of the cross and bow their heads while Graham leads them in prayer.
In this quiet moment, I think about Katie sitting around this table, listening to grace. I wonder for a moment if she would feel pressured to do the same, surrounded by adults bowing their heads and praying to a God she’s never been taught about.
Then I look to Brody, who has kept his faith close to his heart and never loud and on display like it is here. Never once have I seen him pray, say grace, or otherwise make a statement about his faith. He doesn’t even wear the same gold crucifix that hangs around the neck of each of his family members.
I don’t believe that he would ever allow my daughter to be forced into something that she didn’t want or that didn’t feel right for her.
His hand drops to rest on my thigh as they finish their prayer, and Molly stands to dish out portions of food to everyone as their conversation kicks up. I listen about Brody’s niece and nephew and their schooling, Edie’s job as an elementary school teacher, and Graham’s studies as he works toward moving up in the church in the coming years.
I’m not sure what bothers me more: the fact that no one asks Brody about his job or his life, or the fact that he doesn’t seem to care that they aren’t asking.
Do they always push him aside like this?
“Nia,” Molly says, “what do you do?”
“I work in the ER as a nurse,” I tell her. “I usually work in the trauma bays.”
“You’re helping people,” Graham tells me with an approving smile. “That’s good work.”
“How did you come to be involved with my son?” Jefferson asks, cutting me off as I open my mouth to speak. Brody’s hand on my thigh tenses protectively as his gaze shoots in his father’s direction.
They don’t want to hear that I was his client. That we flirted and teased and desired each other for months. They don’t want to hear that he brought something to life inside of me that I’d never have known existed if not for him.
They don’t want the truth.
“Ah,” he says with a sigh when he decides that I’ve taken too long to answer him. “Adultery, then.”
“Don’t,” Brody warns, his other hand tightening around the fork that it’s holding. Tension and heat radiate off of his body.
“We’re happy to have you here,” Edie tells me, lifting her wine glass in my direction with a warm and inviting smile. “Hopefully this is just the first of many dinners you have with us. Right, Mother?”
“Yes,” Molly agrees with a nod, “absolutely.”
They’re both so prim and proper. Edie, the perfect suburban mother with the career that works to help the communities and families around her. Makeup always perfect and hair always neatly styled and well-maintained, likely under the care of a stylist she has regular appointments with.
Molly, the devoted housewife who’s given her husband however many beautiful children he’s asked for, who likely doesn’t question a word that comes out of his mouth. The mother who pretends to care about the well-being of her children, but worries more about their societal standing and the opinion of a God she’s never met.
Both of them using carefully-chosen words to calm a brewing storm.
Brody’s narrowed gaze hasn’t left his father’s. The two of them are locked into a silent battle with each other and the rest of us are sitting in the stands, just waiting for one of them to make the first move and open the floor for a bloodbath.
He wasn’t kidding; they really do hate each other.
I open my mouth to say something, barely able to get out one syllable before Jefferson loudly cuts me off. “ I think it’s—”
“Let her fucking speak, Dad!” Brody thunders across the table, his fork clattering angrily to his plate. “I don’t know what the hell makes you think that you’re the only person at this table who deserves some modicum of respect.”
Stunned silence surrounds us as everyone’s conversation stops, their eating stops; even Edie stops drinking her wine mid-sip. It’s quiet enough that I can hear my own heart beating, and the uncomfortable shuffling of Clare’s feet beneath the table.
I suppose I’m not the only one here who’s never heard him yell before.
Trailing my hand comfortingly from his elbow to his wrist, I tell him, “I was just gonna tell Edie thank you. It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t.” His fiery gaze moves to his father as he works to refill my wine glass, still speaking to me. “I won’t tolerate you being shown blatant disrespect.”
“I think we need dessert,” Graham announces after a few beats more of uncomfortable quiet. “I tested a new recipe for a raspberry soufflé I think you’ll all really enjoy.”
The shifted energy at the table struggles to return to any kind of normalcy as we each tuck into the desserts that Graham made, which are absolutely incredible.
Brody and his father continue to shoot looks at each other across the table, and I can’t stop myself wondering how they ended up here. There’s an obvious discomfort with his mother, but when it comes to his father, it’s a deep-seated, almost primal hatred.
It’s like watching two wild animals square up to fight each other and hoping that you don’t get caught in the crossfire when they finally make their move.
When we gather our things to leave and Molly wraps her arms around me in a tight hug, all I can do is wonder if this is how she hugged her son after dragging him into church and making him confess to a sin that she’d helped force him to commit.
It makes my stomach churn, but I pat her appreciatively on the back before stepping out of the front door, reaching for Brody’s hand.
My seat is already warmed when we climb into his SUV, the only sound in the cabin being that of his usual talk radio station sitting at a nearly-inaudible volume. After buckling his seat belt, he reaches forward to lower the car’s volume completely, shrouding us in silence.
He seems somehow both angry and deflated at the same time.
Does this happen every time he sees his family?
I struggled with the adjustment when my mom brought Keith home, and we got into a few fights that I would refer to as ‘big blows’ as a result, but whatever was at that dinner table with us tonight was something more.
It was deeper and so much more powerful than whatever harsh words my teenaged mouth hurled in my own home.
“Why do you still go to these dinners?” I finally ask as we turn the corner away from their street.
Brody heaves a sigh, rolling his knuckles over the steering wheel. “Because my brother needs me to,” he tells me. “One day, the rose-colored glasses that he sees our parents through will be forcibly removed from him, and if I’m not there to catch him when that happens, I won’t be able to live with myself.”
Reaching over to rest my hand on his thigh, I ask, “Did you happen to go to one of these dinners before you tried to push me away?”
His eyes flick toward me for a moment, studying me in a heartbeat before returning to the road ahead of him. “Yes,” he answers.
“Do you want to do a scene?”
“Absolutely not,” he tells me with a firm shake of his head. I almost shrink in my seat from embarrassment until he adds, “There is a measurable difference between putting my hands on you when we’re having fun and putting my hands on you when I’m angry.”
Hurt versus harm.
As his knuckles roll against the wheel again, a visible effort to quell whatever storm has kicked up inside of him, I’m reminded of one of our first trips to The Haven.
I’d asked him if I was safe with him. I haven’t doubted my safety in his presence since that moment, but if I had, that doubt would be extinguished right now.
I know that it would make him feel better; he knows that it would make him feel better.
And he said no, anyway.
“You have so much beige,” I laugh as I look at the array of clothing hung up in Brody’s closet.
Each piece is carefully arranged: tank tops to t-shirts, t-shirts to dress shirts, dress shirts to blazers, and onto suits from there. His pants are arranged in a similar fashion from sweatpants that I doubt he ever wears all the way to his nicest slacks.
“I like neutrals.” Reaching past me to pull a large t-shirt from its hanger, he says, “I’m sorry we got out of there so late.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him as I reach beneath my sweater to work it over my head. “She needs normal, and a sleepover with Grammy and Keith is normal for her.”
His gaze on me is palpable as I strip out of my ‘meet-the-family’ outfit and into the t-shirt waiting for me in his hand. I breathe in his scent clung to the fabric as it envelops me, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that I could feel his warmth in it, too.
I hold my sweater, my bra, and my skirt in a pile in my arms as he continues to pierce through me with those beautiful eyes of his, letting myself hold eye contact with him.
I’m not sure what’s happening between us, but as we hover in this moment, it feels significant.
I’m watching something shift for him in real time.
We’re standing on two sides of the same doorway, each of us with one foot extended to the other side. Maybe we’re both too afraid to fully cross over, or to even meet each other in the middle. There’s too much risk.
The door has been beaten to hell on both sides with all that we’ve each gone through. It couldn’t take anymore damage before it finally shattered and the space between us became immeasurable.
Brody is the one to cross over the threshold, stepping forward to cup my face in his hand as his eyes search mine. My grip tightens on the ball of fabric in my hands as his lips meet mine in a kiss slow and tender.
“I’d made up my mind,” he says as we part. His brow creases as his eyes search mine. “I knew for years that I was done . If I got sick again, that was it; I wasn’t going to put myself through treatment again. I wouldn’t be the guy going back and forth to the hospital, the one who lost his hair, or who was too weak to walk himself to the fucking bathroom.”
Sadness laces every one of his words; maybe fear, too. His eyes flit between mine as the weight of what he’s told me settles over both of us.
The world feels as if it’s stopped turning as I listen to him speak, but I don’t dare say anything. As badly as I think I might want to scream at him, as much as I think I might break into tears, I stay silent. I watch the muscle roll against his jaw as he considers his next words. I watch the subtle shaking of his head.
My heart feels like it might be breaking.
He’s telling me, in this moment and after everything, that he would choose to die if his cancer came back. He would choose death over the rest of a beautiful, full life.
“You…” He hesitates, letting out a breath before he continues. “…have made me question if that is still the right decision.”
“Of course it isn’t!” I finally shout, much more loudly than I intend to, as I throw my pile of clothing at his chest.
Brody blinks back the same surprise that I feel at my outburst as the sting of tears hits my eyes.
“You’re thirty-eight years old! You’re telling me that if you got sick again, you would be done living?” I demand. “This whole time, you’ve just kept in the back of your mind, ‘well, if I die, I die. It’s been fun?’ Medicine has come so —”
“Nia,” he says, his voice level and calm. He reaches for my face again, bringing my gaze up to his. “I’m not telling you this to upset you.”
“Of course it upsets me!” I shout again, my tears falling freely now. “I’m falling in love with you, and you’re telling me you would let yourself die.”
“I’m telling you,” he says, gently stroking his thumb across my cheek, “that I’ve reconsidered because of you. I’ve been thinking about how I would keep Katie from knowing what was happening. I’ve been thinking about the ways that I would be willing to suffer to have more time with you. It isn’t just you. I’ve fallen so hard for you, it’s given me fucking whiplash.”
My fingers thread through the dark hair lining his jaw as I sniff, unable to stop my tears from falling. The floodgates are opened, the dam has burst, and I am completely powerless to put any of the pieces back together.
Brody catches me as my arms snake around his neck and I jump, wrapping my legs around his waist. One hand supports me from beneath as the other cradles the back of my head, and I tuck my face into the crook of his neck as his cheek rests against my head.
I’ve never thought of him in any other light. Never anything other than the strong, smart, funny-even-though-he-isn’t-trying man that I’ve come to know and to love. I’ve never thought about him being vulnerable to attack; I’ve certainly never thought about how scared he must be all of the time.
That’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I work in a hospital, I’ve seen patients come in terrified that a rash that cropped up on their elbow was the return of skin cancer they’d had removed forty years ago.
I’ve seen recurrences devastate families in a matter of weeks, from an abnormal set of labs to picking out a casket in the blink of an eye.
I just never thought about the possibility of it being him .
“Don’t get sick again,” I beg him as I cry into his soft, warm skin. “I mean it, not even an ear infection.”
His body shakes, but I don’t think that it’s because he’s laughing, as his fingers massage into my hair and his lips meet the side of my head.
“Okay, sweet girl,” he says quietly. “I won’t.”