Chapter 12
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My grandmother’s voice has me holding back a groan. The sound of her boots hitting the floor in quick succession would usually be enough to make me cower had Anna not been standing in front of me. I can just picture the smug grin she’d give me if she were to witness that.
Grandma reaches my side far too quickly and swats lightly at the back of my head when I remain silent. A beat later, she stares up at me expectantly. “Well? Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
I dare a look at Anna and find her watching me. Holding her stare, I say, “Grandma, this is Anna. Anna, this is my grandma, Eliza.”
At my knowledge of her name, Anna blinks in surprise before quickly grinning at my grandma. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Steele.”
“Mrs. Steele,” Grandma echoes, slapping my arm and returning Anna’s smile. “You have better manners than Brody.”
“That’s hurtful,” I mutter.
“It wouldn’t be if it weren’t true,” she sings.
Anna’s smirk is just as nerve grating as I knew it would be. “I don’t want to say I agree with you, but you might be onto something.”
“I blame how many hours he spent out in the barn with his grandfather and all those cows as a boy,” Grandma says.
“That’s right, I heard you were cattle ranchers! I’ve never actually seen a cow in person before,” Anna admits, confidence heavy in every line of her body. I hate the way I admire that about her.
From the way my grandmother is staring at her with hearts in her eyes, she’s obviously feeling the same way.
“You should stop by the ranch sometime. Brody can give you a proper tour,” Grandma offers, completely oblivious to my dislike of the woman she’s just met.
Anna looks at me, amusement making her eyes glitter. “That would be really nice of him. Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer sometime.”
“Great,” I say through my teeth.
“You’re new to town, right?” Grandma asks. Apparently, she’s either naive to my annoyance right now or just doesn’t care about it. Knowing her, it’s probably the latter. That woman never misses anything.
Anna tucks her hands into her jacket pocket and nods. “I’ve only been here for a couple weeks.”
“How are you liking it? Where are you from?”
“Let’s not give her an interrogation in the middle of the grocery store,” I interrupt.
Anna waves me off. “I don’t mind.”
I force a smile. “Great.”
“Stop being rude, Brody,” Grandma chastises me again.
I don’t think I’ve been given so much shit from her since I was a teenager.
“He’ll warm up to me,” Anna replies smoothly.
Grandma scowls at me while threatening, “If he doesn’t, you let me know.”
“Will do.” Anna smirks.
I use the break in conversation to lay a hand on my grandmother’s arm and say, “Are you done?”
“I suppose so. If we don’t hurry, I’m sure I’ll have a dozen hangry men to deal with come a couple hours.
” Offering Anna a soft smile, she tunes me out completely.
“It was lovely to meet you. Please take me up on the offer to come around sometime. It’s always nice to have another woman around the ranch from time to time. ”
Her casual words poke at the dormant ache in my chest, and it comes slithering out of hiding. My mood plummets further, memories I’ve forced into locked boxes pounding fists against my mind, begging to be set free. I push back, shutting them up again.
Anna’s looking at me again—I can feel the sear of her eyes on my face—but I stare at the toes of my boots.
I can’t seem to tangle a sentence together, so I don’t bother.
Instead, I turn and leave the aisle, my heartbeat pounding in my ears and blocking the sound of the two women telling each other goodbye.
A week later, I’ve had better luck avoiding Anna than I have my grandmother.
The ride home from the store was awkward, and despite how hard I tried to pretend what she said hadn’t brought back too many dark memories, she knew it did and, in typical style, wanted to dig deep into my feelings.
One firm no from me, and she dropped it.
We haven’t picked up the topic since, and I doubt we will anytime soon.
There are some things we Steele men don’t talk about. Not to each other and not to anyone else. Anything that hints at my mother’s death is and always will be one of them.
Clearing my throat, I focus on the doctor in front of me as he begins to pull the endoscope back out of my nose.
The numbing spray he used before shoving the fucking thing into my nostril and down my throat did its job, but the discomfort of pressure is still there.
I’ve had my vocal cords checked this way twice since the day following my last show, and both times were like this.
I’d love never to experience this again.
“You still don’t have any lesions, Brody. I’d say you’re healing quite well,” he says once he’s set the equipment off to the side.
Caleb speaks up from the chair beside me. “What exactly does ‘quite well’ mean?”
The best throat doctor in the province, who we drove nearly three hours this morning to see, peels his gloves off as he explains, “It means he’s on the road to recovery.
I don’t want to give a concrete timeline, but I’d say he has maybe a couple more weeks of rest before he should be able to at least attempt to sing again.
Speech therapy will come after in that case. ”
“So, until then, he just keeps doing what he’s doing?”
Dr. T nods, sitting on his rolling stool, eyes locked on my throat as if he’s trying to look inside of it. “Yes. No yelling or shouting. You can still carry on how you normally would, still speak in small amounts. Just don’t overdo it.”
Caleb shoots me a look. “That means keeping Rita out of Alberta.” Turning to the doctor, he adds, “She’s the reason the pain came back. Some bullshit about wanting to see where he was at by making him attempt to sing.”
Dr. T’s eyes bulge with alarm. “You sang? When was this? You absolutely cannot be doing that if you want to heal. Singing at any level right now, before you’ve fully healed, could ruin all the progress you’ve made, Brody.”
“There are some things I can’t say no to,” I rasp, pushing past the returning ache in my throat. Like the wedding I promised an old friend that I’d sing at in a little over two weeks from now.
Both men shake their heads at me, disappointment radiating off of them.
I should be ashamed, but I’m more pissed than anything.
Rita knows I shouldn’t have been pushing myself like that.
She works for me , not Swift Edge Records.
The order to test me came from Garrison Beckett, head of the record label that owns my soul, but Rita was the one who forced it on me when she knew she had no place to do so.
I shouldn’t have entertained the idea, but fuck if guilt didn’t play a huge part in my decision.
I screwed over a lot of deals and lost a lot of people money when I left Killian’s tour early. Giving Rita and Garrison what they wanted was my way of paying them back, I guess. It was stupid and reckless, but what’s done is done.
Garrison will never admit that he’s responsible for the unrelenting pressure he put on me before the tour and the after-effects of that pressure. The damage caused to my voice that we’re all lucky is reversible.
“Well, if you ever want to perform again, you’ll figure out a way to say no.”
I stiffen at the doctor’s tone but nod and say, “Alright.”
Caleb pats me on the back. “I’ll keep him on the straight and narrow, Doc. Our boy here will be healed up and ready to go again in no time.”
“Good. I’ll have the front desk schedule you a follow-up in two weeks. If things are looking good then, we’ll talk about next steps,” Dr. T says before standing and opening his office door.
Dismissed, I thank him before leaving. The receptionist avoids eye contact with me the entire time it takes her to book me a follow-up, and I somehow manage to hide my discomfort until we get outside.
Tapping my fingers on my thigh, I climb into Caleb’s truck and ignore the incessant urge to check my phone for any new messages. I’ve become glued to the damn thing this past week, every buzz making my stomach jolt.
Continuing to refer to my newest friend as Banana is a bit annoying now, but I haven’t gotten the nerve to ask for a real name. It seems too forward, too personal. But she has become my friend, and I guess that makes the personal thing a little more acceptable.
She’s become someone who listens to me complain about what went wrong during my day and tells me something ridiculous to make me forget about it.
I do the same for her, although I’m not nearly as good at coming up with replies as she is.
We haven’t asked each other many questions about our real lives, nothing specific that would give me any hint as to who she is outside of our conversations, but that hasn’t seemed to matter to either of us.
I’ve kept my conversations with her hidden from everyone so far, and I want to keep it like that for as long as I can. I’m not ashamed of speaking to her—that couldn’t be further from the truth. I just feel almost protective of her and our friendship. That’s acceptable . . . right?
I take the time alone in the truck to give in to my urge and check my phone. The awaiting texts settle something restless inside of me.
Banana: Do you have a hairy chest?
Banana: You know what, it doesn’t matter. I vote no.
Me: I wouldn’t consider it hairy. Why, are you into hairy chests?
Banana: No. I’m just watching TV and the medical examiner is about to perform an autopsy on a man who has a chest as hairy as a dog. It made me shudder. I like a bit of hair, but not this much.
The truck door opens, and Caleb slides in, so I stifle my laugh. I shoot off a quick reply before tucking my phone under my thigh.
Me: What show? I need to see this for myself.
I never watch TV. Never have time to. But for some reason, I’m suddenly very interested in whatever she’s talking about.
“You happy about the news?” Caleb asks.
I swallow before asking, “What?”
“Are you happy that you’re healing?”
“Yeah . . . why wouldn’t I be?”
He turns over the engine, and cold air starts to blow from the vents as it warms up. “You’re smiling. I assumed it was because you’re happy to know you’ll most likely sing again soon. Am I wrong?”
“Nope. You’re dead right,” I answer, my smile slowly fading as the real world starts to set back in. “I can’t wait to get back to work.”