Chapter 49
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The loudest silence of my life started when her beat-to-hell duffel bag hit the gravel.
I'd had pained silences before. Sittin' next to my dad's hospital bed in those last weeks when there wasn't a damn thing left to do or say.
The moment after I told Sassy I couldn't marry her and she looked at me like I had three heads.
The two-beat nothin' after Calvin told me about Wyatt, when I was standin' behind her in the shower and had to decide what kinda man I was gonna be.
None of 'em came close.
The driveway was quiet as a graveyard. Even the cicadas had the good sense to keep their mouths shut. Somewhere behind me I was aware of my mama and Rhett not movin', not breathin', like two people tryin' not to exist in the periphery of somethin' they knew wasn't theirs.
Calvin didn't turn.
She just stood there, one hand still on the frame of the open driver's door, starin' into the cab of her own truck like maybe if she looked long enough, the response she was lookin' for was gonna climb up outta the steering wheel.
I took her in.
All I could see was her profile—the slope of her nose, the set of her jaw, the dark waves of her hair where it curled at her ear. Her throat moved on a swallow, but she didn't make a peep.
So I watched her breathe.
Reckoned I could look at her forever.
That was the whole of it. That was the bone-deep feeling I'd been reelin' in for weeks. I'd never get tired of her forked tongue, her quick wit, her shit-stirrin'. But more than that, I knew she needed me the same way I needed her—forever.
Bein' a boyfriend wasn't new. But bein' the one man a woman needed? It was everything. Filled me up with a warm, happy feelin' in the pit of my stomach that I was never lettin' go of.
Unless she ran.
But fuck, I hoped she chose forever instead of livin' one tomorrow at a time.
Her chin lifted a quarter-inch.
Then finally—finally—she turned her head and looked at me.
Bottom lip tremblin', eyes glassy. Glassy, but fixed on mine—not dartin' around lookin' for an exit.
My breath lodged someplace in the back of my throat as I waited.
Then she turned and faced me fully with a simple, "Okay."
The word was quiet but strong, said with conviction.
I exhaled and my shoulders dropped from my ears.
"Okay."
I held her eyes for another second. Then, with my back still to 'em, I lifted the hand that wasn't holdin' me up and waved it once—lazy, half-hearted—at my mom and Rhett. An over-the-shoulder go on, now. Didn't turn to check whether they got it. Didn't give a shit.
Calvin was stayin'.
I stepped forward and bent to pick up her bag.
"What the hell do you think you're doin'?"
I froze bent at the waist, hand stretched toward the strap, spine doin' something it was not currently in the mood to do. I peeked up, and Calvin's glare rooted me in place like she'd nailed my boots to the earth.
"You just got thrown off a goddamn horse, Brody Lancaster, and you have a limp."
Behind me, my mother laughed. The bright, startled kind.
"Well," she called out, sunny as a Sunday mornin'. "Looks like things'll be just fine around here. Rhett, honey, let me drive you home."
I didn't turn. Just kept my eyes on Calvin while she stepped forward and grabbed the strap of the duffel herself. I straightened up slow—slower than I meant to—and the wince got away from me before I could catch it.
She caught it, and pressed her lips into a line.
She shut the truck door.
A little hip-check to get it flush with the frame, that particular habit of hers I'd noticed in the first week she lived on the ranch and filed away as a thing I loved without yet knowin' I was filin' anythin' at all.
"Let's go," she said.
I followed her.
Right up the walk, boots crunchin' behind hers, and I didn't even need to think about it. Just went where she went.
Didn't need a dog after all.
Turned out I was one.
TBH, I was fine with it.
Calvin pushed the back door open and stepped inside.
A small, offended meow from the kitchen floor.
Calvin dropped the duffel right there in the living room and bent, scoopin' Cat up against her chest in one smooth motion like she'd been doin' it her whole damn life.
Cat went boneless in her hands the way Cat did, head tucked under Calvin's chin.
Calvin pressed her face into Cat's black fur and whispered somethin' I guessed she hadn't intended on me hearin'.
"I'm sorry." She gave Cat a quick peck on the top of her head. "I love you."
I kept my face real still and my eyes on the far wall.
Didn't say nothin'.
Didn't need to intrude on their moment. No clue what Calvin had to apologize for—maybe tryin' to skedaddle and leavin' her behind. Either way, Cat knew Calvin loved her. She told me every day when we made biscuits together. Cat would say, I love my mama and I'd say, me too, kitty Cat.
The one and only time Calvin had walked into the room during our father-daughter chat had taken years off my life, fearin' she'd overheard.
Calvin lifted her head after a moment. Didn't look at me. Just shifted Cat into the crook of one elbow, picked up the duffel with the other hand, and started for the stairs.
I followed, per usual.
The stairs were a special kinda hell for a man fresh outta the ER. Every step sent a fresh bolt of fuck you through my hip and up into my shoulder, and I gripped the bannister harder than a grown man oughta have to.
Halfway up, she glanced back.
"You good?"
"I'm good."
"Brody."
"I'm good, viper."
She watched me a beat longer. Then turned around and kept climbing, slower now than she'd been takin' 'em before.
At the top, she turned for the bedroom, tossed the duffel in the closet without breakin' stride, and headed straight for the bathroom.
Followed her in there, too, like she had me tethered to her with some sort of invisible leash.
Wrapped around my balls.
The clawfoot tub had been collectin' our dirty clothes for a week. Calvin bent, gathered the whole pile in one armful while balancin' Cat in the other, and dumped it on the bathroom floor next to the tub.
Then she set Cat down right in the middle of it.
Cat blinked once, circled, and flopped into the clothes like she'd been waitin' her whole short life for such a throne.
Not the cat bed I'd bought. Not the blanket I'd folded up for her in the corner of the bedroom. A pile of dirty laundry on the bathroom floor.
Calvin turned to the tub and twisted the hot tap. The old pipes groaned to life and water started runnin', steam curlin' up into the late evening light comin' through the window.
Then she turned to me.
She didn't say anything. Just came up close, reached for the hem of my shirt, and started peelin' it up.
I raised my good arm. Let her.
The fabric dragged over the shoulder that wasn't workin' right and I hissed through my teeth. She paused, adjusted, worked it gentler. Got it up and over my head and dropped it on the floor in Cat's heap. No, not in Cat's heap—on Cat. She didn't so much as flinch.
Calvin went for my belt next.
Her fingers were steady. No flirtation in it. Just a woman takin' care of a man whose body had been through the wringer, and doin' it the same way she mucked stalls—methodical, thorough, no fuss.
She got me outta the jeans, the boots, the socks, the boxers, and when I was standin' there bare-ass naked in my own bathroom with a butterfly bandage at my hairline and a purple bruise blooming up my whole left side, she didn't comment.
Just nodded at the tub.
"In."
I went.
The water was hot enough to make me hiss a second time as I lowered myself in, good arm bracing on the lip of the tub, and I let it take my weight. Every muscle I owned groaned its gratitude. My head dropped back against the curved edge of the tub, and I closed my eyes.
A moment later I heard her movin' again.
The rustle of denim.
The soft swish of a shirt comin' off.
"Scoot up," she said.
I opened my eyes.
She was standin' at the side of the tub in nothin' at all, hair pushed back from her face, and she was lookin' at me with an expression that was part command, part somethin' softer I wasn't gonna name out loud.
I scooted 'til my knees were juttin' out from the water, bent at an acute angle.
She climbed in behind me—gingerly, one hand on the tub for balance, her toes then her knees brushin' my waist as she did her level best to situate us in a position that was best set reversed.
My energy was zapped, so I leaned my weight back against her.
The soft fullness of her tits cushioned my back and I rested my head against her collarbone.
It shoulda been uncomfortable being sardined in the tub together.
But her skin was on my skin, and we both exhaled, a long slow breath in unison.
Her hands came around.
One to my chest, flat over my heart.
She reached for the washcloth she'd set on the ledge with the other.
Didn't scrub. Just dragged the warm, soapy cloth slow over my shoulders, gently down my arms—bein' extra careful around the bad one. Across my chest. Over the bruise that spread from hip to ribs on my side—featherlight there, the barest touch.
She washed my hair next. Fingers in the scruff of it, workin' the shampoo in slow circles, nails draggin' just deep enough to scratch.
I was close to purrin' by the time she rinsed it.
She ditched the washcloth and settled back against the tub with me against her chest. Wrapped both arms around me and held on.
Her chin rested on the top of my head.
We sat like that for a long time before she broke the silence.
"Thank you," she said.
She paused for a beat.
"For loving me."
I kept my eyes closed.
Smiled a smile so big I wouldn't have been surprised if she could see it from behind me.
Or from the moon, for that matter.
"Easiest thing I've ever done."
Some other insecure, douche canoe might have taken a thank you as an I don't love you back. But from Calvin? It was as good as any declaration.
I didn't need the words.
I knew because she stayed.