This isn’t going to work. Braden has to leave. How am I supposed to figure myself out when all my body does is respond to him? He’s not even touching me, and still I want him. Still my body cries out for him.
I cry out for him.
I finish my pie, still not tasting it. I help my mother clear the table, and when everything’s in the kitchen, she turns to me.
“Go have fun with your friend,” she says. “I’ll take care of this.”
I nod.
Fun with your friend.
If she only knew.
Chapter Twelve
When I return to the dining room, Braden and my father are walking out.
“Where are you staying?” my father asks.
“The hotel in town,” he says, grabbing his phone. “I’ll call a cab.”
“Don’t be silly.” Dad smiles. “You can stay here. We have the room.”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to put you out.”
“If you insist,” Dad says, “but you don’t need a cab. Skye can drive you.”
Both of them glance at me.
“Uh…yeah, sure. I’ll drive you.”
If Dad knew what my body was doing at the mention of driving Braden to a hotel, he’d take back his words.
“Thank you, Skye,” Braden says. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Keys are on the hook,” Dad says.
Our days of only one car were over by the time I hit high school. Dad and Mom each have a car now, and then of course there’s Dad’s pickup, but I never counted that.
But those are the keys that are on the hook.
“I’ll see if I can take Mom’s car,” I say. “I don’t like driving the truck.”
“Suit yourself. My car’s in the shop for a tune-up.” Dad holds out his hand. “Great to meet you, Braden. I hope we’ll see you again.”
“I hope so, too.” Braden shakes my father’s hand and then turns to me. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I head to the kitchen to get the keys to Mom’s hatchback. Has Braden ever ridden in a hatchback?
Maybe. When he was a kid.
I suck in a breath and jingle the keys. “Ready?”
“I am. Thank you again for dinner,” he says to Dad, “and please tell your wife thank you as well.”
“I absolutely will. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Sir? I’ve never heard Braden refer to anyone as sir.
Interesting.
We walk out, and I lead him to Mom’s light blue hatch. “No luggage?”
“I dropped everything off at the hotel and took a cab here.”
“Not a limo?” I can’t help asking.
He doesn’t respond, and I don’t blame him. I’m being a brat, and I know it.
I unlock the car and get into the driver’s side. Braden slides in beside me, his long legs scrunched up. He fiddles with the knobs on the side of his chair until it slides back into a more comfortable position.
“Since we only have one hotel in the tiny downtown area of Liberty, I assume you’re staying there.”
“You assume correctly.”
I start the engine and pull out of the long driveway. It’s a twenty-minute drive into town. “Why didn’t you rent a car?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to get here. I’ll rent one tomorrow.”
I nod.
“Tell me something about your childhood,” he says.
“Is this a two-way street?” I ask.
“Sure. You tell me something, and I’ll tell you something. Except I get to choose what I tell you.”
“Is it a two-way street?” I ask again.
“Sure. You choose what to tell me. I know about the cornfield. You know about my trips to the food pantry. That’s all we know about each other’s childhoods.”
“Fair enough.” I clear my throat. “My mom used to make my clothes when I was little. I never wore anything store-bought until I was in high school.”
“I see.”
“Now, you go.”
“I did get to wear store-bought clothes,” he says, “but they were never new. We got them from thrift stores, and when I grew out of them, Ben wore them. He got the shorter end of the stick. While they were never brand-new, at least they were new to me.”
My heart wells up. I never wore anything used. My clothes may have been hand-sewn, but they were always new.
“Your turn,” he says.
“I… I did well in school.”
“I assume that. Dig deeper, Skye.”
“That’s deep. I was one of the brainy kids. The brainy kid in handmade clothes.” I’m not being fair. A lot of the kids I grew up with wore handsewn clothes. It’s a rural thing. It wasn’t a big deal, and I was never bullied for it.
“Skye—”
“Your turn.”
“Fine.” He draws in a breath. “My father drank. A lot.”
I raise my eyebrows. “He did? He seems fine now.”
“He’s a recovering alcoholic. Did you notice he didn’t drink that night at dinner?”
“No, I didn’t.” Because I was more concerned with making a good impression on Bobby and Ben and watching Kathy.
“Your turn,” he says.
“Wait, wait, wait… You can’t just throw that one out there and then say it’s my turn. You need to elaborate.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. My parents aren’t alcoholics. They’ve been pretty happily married since…”
“Since when?”
A lump forms in my stomach. I never think about that awful time. I’ve put it in the past. But maybe…just maybe… Braden threw out something and then didn’t explain it. I could easily do the same, but I came home for a reason. To figure things out.
And maybe what I’m about to say is part of the key.
“When I was little, about seven or eight, my father went away for a while right before harvest. My mother spent a lot of time crying, and I spent a lot of time trying to get her attention. He came back around Christmastime. Mom stopped crying then, but things were weird for a while.”