He’s quiet for a moment, just watching me coolly, and I feel like I’m awaiting his verdict.
“You asked for casual, but I think we both know we left that behind a while ago.” His eyes dare me to disagree or argue, but I stay utterly silent.
My hope cracks under the weight of the moment. This is him letting me down easy, ripping off the Band-Aid slowly. Hypocrite, I think, knowing he said it was kinder to Reed in the long run to do it in one yank. Yet, here he is, pulling at my edges one tiny tear at a time. Maybe I don’t deserve the kinder, gentler version of Brody. I didn’t give him one of me.
“I’m not a fairy tale kind of guy,” he says carefully, his eyes not wavering, “not looking for some Disney happily ever after shit. But.”
I look up, not even realizing that my eyes had fallen to the floor. “But?”
“You’re the first person I think of when I wake up. You’re who I want to call at the end of the day to talk about the crazy shit that happens out here. You’re this whirlwind of epic power that I want to stand back and watch as you make your own path to wherever you’re going.” He lets that sink in, for both of us, I think, because when he speaks again, his voice is gruffer, like he’s choking the words out. “I want to tell you things and spend time with you—not casually, which is hard for me too. But only if you want that.” His brow lifts, and I realize he’s letting me set ground rules too. Because he sees me as an equal and doesn’t want to sway me. It means more than he’ll ever know, but all I can do is nod in agreement and smile as hope blooms inside me.
“Okay then. Let’s try this again. How about we start here? This is my house.” He spreads his arms out wide, his wingspan nearly touching the cabinets on either side of the kitchen. “I grew up here, learned how to make those pancakes you love so much right there at that stove,” he says, pointing to a white appliance that’s seen better days, “from my Mom. She was amazing, and I miss her every fucking day. Losing her changed everything.”
Shadows pass through his eyes, and I know there’s more there, and the urge to ask hits me so hard. But I have to let him tell me when he’s ready. He will. I have to trust that.
“Can we get out of here? Will you walk with me, let me show you the farm?”
I’m rocked, my heart leaping as I realize the enormity of his question. That he would even consider sharing this with me now is a sign of how forgiving he is, how invested in us he is. I’m equally and simultaneously scared shitless and excited beyond my wildest expectations.
“I would love to see it.” It’s the plain truth. I want to know what made this man who he is. My armor is thick. Reaching deep into my core and finding softness is a difficult and treacherous dig. For Brody, I think his hard exterior and cocky arrogance are only surface deep. The true core of him is something much softer. No, stickier. He’s a nurturer, a put-others-firster. But I doubt anyone ever gets that far, only seeing the asshole he portrays so well.
He steps over the dog, who’s gone back to sleep by the front door. “That’s Murphy, Brutal’s dog. ‘Bout the only thing he’s good for is cleaning up under the kitchen table when Cooper doesn’t like his vegetables.” He chuckles a little at that, and I remember his telling me about their cornhole tournament championship, which Cooper won, as expected.
I tell the soundly sleeping dog hello as we walk outside. In my mind, I promise him my vegetables too.
“Come on. Goats first. They’re always everyone’s favorite.”
We walk across the yard-slash-driveway area toward a metal barn. Brody pulls the door open and leads me through to a fenced-in pen. I almost immediately have to plant my feet so I’m not knocked down by the herd of animals swarming me. “Hi!” My voice is high-pitched, tight with excitement. “Holy shit! Cowboy, look!”
A black and brown spotted goat is trying to climb my leg, jump into my arms, and otherwise love me unconditionally. Or at least only conditional on petting her. I bend down a little, scratching behind her ears.
“That’s Baarbara. She’s mostly friendly, most of the time. Well, occasionally—NO! Don’t let her get your ponytail! She’ll chew the ends right off!”
I shake my head and feel a little tug as Baarbara loses her tasty snack. A twist of my ponytail puts my hair up into a bun at my nape and out of nibbling range. I hope. Brody moves close, fingering the ends of my hair in a move that feels ridiculously intimate. The air charges between us, and for a moment, I’m certain he’s going to kiss me.
“These are Shay’s goats. She uses their milk to make her soaps,” Brody says, cracking the tension and stepping away as another wave of attack-goats approaches. He goes on to tell me how she started small, selling at the farmers market where I met her the first time, and later, expanding into the operation she has now with a website, international shipping, resort orders, and specialty holiday scents. “She did the same thing with her canning and baking stuff. Started out with just smashed pumpkin puree in the fall, but now she has a rotation of items she makes each season. She’s always looking for new recipes and her, Brutal, and Bobby figure out what they can plant and when it’ll be ready so she can start advertising. She’s turned into quite the entrepreneur.”
The pride he feels at his sister’s success is obvious and vaguely parental. “I haven’t tried her soaps, but if they’re anything like the jelly or the cake I had, they’re amazing. I’ll definitely have to stock up at the next farmers market.”
Brody nods, humming under his breath. He does this sometimes when he’s thinking or figuring out how to say something. Every word out of his mouth is deliberate and intentional, nearly the opposite of my tendency to pop off. I breathe and let him speak when he’s ready without jumping in to start the conversation, whatever it is.
He picks up a small baby goat and my ovaries nearly explode. I have no desire for kids, not yet, anyway, but a hungover-vulnerable Brody gently holding a tiny animal, spindly legs dangling over his forearm, is about the cutest-slash-sexiest thing I’ve ever seen and instantly makes me think of Brody as a father. He’d be an excellent one—by all reports, he raised Shayanne pretty damn well.
Finally, he speaks low and slow, like he’s scared I’m going to go nuclear again. “Can I explain?” I nod, still not sure where he’s going but readying myself for just about anything. “Shay is why I said you should talk to your dad about racing.”
I open my mouth to argue, and he lifts one brow to glare at me from under his hat. Slowly, I shut my mouth for once. It’s harder than it should be.
“Thank you.” He acknowledges how hard that was for me. “We grew up happy, and Mom and Dad were good together. But when she died, Dad was gutted and never right again. I picked up the slack and took as much of his anger as I could, but he was . . .” He pauses, looking for the word. “Stuck, I guess? After that, Dad would never let Shay grow. He kept her small, though I don’t think he meant to. She was just a kid to him, to me, to all of us. She still is sometimes, though these days, she won’t let us forget that she’s not. But she’s just so damn good. I wish Dad had seen her succeed, not for his sake because fuck him, but for hers. For the longest time, she had a soft spot for Dad, and it would’ve meant the world to her to prove herself to him.” He’s quiet, scratching behind the goat’s ears and seemingly lost in the past.