On one end of the room a rustic-looking desk overflows with mail and manila folders. Cal was good with numbers. Not so good with organization.
“Somewhere underneath that mess, you’ll find Cal’s laptop.” Brady glances around, and I point to the flat screen TV that’s mounted above the book shelf. “The PlayStation is hooked up if you want to chill.” He raises an eyebrow, and I smile. “I know how guys are. Wanting to sit around in your underwear and scratch yourselves while you play Call of Duty.”
He laughs, looking a little sheepish.
I head into the hall to grab a few blankets and pillows out of the closet and return to find Brady studying a framed photo on the wall. After a minute I allow myself to look too, but the second I do, I wish I hadn’t.
My arms tighten around the bedding as I take in Mel and Cal, who are grinning at the camera like two fools while they hold Bella. Something deep in my heart aches at the sight.
He clears his throat. “So they were happy?”
The words rush out of me. “Yes. Very. They were so in love. Sometimes, when they looked at each other, it was like no one else existed. Which was great for them.” I wrinkle my nose. “Awkward for everyone else.”
When I look up, he’s smiling, but then he rubs the back of his neck and his lips press tight. “I hate to bring this up again, but do you have any idea why my mom thought Izzy was with her parents that night? I distinctly remember her saying ‘we lost the baby too,’ and I just don’t know how she got so confused.”
I think about that night, really think about it, and all at once, I realize my mistake. Heat stings my eyes, and I blink it back. “I… It’s my fault. I’m so sorry. I can see how she misunderstood what I was saying.” I pause, trying to find the words. “Mel was… Mel was pregnant.”
His eyes clench shut, and I fight to keep my emotions under control.
His silence unravels me more, and I rush to explain. “I was so upset that night. I just… I wasn’t thinking. Sheriff Tate called your mom for consent for Bella to stay here. Then he told me to call too. Honestly, it probably wasn’t the best time for me to talk to anyone.” I take a deep breath, remembering flashes from that night.
“You did the best you could.” His voice is soft and surprisingly gentle. “She must have been in shock.” He lets out a weary sigh. “You know, after those calls, my dad had a heart attack, and she rushed him to the hospital.”
“Oh, God.”
“I mean, she told me she spoke to the sheriff, but clearly she couldn’t grasp everything.”
“I’m sorry, though. I shouldn’t have unloaded so much on her. I swear I didn’t mean to traumatize her.”
His eyes pass over me. “Don’t blame yourself. It was a fucked-up night. I know none of this is your fault.”
Hearing those words is like a punch to my chest, and suddenly I can’t breathe. God, am I hyperventilating? Dropping the bedding, I cover my eyes with my hands, too horrified to tell him the truth. He’s going to hate you.
A strangled sound breaks from my lips. It sounds foreign, like it’s coming from someone else, but my shoulders are shaking, and I can’t catch my breath.
Before I know what’s happening, he’s wrapped me in a hug, and for the second time tonight, I melt into his arms. They’re strong and warm and so comforting.
All at once my lungs fill. I take long pulls of air against his t-shirt. His smells faintly of cologne and detergent and warm male, and when I shudder, his hold tightens.
He whispers into my hair, “It’ll be okay, Katherine. I got you.”
Closing my eyes, I ignore that inner voice that’s screaming at me to stop being such a wuss, to man up and tell him the rest, but I can’t get anything past the boulder in my throat.
A few moments go by, and I can’t let this poor guy deal with my pathetic ass any longer. I put my hands on his waist to push away, but…
Holy six-pack.
I should pull my hands back, but I can’t. Maybe the oxygen deprivation warped my brain because my head is screaming to let go, but my fingers have a mind of their own… and they start to squeeze the taut muscle. He stills and then inches away. Oh, God. What am I doing? I’m about to run and hide under the front porch when he laughs.
I tilt my head up, way up because he towers over me. He looks embarrassed. And then I laugh.
“Are you… are you ticklish?”
He schools his features. “Nah.” Shrugging, he glances away.
“Haha. Sons of Anarchy is ticklish.”
His head rears back. “What’d you call me?”
I let out a weak laugh, hoping he’s not offended, and I mumble it again.
“Katherine,” he deadpans.