Page 16 of The Rules We Broke
I turned the water on and stepped under the spray, hoping the warmth would ease the tension gnawing at my shoulders. I wanted to relax. To forget the day. To stop thinking.
But the house had other plans.
Every corner pulled me backward. Even the vanity—glowing softly under the old sconces—brought Brady to mind.
How many nights had I sat there, curling my hair or applying mascara, waiting to see him? And how many times had fresh flowers waited there for me?
He’d never been allowed inside, but that hadn’t stopped him. The bouquets arrived like clockwork. Always with the sweetest notes tucked between the stems. Notes like,I love us enough for the both of us.
I was sorry I had ever believed that lie.
I stayed in the shower until my skin wrinkled, hoping the water could wash away the memories. When it couldn’t, I stepped out to find fresh towels and a silk robe waiting on the counter.
Doris had thought of everything. I’d forgotten how nice it was to have a housekeeper—the quiet kindness of being cared for in small, practical ways.
I sat down at the vanity and began my nightly beauty regimen, the one Aunt Lu had taught me years ago. Mask. Moisturize. Hydrate.
Her rituals were sacred. And over the decades, they’d served her well. I hoped her timeless genes had made their way into my own DNA.
Time would tell, I supposed.
After drying my hair, I climbed into my old bed and tried to settle in for the night. I was exhausted, but sleep didn’t want me.
An hour passed. Still restless, I gave up and clicked on the bedside lamp. I pulled out my phone. Checked email. Scrolled Instagram—mindless distractions to avoid what was tugging at me.
But I knew exactly what was bothering me. Across the room, the hope chest sat quietly. Unmoving. Taunting.
I’d sworn to myself, I wouldn’t open it—not tonight. But it was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t like I didn’t know what was inside. Well,mostly.
Eventually, I gave in.
I threw off the covers, sat cross-legged on the floor, and let out a long breath.
Then I lifted the lid.
The scent of cedar wrapped around me—soft and familiar, like days long gone.
My white cap and gown rested on top. But the gown looked crinkled. Hastily replaced, as if someone had been searching.
That was odd.
Gently, I set them aside, my fingers already reaching for what lay beneath.
Next was Brady’s letterman jacket. I lifted it slowly, brought it to my face.
It still faintly smelled like him—musky, masculine, familiar in ways that made my chest tighten. I slipped it on. It was still far too big. Still made me feel small.
Then came the game ball—state championship. His handwriting stretched across the leather in thick black ink:With all my love, Brady.
And then . . . the box.
The thing that taunted me most.
Small.
Burgundy.
Velvet.
