Page 27 of The Rules We Broke
“I like to draw, play soccer, and read. Your books are my favorite,” she sang, swinging her legs.
“Oh—and when I grow up, I’m going to work at Sonic. Then I can roller skate all day.”
I giggled. Her innocence was downright therapeutic.
“And I love my Uncle Brady because he’s the best uncleever,” she added with a spark in her eye—clearly rehearsed.
I glanced at Brady.
She may have been coached, but she wasn’t wrong. Despite everything, he had once been the best person I’d ever known. Which was probably why the hurt burrowed so deep. Making it so I’d never fully recovered.
While she shared her five-year-old résumé, I couldn’t help but notice what was missing—no mention of pageants. Which surprised me.
Surely, her momma and grandma had already started her training.
As we ate, I took in the scene before me—Caroline and Brady teasing each other, laughter bouncing off the walls like it hadn’t in a long time.
Brady was in rare form, delivering the cheesiest dad jokes like he’d stockpiled them just for her.
“What did one snowman say to the other?” he asked, handing Caroline a cinnamon stick. “Do you smell carrots?”
She giggled so hard she nearly dropped it. Which made me laugh.
That laugh . . . it felt like mine again. I’d missed it.
It reminded me Brady had been more than my boyfriend. He’d been the best friend I’d ever had.
And tonight—just for tonight—it felt like I had that back. Even if it was only for the evening.
We finished dinner and went straight back to work on the Auburn tree.
I let Caroline dominate the conversation—not just because I loved hearing her chatter, but because it kept Brady and me from talking. I could feel he wanted to. But really, what was there left to say?
We were each other’s past.
Once upon a time, I’d foolishly believed he could be my future. But this town, our families . . . they’d made sure that never happened.
The white tree in the family room came next. I saved my favorite—the drawing room tree—for last.
Before we could begin, Caroline conked out beside a half-unboxed ornament box.
It was late. Thankfully, Friday—not a school night.
I looked at her, curled up like a sugarplum angel, and found myself wishing for things I shouldn’t.
“You should probably take her home,” I said quietly, turning to Brady. “I can finish the last tree by myself.”
“Please, let me stay,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading.
I shrugged, too tired to argue.
I fetched a blanket for Caroline and tucked her in on the couch as Brady quietly stepped aside to call his brother. He said he’d keep her for the night but didn’t mention where he currently was or with whom.
Of course he didn’t. It felt as if we were still sneaking around.
Silently, we turned back to the drawing room. Carefully, reverently, we began to unwrap the delicate ornaments. Then came the lights—soft white strands that whispered across the branches.
Ten years of silence stretched between us. Ten years of emotion—too heavy to hold, too loud to speak.
