Page 4 of The Rules We Broke
He stood taller, his confidence gaining as if he were ready for this question. “Well, Miss Ellie, I was hoping to get to know you better.”
I stopped twirling my hair and took a step back. “You know we can’t.”
He stepped closer. “Why?”
“Because, BradyJackson. You know the rules as well as I do.”
I turned to leave, but he caught my hand.
“Aren’t you tired of the rules?” he asked almost like a plea.
I thought about it, and if I was honest with myself, the answer was yes. But I loved Aunt Lu and couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her. As I looked down at our entwined hands, a sensation like nothing I had ever felt before washed over me. It was the first time a boy had ever held my hand. Somehow, it felt like it belonged there. Like it always belonged there.
How could that be?
I wondered if he felt the same way, seeing as he didn’t seem in any hurry to let go.
I should have pulled away, but I didn’t.
“Please, Miss Ellie, meet me by the old tire swing on the river tomorrow,” he pleaded with every ounce of charm he possessed.
And that was it.
That was when I began my life as a rule breaker and a deceitful, awful girl.
We snuck around that entire summer. We mostly met at the river, and we dove right into the current of forbidden friendship. I was easily swept away. We spent hours swinging on that old tire swing, talking, laughing, and dreaming big.
We swore we’d change the town—erase the line between Eatons and Jacksons. No more sides. No more rules.
As our lazy summer days on the river waned, our friendship waxed, impossible to ignore. And I didn’t want to.
The day before school started, we met one last time, lamenting our last day of freedom and plotting how we could see each other during the school year without getting caught. We knew it wouldn’t be easy. He’d be knee-deep in football practice, and I would be involved in drama, choir, debate team, studentgovernment, and every AP class I could take. It was my dream to be the valedictorian when we graduated.
Above all, we knew we had to be discreet. No one could ever see us together. We had already had a couple of close calls during the summer, but it had been the best summer of my life, and I was sad to see it end. I was becoming very fond of Brady Jackson. Too fond.
While we plotted and planned, Brady pushed me on the swing, like he’d done all summer. But suddenly he stopped, one hand gripping the rope, the other resting lightly on my waist. He stared at me—silent, steady—for several long seconds.
“What?” I asked, suddenly shy.
He leaned in, close enough that I could smell the sunshine on his skin. “Miss Ellie,” he said in a slow drawl, “I’ve wanted to do this all summer.”
Then, without warning, he pecked me quickly on the lips. It was sweet, like honeydew melon. That became the first of many stolen kisses, and each kiss only grew sweeter.
Sophomore year began, and we became quiet masters of deception. I knew it wasn’t something to be proud of. But as my feelings for Brady grew stronger, I tucked the guilt away in a corner of my heart—somewhere I didn’t have to look too closely.
We slipped notes into each other’s hands during passing periods and met behind the bleachers whenever we could. He’d kiss me until I forgot I was an Eaton and he was a Jackson.
Sometimes, under the cover of night, we’d sneak off to the banks of the Kaysville River. I would lie in his arms for hours, and we’d talk about everything and nothing. Brady would beg me to make our relationship public. He wanted everyone to know I was his girl. He hated that he couldn’t take me on real dates, especially to the school dances. I wanted that too, but I couldn’t hurt my Aunt Lu, and I knew the firestorm it would cause in Kaysville if anyone found out about us.
People had already started to whisper.
They wondered why two of the most popular kids in school didn’t take or accept dates to homecoming, prom, or the winter cotillion. We went to every dance—just never together. We couldn’t.
But after each one, Brady would meet me down by the riverbank. He’d turn up the stereo in his new red Ford F-150—his sixteenth birthday gift—and we’d dance in the wash of headlights, wrapped in the night and each other.
After prom, George Strait played low through the speakers, his voice soft and sure. We swayed slowly in the warm dark, the air thick with honeysuckle.
Between songs, Brady stilled and peered into my gray eyes. Everything around us disappeared.
