Page 48 of The Rules We Broke
No answer.
She turned back to the television, utterly transfixed by Auburn’s playoff commentary. I’d never managed to love those Tigers the way she did. But football always had her full attention.
One more try. “What should I get them?” I asked, hopeful for a hint.
Still, she didn’t look at me. “I trust your judgment, Ella Lu.”
I wasn’t sure if she should. I wasn’t sure if I trusted my own judgment currently. The thoughts I was having about Brady were definitely not smart.
Then, out of nowhere: “War Eagle!” she hollered, practically fist-pumping at the screen.
It must’ve been something about a bowl game.
At that point, I was almost relieved to leave and change for dinner. The only concrete thing to come out of our chat? Her procedure was officially scheduled for ten a.m. the next day.
I rushed back to the house to change out of my dress.
As I swapped heels for flats, it hit me—I was either going shopping or driving back to Atlanta for a wardrobe rescue. I also needed to reschedule a few signings. My publisher was going to hate it. Oh, well. I’d just say I was being cajoled by a fine old dame who happened to be the living, breathing inspiration behind Aunt Calliope.
As I drove to dinner, I realized exactly where I was headed. Lakeside territory. Jackson territory. Brady had mentioned living out here now, too.
I rarely came out this way. Obviously, the Jacksons never invited me to their mansion for tea. The closest I ever got was the edge of their driveway—once, when Brady forgot his math homework. I remembered sitting in his truck, heart thudding,while he ran inside. I didn’t know what I expected to happen, but I knew one thing for sure: his parents hated me. Still did, apparently, based on the looks they gave me this morning.
I wished I knew the whole story. Why the hate? Mrs. Jackson got her man. What was it about me that made loving Brady such a threat?
Even Aunt Lu never fully explained it. I could tell she was confused by it, too. Just like I’d been confused by Brady running to Amber so fast. His explanation on Friday helped . . . sort of. But how could he have ever believed I would cheat on him? And for him not even to ask me if it was true. That hurt almost as much as his breaking up with me.
I needed to stop thinking about him. But Brady was making thatverydifficult.
Yes, it was just a kiss on the cheek. But it felt as sweet as it had ten years ago.And if I knew Brady, that was only his opening move.
I had to avoid him at all costs.
I passed the Jackson mansion in all its glory, gleaming like something straight off the cover ofSouthern Living. Where our house was classically Southern, theirs was contemporary Southern. Sleek. Curated. A place with imported tile and high-tech appliances, I was sure.
I’d always wanted to go inside. It was strange—never stepping foot into the home of the only person I’d ever truly loved. But that’s Kaysville. Complicated. Petty. Ridiculous.
I drove half a mile farther, then turned into the drive of Benjamin Jackson.
I wondered if Kendra liked living so close to her mother-in-law. If things had gone differently, I’d have had the same one—and I know for a fact I wouldn’t have lived this close.
Kendra and Benjamin’s home wasn’t as grand as the Jackson mansion, but it was undeniably beautiful. A two-story gray brickhouse with a sweeping porch lined with square columns, all tucked under a classic gabled roof.
Even in winter, the landscaping looked polished. But my favorite part was the pine trees scattered across the yard—perfectly imperfect and gloriously Christmassy.
As I walked up to the front door, it hit me—I should’ve offered to bring something. What, exactly? I didn’t know.
Domestic skills weren’t my strength. But I could shop, decorate, and wrap a gift like it was couture. I could still sing and play piano, too—though I rarely did anymore.
That thought reminded me: I should slip behind the keys of my old grand piano sometime soon. It had waited long enough.
I didn’t even make it to the door.
My favorite five-year-old swung it open and launched herself into my arms with a squeal. “She’s here, she’s here!”
Kendra and Benjamin appeared, warm smiles on their faces.
We all seemed a little nervous. It felt like we were making Kaysville history—maybe the first time an Eaton ever crossed the threshold of a Jackson home for dinner.
