Page 70 of The Rules We Broke
She didn’t hesitate. “Well, that’s something you and that boy will have to figure out. You only need to decide one thing—whether he’s worth it.”
Chapter Twelve
Well,thatwasthemillion-dollar question. Was Brady Jackson worth it?
I had too many unanswered questions to know for sure. After last night, it felt like they were going to stay unanswered. I didn’t expect Brady to come around again.
And I had zero plans to chase him.
Aunt Lu and I spent the rest of the day bouncing around potential settings for my next book. Sydney, Tokyo, or Rio de Janeiro. Each had its own plotline whispering for attention.
She liked the Sydney idea best—said she could already picture the drama unfolding at the Opera House. I told her we could sketch out storyboards while she recovered. She liked that.
By evening, she was worn out, and truthfully, so was I. And one serving of cafeteria food had been more than enough for the day.
Doris had promised to leave something for me to warm up at home—saintly woman that she was. Note to self: I really needed to get a cook in Atlanta.
I said my goodbyes and headed home.
On the drive, Brady kept slipping into my thoughts. It still baffled me that Aunt Lu—the original enforcer of “Jackson boys are off-limits”—was now encouraging a second chance.
It was surreal.
I wasn’t ruling out a parallel universe. Or a coma.
And deep down, I wished she’d tell me the truth about the “information” she supposedly came across. But I knew better.
She’d reveal it when she was good and ready—or after whatever plan she’d stitched together either worked spectacularly… or fizzled completely.
I headed straight for the kitchen when I got home.
Something smelled heavenly.
There, waiting like a warm hug in a bowl, was a crockpot full of cheesy potato soup—next to a loaf of freshly made bread.
So maybe Kaysville wasn’t all bad.
I curled up with my meal, replying to all the emails I’d ignored during the day. The soup worked its magic, but afterward, the quiet crept in. That pity party I’d postponed was knocking.
I wandered into the music room.
I missed playing my grand piano. It didn’t fit in my Atlanta townhome—not physically, or emotionally. This room was its home.
I sifted through old sheet music. So many memories: recitals, endless hours of practice, dramatic speeches about finger cramps and unfair expectations.
Aunt Lu had always said I’d thank her someday. And, like always, she was right.
One particular piece made me pause.
I was pulled into memory—a warm spring night, junior year.
Brady had asked me to meet him down by the river, our favorite tucked-away spot. When I arrived, he’d transformed the back of his truck into something magical. A blow-up couch. His tablet balanced just so. Popcorn and drinks.
He looked so proud of it—his own workaround since we couldn’t visit each other’s homes.
Honestly? It was better.
We cuddled close under the stars, and he put on an old movie,The Man from Snowy River.
