Page 99 of The Rules We Broke
Why had he cheated on her? I wasn’t sure I would ever know. Maybe it was best if I didn’t find out.
My performance wasn’t perfect, but it was passable. When I sang my last note, Brady clapped like I’d given the performance of a lifetime. You had to love a guy like that. And I did. I had since I was a girl.
I knew what people say about young love: That it doesn’t last, and it’s naive. It was naive, but that was the beauty of it. It was pure, raw, and unafraid. It made you believe the impossible was possible. That was the kind of love Brady and I had. Although, I admitted to being afraid.
Afraid of sitting next to the man on the piano bench. Afraid of what he and his wife could do to Brady and me.
That fear had me wanting to leap off the bench, but then a cold, soft hand landed on my arm.
I whipped my head in Mr. Jackson’s direction. There was no judgment, no ire, just a deep sadness in his blue eyes.
“You sound like—” he croaked.
He didn’t get to finish his thought.
Mommy Dearest did not like the scene in front of her at all. She blew in like an F5 tornado, clenching her fists, with a face red enough that I swore she was going to breathe fire out of her nose at any moment.
If looks could kill, I would be dead on arrival.
I jumped off the bench and sought refuge in Brady’s waiting arms.
He wrapped me up tight. “Beautiful and talented. I’m the luckiest of men,” he whispered in my ear.
I think we both were trying to ignore the woman who bore him. To be honest, she scared me. In fact, I think she kind of scared Brady and Mr. Jackson, too.
“Dinner’s ready,” she announced sharp and flat.
Brady let go, took my hand, and led me toward the elegantly set table—each step uneasy, like walking across eggshells.
Behind us, Mr. Jackson slowly rose, cane in hand, each movement deliberate and strained.
Brady watched him, visibly torn—wanting to help, but knowing better.
I knew how hard it must be for him to see his father in such pain. Watching Aunt Lu in the hospital had been gut-wrenching.
Brady’s parents took their places at each end of the vast table—that I could only describe as twelve feet of gleaming wood and emotional distance. Brady and I were seated precisely at midpoint, directly across from one another. The message was clear: this was no cozy family dinner.
As we settled in, a sweet-faced young maid wheeled out a cart of food. I hadn’t known they had a maid—though I supposed, technically, Aunt Lu employed a housekeeper. Still, hers never wore a crisp uniform or served meals with white gloves and fan-folded napkins.
Mrs. Jackson glanced at me with pointed hauteur as if daring me to be impressed. I smiled politely. She sneered.
I looked at Brady, searching for my anchor and reminding myself why I was doing this. His eyes met mine—trying to reassure me—and warmth unfurled in my chest.
The maid, Annabelle, began pouring wine. I quietly turned my glass upside down and declined with a polite smile, not thinking anything of it. I never drank. My aunt watched my daddy kill himself with that stuff, and it had broken her heart. She ranked alcohol among the vilest of all vices.
Out of respect for me, Brady turned his glass over, too.
Mrs. Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “So, now you don’t drink?” she asked, lips pursed.
“Momma, you know I’ve never been one to drink much,” Brady replied calmly. “And I wouldn’t tonight anyway—I’m driving.”
His tone was light, but the silence that followed was anything but.
She glared at me like I’d created some kind of monster. Like the fact that her son didn’t want wine with dinner was a personalinsult. I wanted to say,I know—it’s awful. Your son’s refusing alcohol. Clearly, I’m evil and must be destroyed.
It was painfully obvious I would never please this woman. And, honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
As we sat there, my perception of Brady’s home life began to unravel. I’d always imagined he’d grown up like me—with adoring parents and a house wrapped in warmth.
