Page 96 of These White Lies
“You did more than try,” Elizabeth says. “I know your sister’s hurting, and I hate what she’s been through, but she’s strong. And she loves you. That says a lot.” Her voice is certain.
This is usually where I say something to make her laugh to alleviate the tension. It’s what I’ve always done. But my chest feels as if something has ripped it open, as if I cracked a door and I can’t close it again.
Elizabeth doesn’t look away. She doesn’t flinch or look at me with pity, mouthing platitudes. She just… accepts what I’ve said. It’s disorienting as hell.
27
ELIZABETH
By the time we turn onto the narrow road leading to my parents’ house, my pulse has finally slowed. Between that kiss, his words, and the way he let me in, I feel like I’ve been on the teacups at a theme park. My head is spinning. And now, faced with my own childhood issues, I’m not holding out much hope for my emotions regulating any time soon.
The house looks exactly the same. Two stories of white clapboard, black shutters, and a wraparound porch with four rocking chairs lined in pairs. Two ceiling fans turn lazily overhead providing little relief from the summer heat. The yard is a riot of blooms—zinnias, coneflowers, and black-eyed Susans. Even the beds along the driveway are trimmed to perfection.
Brady gives an appreciative hum as he shifts into park. “I might never leave.”
“Give it forty-eight hours. You’ll be dying for decent wi-fi and food delivery.” A nervous twist pulls at my stomach.
His eyes stay on the house. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s…”What should I say?“It’s a lot of flowers.”
It’s a lot. Period. The knot in my stomach pulls tighter.
“I noticed.” The corner of his mouth lifts.
“People drive in from Tennessee for my parents’ floral arrangements.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.” The ‘p’ makes a popping sound as I push my door open and step out. My nerves are already getting the best of me. Why can’t I just relax? Be normal.
“A family of high achievers then,” he observes, joining me at the front of the car. “That’s impressive.”
“Yeah.” When I don’t elaborate, he glances at me.
“The apple didn’t fall far then?”
“Nope.”
He takes my hand, pulling me to a stop as I start toward the porch. Tipping my chin up with one finger he forces me to meet his eyes. Brady might be the only person more stubborn than I am.
I heave an irritated sigh. “My parents raised me to be independent, to always reach for the next goal, and then acted surprised and offended when I stayed that way.”
The screen door opens, cutting the conversation short. My mother steps out onto the porch in white jeans and a pale blouse, lipstick the exact shade of her shoes. Her eyes lock on me.
“Beth.” She comes down the steps in a measured stride and wraps an arm around me, the gesture hovering somewhere between a hug and an awkward back-pat. I force myself not to stiffen. This is new. My mom isnota hugger.
Her fingers skim through my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “You look tired. Are you still working those long hours?”
“I’m fine.” Brady gives my hand a warning squeeze at the word, and I almost smile. “You look well and the garden is thriving.”
I don’t get a response because her attention has already moved past me to Brady. Her eyes skim over him in curious appraisal. “This must be your boyfriend. I didn’t realize you hadgotten serious with anyone.” She pauses pointedly. “I didn’t even know you had a social life at all.”
“Mom,” I warn.
“What? I’m just saying he must be important if you brought him here.”
Brady steps forward, one hand on my back and one hand extended to my mother. “Ma’am. Brady Worthington. It’s a pleasure.” He flashes one of his trademark, flirtatious smiles, obviously convinced he can charm my mother into making this visit painless. If only he knew—my mother is the passive-aggressive champion.
