Page 98 of These White Lies
“Humph.” I rub at the headache forming between my eyes.
“You okay?”
“I’m not sure.” I tug open the dresser drawer out of habit, even though it’s empty, then shut it again. “I have no idea whatI’m supposed to say about Keith. Or us. Or how to hide the fact that I feel like I’m about to come out of my skin at any second.”
He closes the small distance of the room and pulls me against his chest.
“I don’t want to lie, but…” I inhale his scent, and my body relaxes like it’s my own personal aromatherapy. “I obviously can’t tell the truth. They’ll be scared, and worried.”
“Dodge. Change the subject. People love talking about themselves.”
I angle my face up, resting my chin on the solid wall of his chest. “I’m not you, Brady. I don’t have that… charm switch you flip on whenever you need it.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “You’ve got other tools.”
I narrow my eyes. “That sounds vaguely insulting. You could lie to me and say I’m charming, too.”
“I’ll never lie to you.” He dips his head to kiss me. “Charming you are not. But…” His massive arms tighten around me as I try to pull away. “You’re clever, and you listen. And even though you like to pretend you don’t… You care about people and don’t like to see them taken advantage of or hurt. I listened to you talk to a woman about her dog’s kidney meds, for fuck’s sake.”
“I don’t know why being here makes me feel like a little kid again. It’s so annoying.” I exhale, angry at myself for letting this situation get to me. “I can do this.”
“I know you can,” Brady assures me. “You aren’t alone in this. And if it starts to get too hard, I’ll flip my…” He grins. “What did you call it? My charm switch.”
“I’m going to regret saying that, aren’t I?” I grumble as I step back, missing his touch almost instantly.
He waggles his eyebrows at me. “Definitely.”
Too soon, we are headed back downstairs. I can already hear extra voices in the kitchen. As we pass through the doorwayjoining my family in the kitchen, his hand catches mine, entwining our fingers.
“Relax,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. “We’ve got this.”
We.
But despite Brady’s optimism, something tells me the next few hours are going to test every fake-it-till-you-make-it skill I’ve got.
28
BRADY
Elizabeth wasn’t kidding about the chaos. Or the tension with her family.
An hour into the cookout, and the yard is packed. From every corner, there’s chatter, bursts of laughter, and the shouts of the kids weaving between tables. They appear to be playing some sort of game that is half-race, half-soccer, as they chase a giant ball bouncing ahead of them.
Her family’s been polite enough to me. But the difference in how they talk to her is hard to miss—awkward pauses and a forced cheerful tone when it’s clear they don’t mean it—and it’s starting to really piss me off.
I know Elizabeth feels it, too. She is quieter and shrinking smaller with each interaction.
I don’t get it, and as the minutes tick by, the angrier I get—and the harder it is to pretend that I’m not.
“How did the two of you meet?” Someone asks. We are sitting at a long picnic table with several of her family members, with a few more gathered nearby, listening to the conversation.
Elizabeth stiffens next to me.
“At a party, a few years ago,” I keep my voice even. “Unfortunately, I didn’t get Elizabeth’s number, but a mutual friend recently reconnected us.”
“Well, I’m glad they did,” Jean says with a sunny smile. “Beth hasn’t brought anyone home since—well, in a long time.” My jaw tightens. Her mother has made this point several times throughout the afternoon. “Not that she’s been home in a long time either…”
Elizabeth doesn’t look up from the solo cup of wine in her hand. “Mom.”
