Page 32 of New Hope, Old Grudges

But all was not as it seemed. I knew that firsthand.

“My mom died giving birth to me. Therefore, it was my fault.”

I opened my mouth. Shut it again. There was so much sadness in his voice. A mature kind of sadness, that had been planted, taken root then grown big over the years.

“That is insane,” I said finally. “You were a baby. Your life has nothing to do with her death.”

I didn’t know why I was comforting him, all I knew was I had an overwhelming urge to take his pain away and kick his dad in the shins, even though he was in his sixties.

Brody shrugged. “That’s not why I’m telling you that. I’m letting you know why I was a piece of shit back then. Even though the reasons don’t matter much when plenty of people had it worse, yet they managed to turn into much better people.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I pursed my lips. I didn’t like remembering that period of my life. Didn’t like that I was beginning to understand Brody, to forgive him. I didn’t know who I was without my grudges.

He looked like he was going to push it, but then he nodded once. “What do you want to talk about, then?”

I motioned to the dead TV. “I don’t want to talk. I want to watch the movie.”

When he didn’t turn it on or say anything, I forced myself to look at him. Brody’s eyes were electric. My fingertips tingled as I took a small sip of wine. “You wanna come get the remote?” he invited playfully.

Holy. Shit.

Hello, ovaries.

I was getting whiplash from all of the different sides of Brody I was seeing all in one night. There was the heroic sheriff. The concerned man. The caregiver. The cook. The dog dad. The tortured soul. And now this, the sexually playful mountain man.

It was all too much.

“Fine, we’ll talk,” I groaned, leaning forward to refill my wine glass. I felt Brody’s eyes on me the entire time, and my upper lip started sweating.

I leaned back on the comfortable couch, suddenly very aware of my lack of bra and my aching nipples.

“What do you want to talk about?” I asked after a silence that was too long and too loaded with sexual tension.

“How about where you’ve been for the past eighteen years.”

“I’m sure you know my Dad is—was— a blacksmith,” I corrected, having trouble thinking about my father in the past tense. A hole inside of me throbbed at the reality of my father only existing in the past, in memories I hadn’t known I needed to treasure, keep safe so they didn’t become fuzzy at the edges like they were now.

“Yeah, I know,” Brody grinned. “All of my horse’s shoes were made by him.”

I didn’t know what surprised me more—that Brody had horses or that my father had shod them. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for people to have horses here, so I didn’t know why I was surprised. And if people had horses around here, their shoes were made by my father.

“Your father was a great man,” he added.

My spine prickled with discomfort. Brody had known my father as an adult, had liked him. Again, that was not uncommon. My father was a well-liked man. It was almost impossible to dislike him. He was patient, kind, easy to laugh, and lent a hand to anyone who needed it. Whether they deserved it or not.

Of course, my father hadn’t known that Brody was one of my high school tormentors. My father hadn’t known I’d been tormented.

And if he had found out later that Brody had been bad to me in school, it wouldn’t have affected how he treated him in adulthood. My father was a forgiving man, believed people could change.

I hated that Brody had known him, known him well enough to smile with familiarity and grief when speaking about him.

My father was mine. And this man did not deserve to know him, did not deserve any kind of fond memories.

Easy now, Tittlemouse, my father’s voice said in my ear as I felt anger crawl up my throat like lava.

I studied the contents of my wine glass, forcing myself to take a calming breath. I was stuck here with Brody, and I’d already gotten plenty mad about our past. There was no sense in also getting angry that he knew and liked my father.

We both had to survive being here without any blow ups. Although surviving didn’t mean I had to tell him about my past, most especially what landed me here, but what else was there to talk about? The weather?

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