Page 19 of Priceless
They tried to deny it.
Brodie told Jenny she belonged to another. She told herself it was only pity keepin’ her there. But denials couldnae erase the truth.
She confessed first. She said she couldnae marry a man who hated half o’ who she was. That Scotland was in her blood, and if someone couldnae love all o’ her, they didnae deserve even a piece.
Brodie tried to push her away. Not ‘cause he didnae love her—but ‘cause he loved her too much. He feared for her, feared she’d not believe the truth o’ his past. But he owed it to himself to try.
While she sat at his bedside, in the quiet, he told her everythin’—how he’d died at Culloden, lingered as a ghost for centuries, and was brought back by a wee witch’s power. He expected her to laugh or leave, but she only smiled, her eyes soft. “If you love me, I’m not afraid o’ anythin’,” she said.
Her fiancé came to the hospital one last time, demandin’ she return home. She told him no. Calmly. Clearly. For once, she didnae soften her words.
The man lost his temper.
Brodie—still weak, still in pain—hauled himself from the bed to stand between them. He told the American to leave. Told the man he would never touch his Jenny again. And though he was half-drugged and bleedin’, the look in Brodie’s eyes was enough.
The fiancé walked away.
Jenny stayed.
In the days that followed, they didnae speak o’ the future. They didnae need to. She cared for him as he healed. He held her hand when the nights were quiet. She kissed him when no one was watchin’.
There was no rush. No need to define what they were or what they’d become.
She’d already chosen.
And he… he’d loved her long afore he dared to hope.
One quiet evenin’, as she hummed by his bedside, her voice soft as a bee’s buzz, he touched her cheek and whispered, “Ye’re my bee, lass, and I’m your blossom, bloomin’ only for ye.” She laughed, her fingers twinin’ with his, their love a quiet miracle that’d grown where neither expected it.
______
So you see, lass, the most romantic Celtic story I ken isnae about grand gestures or perfect heroes. It’s about a man who thought he had nothin’ to offer, and a woman who saw everythin’ in him anyway. It’s about two lives collidin’ by chance—and choosin’, again and again, to stay.
It’s about love that comes quietly, like a soft hum under your breath, until it fills every corner o’ your soul.
I sat staringat that last line for a long time. I’m sure Jocko’s intention was to leave me with a warm feeling in my chest, but instead, there was only heaviness.
No one I knew would ever call my story with Paul particularly romantic. High school sweethearts? Sure, it sounds sweet enough on paper. But strip away the teenage hormones, and there wasn’t much passion to it. We got married because we were…the best fit.
Out of every guy in our school, I’d pick Paul every single time. Every dance, every date, every rodeo, movie, or senior event through graduation season—I couldn’t imagine anyone else by my side.
Neither of us wanted to leave for college out of state, so we just stayed together. When it came time for the next step, we slipped into it without a hitch. We walked into the church separately, but I came out holding Paul’s hand, ready to hold it for the rest of my life.
He started working for his dad at the old man’s professional laundry service. I kept my job at Spiro’s, the local farm. The most exciting thing that ever took Paul out of town was a bike race. It was raspberry season, a terrible time to leave Spiro’s short-handed, so I missed my one shot to travel out of state.
Then that crash happened. A broken leg was all it took to make bike racing a thing of the past for Paul.
Then Peaches came along—our daughter, the cherry on top of our perfect-ice-cream-sundae-lives. We’d named her Penny, after her grandmother, but Peaches stuck. She brought so much joy that I would’ve gladly had more kids despite that scare in the delivery room. A normal delivery turned dangerous, and Paul had to stand by while I was whisked into an operating room.
An unplanned c-section solved the problem, but it had been far too traumatic for Paul to stomach.
One day, he’d come through the door a little early. He’d taken half a day off to go to a doctor’s appointment. “Got snipped.” Said he just couldn’t risk losing me.
What he hadn’t been willing to risk was having a conversation about it. What he hadn’t been willing to stomach was another few hours of worry, no matter what priceless child we might get out of it.
I remember clutching Peaches against my chest, suddenly afraid that he might find a way to get rid of her, too. Heaven forbid he should have to worry about her getting sick, or hurt, or anything at all that might make him…emotional.
He resented anything that made him look weak. I’d known him, and loved him, for a decade, but I hadn’t realized it until then.
