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Breanna nods, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes. "No problem. I'm happy to help."
As she heads upstairs to manage Jaxon's bedtime routine, I find myself standing in the living room, my mind wrestling with the decision to offer her a bit more than just gratitude. Maybe a gesture of goodwill would go a long way in rebuilding the strained relationship. I still don’t plan on bending and giving her money early, but maybe there’s something I can do to make things less… awkward.
When Breanna reappears after successfully putting Jaxon to bed, I make an impromptu decision. "Hey, instead of going out, how about a drink here?" I offer, gesturing towards the kitchen.
She raises an eyebrow, curiosity replacing the weariness in her eyes. “I mean, you’re paying me to take care of Jaxon, so if this counts as drinking while on the clock…”
I wave away her concern. “He’s in bed now. It’s not like he’s going to need anything.”
I fetch a couple of glasses and pour a measure of wine, the atmosphere in the room shifting slightly.
As we sit in the living room, the subtle clink of glasses punctuates the awkward silence. I took a shot before Breanna came over, and I feel its warmth still working its magic through me. I seize the opportunity to address the underlying issue.
"I've been thinking about earlier," I admit, meeting her gaze. "Maybe I was too rigid about the money. It's not that I don't value your work. Tell me more about your brother."
Breanna's expression softens, and a sense of understanding passes between us. She doesn’t answer right away, and I wonder if she doesn’t feel comfortable telling me anything because of my constant judgment. It’s a bad habit I have, judging other people. I’ve been told I’m too harsh. I haven’t cared before, but knowing that it’s affected Breanna makes me realize that my actions aren’t without consequences.
“Well, actually…” Breanna takes another sip of her wine, then one more. She sets her glass down. “I just have a lot of things going on in my life, but I try not to talk about them. That tends to make me feel stressed. Isn’t the point of drinking to make you feel less stressed?”
I press my lips together, realizing that she doesn’t feel comfortable telling me the details of her brother’s situation. Part of me wants to insist, to press her for details. After all, it’s technically my money that would be helping him.
But I don’t.
Because I know something about women. They only like to tell me things when they think I’m not trying to get that information out of them.
If I press them- “Are you okay? You look sad. Is something wrong?”- they clam up. But if I just let conversation flow naturally, they talk a lot more.
So, I stand and head for the kitchen. “Do you want a shot?” I ask, temptingly whirling the amber liquid around in the almost-empty bottle.
Breanna tilts her head to the side, studying the bottle like a formidable enemy. Finally, she nods. “If you’re having one, I’ll have one. But just one. I don’t do multiple shots.”
I pour out our shots and take them over. When I pass her the shot glass, our fingers touch. A little spark of desire swells within me, but I look away as I settle on the opposite end of the couch.
The atmosphere in the room shifts as Breanna takes the shot, the warmth of the alcohol providing a momentary reprieve from the underlying tension. I watch her carefully, realizing that pushing for more information about her personal life may not be the right approach. Instead, I opt for a more casual conversation.
"So, what's your drink of choice?" I inquire, attempting to steer the conversation away from the sensitive topic. "We've got some options in the kitchen."
Breanna smirks, her guard momentarily down. "As long as it's not too fancy, I'm good. I'm fine with this wine, honestly. Don’t go make something for me."
I nod, relieved by the lightness that settles between us. "Noted. I'll keep it simple."
Breanna takes a sip of wine and winces, licking her lips and still trying to work through the taste of the shot. I look away when she looks in my direction.
But I notice a little teasing smile settle on her lips, a smile that says she might be a lightweight drinker. One shot and a glass of wine may be enough to make her happy.
We settle into a more relaxed rhythm as the alcohol works its magic, loosening the knots of discomfort that have lingered between us. Breanna seems more at ease, and the conversation flows more naturally.
“What made you decide to move into the house next door?” I ask. “After that couple left a few months ago, I haven’t even seen a for sale sign. Then one day…”
“They were my parents,” Breanna answers.
I can tell that my question, which seemed like an easy one to me, has touched something in her.
“I inherited the house,” she clarifies.
And I realize that must mean that her parents have passed away. “I’m sorry to hear that. It must be difficult dealing with that and getting a job and…” I spread my hands out wide like I can’t begin to imagine what Breanna must be going through.
The light question I asked her has now, once again, led to a weighty topic.
