“I actually really like these online videos,” he added shyly while I polished off another scone. “The channel is calledNot Your Aunt Linda’s Kitchen, and the baker is real personable and fun to watch. Sometimes, I watch those at night or bake something when I have trouble sleeping.”
“You have trouble sleeping?” I asked, surprised. He’s always slept soundly next to me.
Brady nodded before scooping up another bite of egg layered with bacon, cheese, and flaky croissant. “Sometimes.”
We finished up and washed the dishes together. I knew Brady had dinner plans with his family tonight, so I’d texted Bonnie to see if she was up for a sisters’ night in with me.
Brady hadn’t said a word when I’d pulled my jacket on over his tee shirt I still wore. He’d just watched me with a pleased sparkle in his pretty blue eyes, which was good because he wasn’t getting it back.
We’d said our goodbyes, knowing we’d be texting most of the day and seeing each other again tomorrow. I resisted the urge to throw my arms around his waist and tell him I was sorry I’d waited so long to stay for breakfast. I settled on a long, slow kiss in his doorway. Then forced myself to go.
Dinner with Bonnie was Indian takeout from a new restaurant downtown. We were currently stuffing our faces in the living room of Grandma Nola and Grandpa Junior’s house. Open to-go containers littered the coffee table whileNorth and Southplayed in the background.
My sister and I both loved Richard Armitage, so we’d seen the British miniseries plenty of times. We felt comfortable eating and chatting throughout, but we definitely made sure to tune in for the “Look back at me” scene.
“What’s Danny doing tonight?” I asked as I grabbed another samosa.
“Oh, um,” Bonnie mused distractedly, “I’m not sure. He hadn’t gotten home yet, and I just left a note saying I was having dinner with you.”
That was ... weird. The garage where Danny worked closed at five on Saturdays. Bonnie hadn’t arrived with our takeout until almost eight.
“I see,” I lied. “Well, I’m sure he’ll text or something when he gets home.”
She forked up some chicken tikka and shrugged. “Maybe.”
I eyed Bonnie as she chewed and focused her attention on the television over the fireplace. She was in her weekend clothes—baggy black sweats and a college hoodie from where she’d attended—with a little blond topknot on the crown of her head.
As an elementary school art teacher, she wore flowy dresses throughout the workweek. She said they were professional but easy to move around in. So when she had downtime, like on the weekends, she entered her self-proclaimed “panda mode,” where she lazed about in comfort. I supported that wholeheartedly.
My older sister deserved a break. She took care of everyone. I knew she loved her job and was close with our parents and other family members, but it had to be difficult to try to please so many people all the damn time. She and Danny spent a lot of time with his family, too. I knew they joined the Jensens for dinner several nights a week, with Bonnie usually doing the cooking.
While my sister had worked in the General Store during high school, farming had never been her thing. I admired her for going off to college and finding something just for her. But Kirby Falls had always been home. There had never been a question that she’d come back to start her life. Danny was here, after all.
I watched as another funeral took place on the screen, then asked, “How did you know you loved Danny? That he was the one?”
Bonnie looked at me in surprise, eyes wide. “Where in the world did that come from?”
I could remember her and Danny as fresh-faced teenagers, coming and going, watching movies in the basement at my parents’ house, and attending holidays and birthday parties together. Joined at the hip from the time they were fourteen.
“I don’t know. I was just curious, I guess.” I loved my sister, but I wasn’t about to tell her about Brady. I’d barely begun to acknowledge the swirling nebulous notion that I had some serious feelings for him ... and him for me.
She seemed to think for a long moment before finally replying, “I don’t believe in ‘the one.’” I could hear the air quotes she’d put around the words. “I think there are any number of people you’re compatible with or attracted to. Loving someone is a choice. It’s hard work and dedication, not some sweet-smelling romantic breeze that ruffles your hair and guides you to your one true love.”
That ... was not what I expected my sister who’d married her high school boyfriend to say. “Oh.”
Then Bonnie blinked like she was coming out of a trance. Her eyes met mine, and she smiled. “But, of course, Danny and I met young. So I was lucky enough to find my person early, you know? We grew up together.”
That was what I was worried about. There was so much history to influence your feelings and perceptions. How did you know what was real and what was duty or obligation or nostalgia?
“If my life was a pie chart, Danny would have the biggest slice,” my sister said simply, then went back to her chicken tikka masala and Mr. Thornton.
I frowned, thinking that didn’t sound right. Or maybe it was supposed to be romantic, like a Hallmark card and grocery store roses on Valentine’s Day. But instead, it made me think of missed anniversaries and candles burned down to nubs. The painful act of hanging your hopes on someone who didn’t deserve them. A drain on your resources, an inconsiderate leech who only left you a tiny corner of the pie pan.
My relationship with Brady was nothing like that. He was generous and open, accepting the bits and pieces of myself I offered and never demanding more than I was comfortable with. He was patient and thoughtful. In the last four months, he’d done nothing but makemea priority.
I watched my sister, suddenly feeling helpless and raw. She’d always been the shining example of maturity and success in my life. Someone who’d gone after what she wanted and had a marriage that seemed happy from the outside.
Now, I wondered if she felt loved at all.
