Page 19 of Big Dill

Elise.

She’s clearly someone he doesn’t want to talk about—and I know I shouldn’t pry—but I can’t stop thinking about the way his entire body went rigid the second her name slipped from his sister’s lips.

He carries the plate to the table and sits, the wood rattling softly beneath him. “Elise Jennings. She’s my ex,” he says, too casually, like he’s practiced saying it that way. But there’s something under it. An ache he doesn’t bother masking, or maybe just can’t. Then, as if trying to lighten the moment—trying to convince himself more than me—he adds, “We all have them, don’t we?”

“That we do.” I lean back in my chair while he cuts into his eggs. He keeps glancing up at me, eyes flicking away just as fast, and it’s clear he’s bracing himself. Waiting for the question. Or maybe the judgment.

I debate whether I should let it go. I probably should. But before I decide, he exhales and says, “Go ahead. Ask.”

I shrug, taking the last sip of my coffee. “I mean, it’s not really my business,” I say carefully. “But you do seem to know a lot about me.”

There’s a long pause. Long enough that I wonder if I’ve crossed the line after all. Then he speaks.

“The thing about small towns,” he says slowly. “Is that most people think anyone who grows up in one can’t wait to leave. College. Work. New experiences. Diversity.” He nudges a piece of egg around his plate. “And they’re not wrong. Most do want to leave.”

I stay quiet, sensing this isn’t a conversation to rush.

“But a lot of them come back,” he continues. “Family. Familiarity. A sense of community. Knowing where you belong without having to explain yourself.”

I watch him stare down at his plate like it might give him the peace he’s looking for.

“It’s good to leave,” he says. “To experience those things.”

I nod in agreement.

He finishes eating, sets his fork down, and leans back in his chair. When his eyes finally meet mine, there’s something vulnerable there, unguarded. “Sometimes people don’t come back, though,” he says. “And sometimes the ones who never left when they were young decide to do it later in life.”

“Like your father and Ray?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Elise was the first scenario?” I venture.

He nods. “Yeah. We both went off to college. I went to St. John’s. She went to Toronto.”

“Culture shock,” I say.

A corner of his mouth lifts, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Exactly. And she loved it. Toronto University for costume design. The fast pace. The noise. The crowds…” He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “I was happy for her, until…the men.”

Something tightens in my chest. “Ah,” I say, wincing. “Damn. I’m sorry, Brody. That had to hurt.”

“I’m over it.”

Is he, though? I once heard that when you’re truly over something, you reach a place of detachment. Indifference. The kind of emotional neutrality where the name doesn’t make your shoulders tense or your jaw tighten. What I saw earlier was…not that. I get it. Tristan pushing me out for a hot yoga girl named Lucy still rattles me.

“It’s just…” He shakes his head, frustration flickering across his face. “She lied about it for months. Why do that?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But it’s not fair. And I know that from experience.”

He lets out a short laugh, the sound edged with irony. “Look at us. City girl. Small-town boy. Completely different worlds.” His gaze flicks to mine. “And somehow, way too much in common.”

He’s not wrong and oddly enough, I share design aspirations like his ex—not in theater but in yoga clothes. Still…similarities that seem almost unnervingly close. That night, if he were looking for me, which he wasn’t, I’d question his motive. The replacement girlfriend? Sliding in, filling the void, taking the place she left behind without too much fuss.

But that’s not what happened and the biggest thing Brody and I share is my brother—a brother we’re both lying to. And standing here, it’s painfully obvious we both hate liars. “Lies hurt,” I say. Then hesitate. “But…”

“But Jaxon,” he exhales, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I think we both agree in this case…it’s for the best.”

“Yeah.” I wince at how badly that word—my agreement—tastes on my tongue.