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He releases his neck and slowly sits up in the chair. “Like when you and your mom watered the garden?”
“Exactly like that.” I nod. “Now, come on. Let’s go.” I wave.
He stares at the coffee pot like it’s a death sentence.
When all I want is the truth.
“Brett,” I say, waiting for his eyes to reach mine. When they do, I see a hint of apprehension in them. He’s afraid to tell me the truth.
I don’t care.
We are doing this today. If he doesn’t want me to stay. If he doesn’t want me, then I’ll deal with it. I just need to hear him say it. “I’m not leaving until that garden is watered.”
His left eye twitches.
“Here.” I hold out the coffee pot. “Today, you’re doing the watering.”
He stands up. “Why me?”
“I’ve been doing it all week.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m no good at watering plants. That’s why there’s none around here.”
“Well, you have them now.” I lift the pot a little higher. “So try.”
An oppressive growl rumbles from him before he takes the pot from me, walks out, and heads for the backyard.
He stops at the hibiscus, holding the coffee pot in his large hand. “So I tell you all the bad things I’ve done, and I get a pass. Is that how this works?”
“Right.” I nod, understanding that I’m pushing him, but it’s time. It’s now or never. “You can tell me anything, and I won’t hold it against you.”
“Okay.” He pours some of the water on the flowers. “Let’s see.” He concentrates on the plant. “When I was eight, I walked into the living room with mud on my shoes. When I was ten, I stole a candy bar from the corner store. And when I was fifteen, I put a classmate through a window for calling my mother names.” He lifts the pot and looks at me. “Am I doing this right, Cassie? I’m supposed to tell the truth, right?”
“Yes. The truth.” I watch him walk over to the pink gerberas.
“Well, how about I tell you about the time when Cole showed up on my doorstep. I found out he had a scholarship to college, and I didn’t encourage him to go. You know why?” He pours the rest of the water on to the flowers.
The coffee pot looks small in his beautiful, perfect hands.
I swallow back the uneasiness lodged in my throat. “Why?”
“Because.” He tosses the coffee pot on the ground. “The truth is, I’m selfish.”
Selfish? That’s absurd. If Brett is anything, selfish is not one of them. “Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know.” He grins, not allowing the expression to reach his dark gray eyes. “Hey, you asked for the truth.”
I stare at him. Why is he doing this?
“Why haven’t I seen you in the past week, Brett?”
“You know why,” he says in a sharp tone.
I get it. He doesn’t like the game we’re playing. But he pushed me. I have no other choice. I need to hear his truth.
“What happened to me wasn’t your fault.” I lower my voice. “You didn’t hurt me. I’m okay.”
“Don’t try to psychoanalyze me like your mother.”
