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Chapter 21
Eve
Bradyhadbeensokind all evening. He must have questions, but he'd given me a choice.
Did I trust him enough to share? I took a deep breath and realized I did.
Scott had left me high and dry after the school board meeting, feeling bruised and battered by his wife's accusations. He'd abandoned me after, not making any attempt to accept responsibility, even though he was the one who'd hid his marriage from me. Brady was different, solid and trustworthy.
"Scott and I had an affair before I left town. It's a sad, familiar story. Girl meets boy. Girl thinks boy is single and available. Boy is really an asshat in disguise. Wife finds out about affair and makes it very public."
"That fucker," Brady said, reaching for my hand. “He didn’t deserve your heart. Hell, he didn’t deserve the shit you scrape off the bottom of your shoe.”
I let the contact comfort me, the strength of his hand, firm in mine, serve as a reminder that Brady was made of sterner stuff.
"To complicate matters further, Scott was on the school board and I was an art teacher with a morality clause in my contract. His wife made her accusations at a board meeting where I was presenting on our arts initiative. There was no putting the paint back in the tube. I was well and truly smeared."
Brady winced, sympathy clear in his handsome features.
"Did he and his wife break up? Did he come groveling for your forgiveness like he should have?"
"I don't know if they divorced, and I don't care. Honestly, I hope she left his ass. There was no way I'd touch him, not after I learned he’d been lying to us both. And no, he didn’t apologize. With no job, leaving town seemed like the wisest course of action. Mid school year, and with my last contract cancelled, it would have been nearly impossible to find another teaching position. It's not like there's a lot of public schools with big arts programs anymore. I decided to switch directions and go into business for myself."
As much as I'd tried to keep the hint of defensiveness out of my voice, I could tell by Brady's cautious expression that I'd failed. His brown eyes were soft, and the hand that clasped mine squeezed with a steady reassurance.
"I'm sorry, Eve."
As if his sympathy mattered. Except it did. More than his compassion, his acceptance and the lack of any censure soothed me.
“I know it’s in the past, but do you want me to find his car and knife his tires? I still have my boy scout multi-tool somewhere."
I cracked a smile for the first time retelling the whole sorry tale. Brady was on my side. Enough to offer to do crimes.
My sometimes stiff, extremely proper boyfriend didn't doubt or blame me.
A wave of relief helped me unclench my jaw. I'd been bottling up my story, hoping that it would mellow with age, but the opposite had happened. Instead of easing my pain, forcing down my feelings had been concentrating the bitterness. Stopping myself from sharing my grief over leaving teaching and my life in Sammamish had created an inexorable pressure that had been building beneath the surface, fighting to get out.
Hairline cracks in my confidence, in my sense of self, had formed after the disaster with Scott. Everyone else seemed so convinced I was the villain that for a hot minute I’d believed it too. It'd taken me time to rebuild and construct a new shell around myself, around my feelings. But not talking about it hadn't healed me. Hiding my shame hadn't made it any easier to start a new life, with the bitterness of the past underlying my choices. True, I'd formed new friendships and been accepted into Gwen's circle. But I'd avoided letting myself fully trust. Until Brady.
He'd nipped at me, rubbing me wrong with his polite manners and stiff formalities. At first I’d seen him as an echo of Scott, a prick in proper clothing, likely covering a rotten core. But the more I peeled back Brady's layers, the more I realized that his sense of propriety stemmed from intense protectiveness of those around him. He cared about their feelings and their safety.
I'd papered over my pain with a new wardrobe, new tattoos, and a new life.
The disparity between private Brady and public Brady echoed my own coping mechanisms, making me feel an unsteady kinship with him that had bloomed beyond anything I’d ever imagined when I agreed to do the play with him.
Brady gathered me in his arms, as if sensing I was ready for his comfort. The tight hug crushed me, the hard bands of his arms securing me tightly, as if by force of his hold alone he could put back together my broken pieces. I soaked in his strength and the comfort of his touch, letting myself rest against his shoulder.
I knew Brady couldn't fix me – only I could do that. But maybe letting him in was the first step to true healing?
I wreathed my hands around his neck, loving the soft brush of his hair underneath my fingertips. Silky and fine, it awakened my senses, making me want to touch more of him. Find all of the places where he was smooth or rough and explore him to my heart’s content. Taste the planes of his chest. Get him fully naked and trace along the muscle in his calf.
"Make love to me, Brady."
He pulled away slightly, watching me. I shoved down the fear that I'd been too needy, that I’d tipped my hand and he’d realize I wasn’t as strong as I pretended. This was Brady. I was safe with him.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
Tenderness replaced the drive to lose myself in Brady. My eagerness to obliterate any lingering memories of Scott and his selfishness rocked by Brady’s sweetness.
