“Not sure you can get sexier than Bob Ross,” I say. “I just wish I’d seen them earlier.Meow.”
She laughs harder. “They were a gift from Mara.”
“Think if I hint hard enough she’ll get some for me next Christmas?”
Abruptly, all the levity in the air gets sucked out. Brie ignores my joke and tugs the top of her dress over her chest. When she moves to her seat, a hollowness forms in my chest.
I don’t get it or know how to stop her from pulling away. With her, it’s always one step forward, two steps back.
Part of me wants to beg her forgiveness all over again, do anything I can because I want a future with Brie. Family time and holidays and sitting on the porch at night, all of it.
Just give her time. She’s still working through our past. I had years to do that.
But something in my gut makes me wonder if time will help.
“Should I take you back to Gia’s?” I ask.
“Yeah, sounds good.” She’s looking out the window, voice far away.
CHAPTER 42
SAWYER
This wasBrie’s Saturday night idea, I remind myself as we drive to the bowling alley in silence so thick that, for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m drowning. The worst part is I have no idea what the problem is. If I knew, we could work through it. I keep telling myself all she needs is time, but as time goes on she gets farther away.
I’ve tried coming up with new activities for us, thinking maybe the problem is my undivided attention, I was putting pressure on her without realizing it. I thought if I could just get her out, she’d loosen up. I’ve taken her to Moo Crew for ice cream, the April’s Fool festival, the farmers market, but it’s like I’m using the wrong playbook. She only grows more distant.
“We have a few minutes,” I say after I park at the bowling alley.
We’re meeting Dev and Tess. Even though I’m mere days away from a finished cabin, I jumped at the opportunity to spend tonight with Brie. The cabin’s stifling. Every time I enter the living room, glance at the kitchen, look out the damn window, I think of Brie, laughing and beautifuland happy. Although she’s anything but those things right now, I’d rather be here trying than there wishing. Even if my determination is wearing thin.
“We can go ahead and find a lane, order some appetizers,” I say.
She nods.
Neither of us moves. I look straight ahead, racking my brain for how to bring some lightness to the evening. Nothing comes to mind. The tone is all wrong, anything I’d try would seem forced. Because it would be.
I look at her one more time. She’s staring out the window. My gut twists. I open the door and step out.
As we cross the parking lot of Soup’o’Bowl, the doors open to an outburst of families with younger children, heading home for a reasonable bedtime.
“Ms. Casey!”
Maeve Dragan, a student in Brie’s class, runs across the pavement, her two burly, leather-clad dads plodding after her. It’s a testament to Brie that Maeve, one of the shyer kids in third grade, is comfortable enough to barrel into her and wrap her arms around her waist.
“Hi, Maeve,” she says, squeezing back. Brie’s smile is warmer than I’ve seen it in weeks, but even now there’s something wistful about the way she looks down at the girl.
“Wow,” Bosko says, “theMs. Casey.” He’s the larger of Maeve’s two grownups. A scraggly beard covers most of his tan face, eyes bright with energy.
“Brie, this is Bosko,” I say.
Bosko shakes her hand. “You’re famous. And not just at home” —he winks at me— “but around town, too.”
I grin, knowing the parents have spread the word about how great the third grade substitute is. But when I look at Brie, she’s ashen and wide-eyed.
“I’m Maeve’s father,” Bosko adds unnecessarily.
“One of,” Stan interjects. He’s clean-shaven with short-cropped salt and pepper hair.
