“Wrong idea?” Jesse grins and winks at Mason. “You mean therightone?”
Mason just laughs.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” I say testily.
Jesse doesn’t back down. “Cody, youlikeher. Don’t be an idiot.”
“I’m not being an idiot.”
“Then what’s wrong with her?” Mason adds.
“Nothing. She’s fine, great. But that doesn’t mean I like her.”
“Okay. Love, then?” Jesse laughs.
“Nope,” I’m quick to say, and I chuck a trim cut-off at him. It bounces off his waist.
“Don’t get mad at me,” he says. “You’re the one suffocating behind walls you built yourself. I mean, seriously…can you even frickin’ breathe in there?”
“I’m not suffocating,” I mutter.
“You are. Ever since—”
“Don’t bring her up. And don’t talk about shit you know nothing about,” I snap, my voice raised more than necessary, but Jesse doesn’t flinch.
“I’m just stating the facts. You swore off women like they were a disease! Look at Mom and Dad, me and Ella…Wes and Addie, for crying out loud. You think we’d be who we are without women?”
Mason glances at me, then back at the flooring. “He’s got a good point, dude. They’re not all bad,” he adds, voice low. “Just hard to find the good ones sometimes.”
And I know Jesse isn’t wrong. But that doesn’t mean I want to talk about it.
I exhale through my nose, my nerves calming down enough that I don’t wanna punch my brother in the face anymore. “Karissa knows about Bree. So just trust me when I say she gets why I am the way that I am.”
“What all did you tell her?” Mason asks, curiously.
“Everything. That it didn’t end the way people think it did.”
Jesse shifts his footing. “What do you mean?”
I inhale deeply, wondering if I want to talk about it or not…the truth.
“It wasn’t cold feet,” I say.
There’s a beat of silence between all of us.
Jesse’s voice is softer now. “What? Then what was it?”
I shake my head. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
Jesse doesn’t push, but he looks like he wants to. Mason looks back to his work; he’s definitely not gonna push for answers either.
A few minutes pass by, and Jesse leaves to get more casing. The second he’s in his truck and out the lane, Mason’s turning the music back down and clearing his throat.
“You know,” he says. “I saw Bree. Couple weeks ago.”
My stomach tightens.
“She was at a gas station filling up,” he continues. “Little boy in the back seat. Looked about six. Maybe seven.”
