Change of Heart (5 page)

No wonder I felt like shit—I hadn't had a pain pill all day…or lunch, for that matter. Once I'd started painting, I'd fallen into a little bit of a trance. I liked working on the house. It relaxed me to know that I was building something that was unique. Something that was mine.

“Looks good, huh?” I said proudly, looking back at the lower half of my windows. I hadn't painted the top halves because I'd known I should probably stay off my feet. Not that it mattered. I still felt like complete shit now that I'd stopped.

“You painted half the windows,” Bram answered flatly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Why aren't you a detective? Because that was seriously observant.” I climbed to my feet and tried to hide my wince. Yeah, I needed a pain pill.

“Why the fuck did you paint half the windows? Aren't you supposed to be taking it easy?” Bram asked, stepping forward like he was going to help me.

“I was bored.” Shuffling around him, I took a deep breath. Pills first, then food.

“You were bored,” Bram growled as he followed me into my room.

“Yeah, I was bored.” I opened up my pills and forced myself to take only one. Two would be better, but I didn't want to fall asleep and I knew they'd completely knock me out.

“How'd that work out for you?” Bram asked, leaning against my doorway.

“Great,” I replied stubbornly, lifting my chin. “I got half the windows done.”

“They look like shit.”

“No they don't. They look
halfway finished
.” I pushed past him and made my way back to the kitchen, eyeballing the donuts still sitting on my table. I wondered if I could get away with eating another one. Oh, fuck it. It's not like I ever gained weight anyway. Even when I was trying to put on a few pounds, I couldn't. I didn't bitch about it—I knew people would kill to be able to eat whatever they wanted and not gain an ounce—but it wasn't like it didn't irritate me. Maybe I
wanted
boobs. Maybe I
wanted
a little junk in my trunk. Maybe I didn't want old ladies to make comments at the grocery store about me starving myself.

“Thanks for the donuts,” I called, stuffing a glazed one in my mouth.

“You're welcome,” Bram replied, coming to a stop at the entry of the kitchen.

I wanted to ask him why he was there. I didn't understand his sudden need to visit my house and feed me. Was it nice? Sure. But we'd had sex one time. It wasn't like we were together. Our relationship was the same as it had always been.

I grew irritated as he stood there silently watching me eat. I hated not knowing what to say or where to look. We were in
my
fucking kitchen. My comfort zone. My sanctuary.

When the silence finally became too much, I wiped my hands on my pajama pants and took a step forward.

“Look, I'm pretty tired, so—”

“Sure,” Bram cut in quickly, nodding his head as he scratched at his beard. That's when I noticed that he was as uncomfortable as I was. He was fidgety. Awkward.

“So, I'll see you Monday, right?”

“Yeah. Monday.” Without another word, he spun around and walked out of my house, closing the door quietly behind him. Then I heard him locking the dead bolt, reminding me that he had one of the spare keys to my place.

I had a key for his town house, too. I'd never needed to use it, but I had it.

The weight of our intertwined lives hit me with the force of a sledgehammer as I made my way back to bed.

We not only shared the same family, but I worked with Bram. I saw him every single day. Sure, we didn't really speak to each other unless it was work-related—but I still saw him. When my best friends came to visit, he was there. When I went to see Liz and Dan, he was there. When I needed help on my house, he showed up with Dan, Mike, and Trevor, complete with a tool belt and a truck full of power tools.

For the first time since we'd met, I was nervous around Bram. My snarky mouth seemed to suddenly disappear when he looked at me, when before his presence was all I'd needed to smart off. After fourteen years of living parallel lives, we'd intersected, and now I had no idea how to get us running parallel again.

And the shittiest part of the whole deal was that there was no way I could avoid him, and I was pretty sure that there was going to be no way to avoid the fact that I'd held his dick in my hand, either.

I lied.

Apparently, it was super easy to avoid Bram.

To be fair, I wasn't sure if I was avoiding him or he was avoiding me or we were both avoiding each other—but I'd barely seen him since the day in my kitchen when I'd pretty much kicked him out.

It had been almost four weeks. When we had family dinners, he was quiet. Not that that was unusual for Bram, but for obvious reasons, I noticed it more. He didn't talk directly to me, and all signs of our ongoing verbal warfare had disappeared.

I knew that Trevor suspected something. Maybe Liz and Ellie, too, but no one said anything. They just watched us closely as we orbited each other, never getting close enough to actually interact. It drove me nuts. He needed to act normal if we were ever going to put that night behind us without alerting the whole family that we'd bumped uglies in the back of my Toyota.

I was lying.

I
needed to get my shit together. Me.

Our dynamic was practically set in stone. I made the first comment. Always. I'd say something, then Bram would say something back, and then we'd trade jabs for as long as we were together.

But for the life of me, I couldn't give him shit. I just couldn't. I'd open my mouth to make some comment, and I'd snap it shut again at the memory of him crawling into bed behind me. I'd like to think that I could have moved past the fantastic sex, but it was the
caring
that shut me up quicker than a republican during a gay sex scandal. I'd look at him, remembering his soft words in my ear, and I just couldn't make myself antagonize him.

“You're quiet tonight,” Aunt Ellie said quietly as we sat down at another Friday night dinner. “Everything okay?”

“Yup,” I chirped, trying not to wince or look at Bram. They were going to know. I'd gotten through three weeks of family dinners, and I felt like, at any moment, the tension in my limbs was finally going to snap, and I'd stand up from the table and tell them that I'd fucked grumpy Bram on a side street in downtown Portland.

“Feeling okay?” she murmured, passing me a bowl of biscuits.

“Yeah. Went to the doctor yesterday and I'm all healed up. She said to take it easy for a while longer but I'm mostly back to normal now,” I replied quietly, passing the bowl to Trevor on my left.

“Really? That seems fast,” Ellie said, giving me a small smile as I shrugged. “Well, I'm glad you're feeling better.”

She leaned over and patted my leg a couple times before getting back to her dinner, and I was reminded of the fact that Ellie had never been able to carry a baby, either. I wasn't sure what the problem had been, and I'd never felt it was my place to ask. She and Mike had eventually become foster parents and adopted Trevor and Henry, but I wondered if she'd ever had regrets.

I shook myself out of those thoughts. Ellie hadn't had a choice. I knew that much. Our situations weren't the same.

“Two more weeks,” Liz sang out across the table, diverting my attention. She rubbed her hands together in glee. “I can't wait to hold my grandbabies.”

“Is Shane coming up with her?” Trev asked, leaning forward to blow on the hot chili in front of him. “He's got a deployment coming up, doesn't he?”

“Yep,” Uncle Mike answered, leaning back in his chair. “He's taking leave so they can come up here, then he'll have about a week at home getting shit at the house ready before they start gearing up to go.”

“I don't know how Kate does it,” I said, shaking my head as everyone's attention landed on me. “‘Hey, why don't you go play in the sand for a bit while I take care of everything back home, and then, when you get back, I'll jump into your arms like I haven't just killed myself for the last six months.'”

“Are you fucking joking?” Bram rumbled, glaring at me from across the table.

“No. I mean, I get it—”

“Obviously, you don't,” Bram snapped, dropping his spoon into his bowl with a splat. “He's carrying a gun over there. People are shooting at him. Blowing up his friends. You think he wants to leave his family for six months at a time?”

“Bram,” Liz said, glancing between us, “knock it off.”

My jaw clenched as I tried to hold back my anger. If he had let me speak, I would've said that I knew it was hard on Shane, too. That it was dangerous and scary. I understood it. I did. I just wouldn't ever be able to do it.

“Please, Bram,” I hissed through my teeth, “tell us all about how much you know about the military from all your time cutting wood in the fucking forests of
America
.”

“Is everything a fucking joke to you?” His voice rose. “You tell Alex how much you respect his sacrifice? How about Henry? I'm sure he'd love to hear your opinion on that.”

“Oh, fuck you,” I shot back, getting to my feet.

“Sit down, Anita,” Liz ordered.

“I'm going to go—wouldn't want Bram here to get fucking indigestion,” I sneered, glaring at Bram across the table.

“Sit the hell down!” Dan roared, dropping me to my seat without conscious thought. “We don't talk politics at the fucking table.”

“It's not politics. It's—”

“Bram, I swear to Christ if you don't shut up I'm going to lose it,” Dan warned, breathing deeply as Liz laid her hand on his arm and rubbed it softly.

My heart pounded as I stared at my chili, and I could feel tears building at the back of my eyes. I could count on one hand the amount of times Dan had lost his temper in my presence—but he'd never lost it at me. He was such a mellow guy. He loved his wife, his kids, his company, and food—in that order. There wasn't a lot of shit that got under his skin. But talking about the military—or fighting about it the way Bram and I were—was enough to completely wipe the look of perpetual calm off his face.

I didn't like being yelled at. I really didn't like it.

I sat there, swallowing against the sob building in my throat, my hands trembling in my lap while everyone at the table was silent.

“There's no one at this table that disrespects the sacrifice our boys have made for their country,” Dan said roughly after a few moments, his voice at a normal level. “I wouldn't let them in my goddamn house.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, refusing to look at anyone. When I saw Ellie's hand reach toward me, I flinched away, and she dropped it.

“Ani knows better than to make light of what Shane does,” Dan said. I didn't know if that was a warning to keep my mouth shut or his way of saying that he knew I wasn't being disrespectful.

“Sorry, Dad,” Bram said quietly.

Dinner resumed, and the family started talking again, but I couldn't move my eyes from my bowl. I was still shaking. I couldn't get it under control.

For so long, I'd used my smart mouth to keep people from getting too close. I'd done it my entire life, starting before I'd ever been taken from my mom. It worked. I didn't seem like I took anything seriously, and I liked it that way. It made me funny.

I was the funny girl, not the sad foster care girl.

When I'd moved to Dan and Liz's, my personality was already set. I was irreverent. I made jokes at funerals and laughed in people's faces. But the Evans family seemed to like me anyway. That, in turn, had made it worse because I felt comfortable being myself there. They didn't care if I jokingly called Trevor our token black man. They didn't care when I told people that pretty Henry was born a girl or convinced them that Alex and Abraham only spoke Spanish, then watched them try to converse in Spanish as the twins looked at them in confusion. They didn't care when I called them fat—even though they weren't—and said I ended up with the wrong family because I was so much smaller than they were. They didn't care when I referred to the logging business as Dan and Mike's little hobby.

Because they knew that every time I teased and every time I made fun, it wasn't malicious. I loved the family that had taken me in. I'd kill for them. And every time someone looked at our family, with slender me and curvy Kate, and blond Henry, and identical Hispanic Alex and Abraham, and dark-skinned Trevor, I made a joke of it.

Because it didn't matter to me. I wasn't making fun of them—I was making fun of the world. The society we lived in. The people who stared. The people who cared how much we weighed and how successful the logging company was. The ones who asked questions with their noses turned up.

If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me what nationality I was, I'd buy a fucking Dutch Bros. coffee trailer just so they could make me an iced Caramelizer whenever I wanted without having to wait in line.
Actually, you fucking busybody, I have no idea what nationality I am because I have no idea who my father was.
None. My mom was fucking so many men that she had no idea, either. For all I knew, I may have been filling out forms wrong that asked if I was Native American for my entire life.

I inhaled deeply through my nose.

I was hard to take. I knew that. But I'd never felt judged by these people. They'd never taken me at face value—they'd always read between the lines. They'd heard what I meant, not what I said.

But all of a sudden, after fourteen years, I didn't feel safe in the Evans house. I felt like I was coming out of my skin. Like they hated me. Like they didn't understand me. Like I didn't belong.

I lifted a shaking hand to my spoon and stirred my chili, trying to control my breathing as the voices droned on around me. I needed to leave. I needed to get away from them. But I was afraid of calling attention to myself by getting up from the table.