The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(54)

And snark, I think suddenly, remembering her through new, adult eyes. I can hear her laughter and a sassy remark that has my dad chasing her through the house, tickling her until she couldn’t breathe.

For years, I’ve kept my memories of her tucked away, only pulling them out here and there, and only a little at a time. Keeping them, keeping her, keeping myself safe. Now, a flood of images and emotions wash over me. I’m seeing more than just the few easy stories I always keep near the surface.

I hear Mom and Dad arguing heatedly, then embracing with just as much passion. Mom could be sarcastic, though it was in a teasing way, never mean. Not cutting or cruel. She teased and needled and pushed Dad, but always in the best way.

Not unlike Winnie.

I swallow, and Dad continues, “The attraction between us was instant, but I refused to acknowledge it. I refused to give up my focus. To risk what I’d been working toward. Plus, I had the wrong impression from that first meeting. It took a while for her to wear me down.”

“She chased after you?”

“Not exactly.” Dad scoots his chair closer to the fire, rubbing his hands together. “She was a smart woman. She didn’t chase me so much as just became ubiquitous.”

“Use the word in a sentence, please.”

Dad grins. “As in, your mother became ubiquitous, appearing somehow everywhere I was, all the time. Not chasing me. Not flirting. Just … present. Always there, impossible to ignore, yet not showing interest either. There was eye contact, acknowledgement of my existence—but no smiling or flirting. It drove me wild. First, I was irritated. Then I was intrigued, and finally, I was irrationally desperate. I didn’t ask her out so much as I picked a fight.”

“I can’t picture any of this.”

Reaching out, Dad grasps my hand. He’s all about touch—something he and my brothers both share more than Harper and me. But I can’t remember the last time Dad held my hand. Maybe when I was a kid? It’s both strange and comforting, and I want to pull away and squeeze him tighter. I choose the second.

“I think I’ve done a disservice to you, to all of you, by not talking about your mother enough.” His voice has a gruff edge, the kind that comes from holding back tears. I can hear it in his voice. “I’ve realized this even more, watching my children struggle as you fall in love.”

I stiffen, and Tank squeezes my hand tighter. My mouth is dry, my scalp tingly.

“I’m not … I don’t …”

The words won’t come. I’m not even sure what words are trying to form.

He’s talking about Harper. About Pat. Not about me.

Definitely not me.

“It’s okay, son.”

It is … and it isn’t.

The unspoken things hang between us like the chill in the air.

I am two different men underneath my skin, and they are at great odds. One is calm and steady, telling me to settle into what Tank has shared, to let the memories and the emotions work their way through me, bringing things up to the surface where they can breathe, where they can stop being scary, being hidden.

The other man is in a panicked state of fight or flight. He wants to do both, simultaneously. Fighting while flighting. He’s having none of this. Not even a little. No memories. No emotions. No processing.

Run! Punch! Go! Flail! Fight!

Tank holds my hand hostage, and only this keeps me in my chair. I focus on just my breaths. Steady, steady. Slow. The gas fire flickers, casting a shifting glow over us. I keep my eyes on the flames, letting the light sear my eyes until I’m seeing nothing but black.

Tank clears his throat, and I startle. He gives my hand a last squeeze before reclining back in his chair. I can tell he wants to say more. I also can tell the moment he thinks better of it and stands, stretching.

“This old man needs sleep. Will you bring Winnie to family brunch Sunday morning?”

I nod before I can think better of it, before I can think about whether Winnie will even be speaking to me then.

Tank slaps me on the back before turning off the fire. “Good. Can you get yourself settled?”

I stand, shoving my hands into my pockets. My fingers brush against the seed Winnie gave me. It’s still there, despite my jeans going through the wash yesterday.

“I think I might actually go for a ride, clear my head.”

He frowns. “At this hour? I don’t like to think about you out there in the dark.”

Dad habits never fade, I guess, even when I’m no longer a kid. I pat his shoulder as I pass, heading for the garage where I’ve got my motorcycle stored along with an extra set of keys. “So, don’t think about it.”

Which is exactly what I plan to do while riding my favorite hills and curves and long stretches of road: not think at all.

But Tank’s voice makes me pause halfway through the garage. He stands in the doorway, and even in the dim light, I don’t miss the intensity on his face.

“Son, I know you may think you’re too old for advice—”

“Dad, I’ll wear a helmet. I’ll be safe.”

He shakes his head. “No. I mean, yes. Do that.” Tank pauses, and I realize before he speaks again that he’s going to go deep, maybe with something I’m really not ready to hear. “But I was going to say you can’t control everything. You have to take the risk. You have to try. Even if sometimes you lose.”