The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(98)

Still looking at the ceiling, Chevy says, “If you, uh, want to change, I can get that stain out for you.”

“It’s one of his better qualities,” I say. “His ability to remove the toughest stains from a variety of fabrics.” When Val still doesn’t move, I nudge her. “Maybe go change in the bathroom?”

“Change! Yes. I’ll do that.” With a last look at Chevy, Val hightails it to the bathroom, her cheeks flushed a deep red. I hate to tell him, but Chevy is never, ever getting that shirt back.

“I hope you didn’t forget,” Chevy says to me, and I obviously did forget, because I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Going to visit Mom and Dad?”

I groan. This is usually something we do on holidays. With all the Feastivus craziness, we didn’t get to the cemetery yesterday.

Which is just fine by me. Every one of these visits has been torture, knowing what I know. And knowing Chevy doesn’t know.

“Do we have to?”

“Yep. You can go like that if you want to,” he says, eyeing the pajamas I’ve been wearing for almost twenty-four hours now. “But … your smell might make someone mistake you for a corpse.” With a grin, my brother disappears into his room, presumably to grab a new shirt.

“Well, as fun as this has been, friends, I’ve got a sibling date with the cemetery.”





A sibling date at a cemetery the day after you’ve been fired and broken up with a man you’re pretty sure you’re in love with is just about as miserable as you’d imagine.

No—MORE miserable.

Because I’m standing here in front of my parents’ shared headstones, thinking mean thoughts about my unfaithful, lying two-faced jerk of a dad, while my brother stands next to me, sniffling. Because he doesn’t know our dad is an unfaithful, lying, two-faced jerk.

And maybe it’s that I don’t feel like my dad deserves Chevy’s sadness or maybe it’s my own emotional overwhelm or possibly even the jalapeno margaritas, but whatever the reason, I blurt out: “Dad was having an affair.”

Like he’s in a movie with special effects, Chevy’s head turns to me in slow motion. His blue eyes, mirror of mine, blink. “What?”

“For years. He had a … girlfriend, I guess?”

Chevy just keeps blinking. And I just keep talking.

“And he was also paying for her kid’s college tuition. Or part of it.”

This is officially the quietest my brother has ever been. I take my role as silence-filler VERY seriously.

“Which is why I’m so broke. I gave the woman he was having an affair with the little bit I inherited because she kept calling and I didn’t want her to harass you too. Ta-da! Happy Thanksgiving. Now, it’s officially the worst holiday ever.”

Chevy’s jaw works. I consider touching him, but he looks tensed to spring. “You knew about this … and you didn’t tell me.”

I shake my head. I should feel bad for springing this on him. Maybe I will later. For now, I don’t have room to feel bad because I’m just so furious with our father. He doesn’t deserve Chevy’s tears. If I could afford it, I’d have him moved to some separate plot at the back of the cemetery and get his name chiseled off the headstone. Telling Chevy honestly feels … freeing.

Except for the part where I’ve tainted his memories of Dad with this information, just like it totally trashed mine. Only … he looks more concerned than upset. He slides an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. I wrap my arms around his waist. My brother could be an honorary Graham for the way he hugs.

And this thought, of course, has me thinking about James and the way he picked me up after my nightmare, curled around me, and held me there all night. My eyes burn. I haven’t let myself cry, and I’m not about to start now.

“How long have you known?” Chevy asks.

I squeeze him tighter. “I found out right after he died.”

Chevy sighs, relaxing against me. “I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

“Why? You’re not the one who had the affair.”

When he’s quiet for a long time, much too long, I pull back and stare up at him. His blue eyes look gray and overcast. He rubs a hand over his jaw, looking … really guilty.

“Why are you apologizing, Chev?”

“I found out about Dad’s affair when we were in high school.”

I almost fall over. My mind reels, rewinding backward all the way to high school, trying to make sense of this statement.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Probably same as you—I wanted to protect you. Lot of good that did.” He sighs. “Amelia contacted me after he died. I gave her money so she wouldn’t tell you.”

Shaking my head, I shoot a glance at the headstone, where Chevy placed fresh-cut daisies for our mom. I realize he’s never brought anything for Dad, but I always assumed it was because Mom loved flowers. “We’re like that awful Christmas story—the one where she sells her hair to buy him a watch chain and he sells his watch to buy her hair clips or something.”

“I always thought that was a sweet story.”

“It’s a depressing holiday story. If they had just talked—if we had just talked …”