The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(99)

“What would have changed?” Chevy asks.

I shiver as a breeze lifts my hair off my neck. The sun has just dropped down over the trees and the light has turned to a soft gray. “We wouldn’t have been so alone.”

Chevy slings his arm over my shoulder. “We’ve never been alone.”

“I felt alone,” I admit quietly.

We probably need to go. The cemetery officially closes at dusk, and it’s definitely dusk. Though I don’t think Chevy is going to arrest us. Still, it’s cold, and I feel like an old shirt that’s been through the spin cycle twice.

Chevy glances around, then gives me a little tug. “Time to go.”

Neither of us say goodbye to Mom or Dad, though I silently toss out a love you to Mom and an I’m still mad at you to Dad. As we walk, little solar lights begin winking to life all around us. I’m not sure who started the tradition, but almost every plot and most of the paths have little solar lights—the kind you can pick up at any Walmart or dollar store. It makes the Sheet Cake Cemetery look magical, like some kind of fairy garden.

“Did your breakup have anything to do with Dad?”

For the second time in half an hour, Chevy’s words almost bowl me over. “What breakup?” I ask, WAY too cheerfully.

“Nice try. I saw the post on Neighborly before you deleted it.”

“Stupid app,” I mutter. We reach Chevy’s truck, and he holds the door open for me. “Why would you think my breakup has to do with Dad?”

Chevy closes my door and waits until he climbs in his side of the truck before answering. “Don’t think it escaped my notice that you’ve been dating totally safe guys like Dead-Eye Dale. Then you bolt from a guy I could actually see you with.”

“Shouldn’t you be happy? I thought you tried to scare him off.” Chevy turns on the car and I crank up the heat, holding my fingers in front of the vents.

“No, I talked to him because I thought things could get serious with you two.”

I scoff. “Well, you were wrong there.”

“Are you sure you aren’t just running?” He assesses me, and I can’t meet his gaze.

“If I am, it’s because he chased me off.”

“And what happens when he realizes he’s an idiot and starts chasing after you?”

“He won’t.”

“He will.”

“Well, I’ll just keep running.”

“That!” Chevy turns, putting his back up against the door and pointing at me. “That’s what I mean about Dad. You’re running because you’re scared of getting hurt. You’re scared to trust.”

I point right back at him. “This goes both ways, brother dear. Is it because of Dad you keep dating terrible women?”

He makes a face. “They aren’t terrible.”

“They are.”

Sighing, he faces forward and puts the truck in drive. “Fine. They’re terrible.”

“About time you admitted it.” I don’t feel the sense of elation I should. I just feel … sad. “So—do you think Dad is part of why?”

“I just—” Chevy’s jaw clenches as he turns out of the cemetery and heads back toward his house. “I just don’t want to be like him, you know? What if I can’t be with just one person? What if I suck at commitment? What if I—” He pauses and swallows, that same muscle clenching in his jaw. “What if I hurt someone the way he hurt us?”

Oh, Chevy. My heart aches for my big brother. Who, besides being a giant pain in my butt sometimes, is really pretty amazing.

“Not that I have tons of experience in this department, but I’m pretty sure you can’t have a relationship without hurting someone. Or being hurt. I think that’s what happens when two imperfect people are in a relationship.”

He hums a noncommital response.

“And if you’re thinking you share his DNA, so you can’t be trusted, well—if that’s true for you, it’s true for me too. Do you feel like I’m going to screw up every relationship just because I’m his daughter?”

Chevy shoots me a sideways glance, one corner of his mouth tilting up. “I mean, you do seem set on screwing up your relationships …”

I shove him from across the console, and he laughs. “Fine. No. I don’t think that just because of Dad, we’re both doomed to bad relationships.”

“So, maybe we should try acting like we believe it,” I suggest.

Chevy grunts, which only reminds me of the man who perfected the art of grunting.

I hold out my hand, extending my pinky. Chevy looks at my finger like it’s a cockroach—the giant flying kind Texas is famous for, which my brother doesn’t ever have in his house because he’s too much of a neat freak.

“Pinky swear,” I say, giving my hand a little shake. “Come on.”

“What exactly am I swearing on?” he asks.

“That we’re not going to torpedo our relationships because of Dad’s mistakes.”

Chevy takes one hand off the wheel and hooks his pinky around mine, grinning. “Fine. Consider me unarmed. Weapons down.”

“I never thought this day would come,” I tease, and he gives me a look I don’t like one bit.