Cringe. Massively uncomfortable cringe that makes my whole body shiver from head to toe.
“That’s maybe more than where I’m at right now? And telling him even a bit of that sounds awful. And Brody’s not really that kind of guy either. I don’t think that’s . . .”
At Emily’s harsh glare, I taper off. Not many people can shut me up with a look. She’s one of them.
“I’m gonna be honest here, so listen up and let Girly Ol’ Emily tell you something you don’t know about guys. Their masculinity is fragile sometimes, especially a guy like Brody who’s probably used to being the biggest swinging dick in the room. Not literally, but figuratively . . . oh, except maybe literally?” Her brow quirks, her hands moving through the air, measuring big to small, asking about his dick, apparently. I do not answer. “Later for that convo, then . . . where was I?”
“Something I don’t know about guys?” I prompt dryly. Because I’m so ignorant about men.
“Right. A guy like Brody is tough, with this hard exterior and stoic façade. And you, you’re like a sledgehammer, coming in and banging away . . . see what I did there?” She looks pleased with herself but shakes her head, hopefully focusing. “He let himself be vulnerable with you, which is probably a big fucking deal to him, and you punished him for it because of issues you have, ones that have nothing to do with him.” She holds up one finger. “You need to let him know it’s okay to share with you and that you want to share with him.” A second finger comes up. “You need to tell him that you have feelings that are scaring the shit out of you and that you overreacted because you’re a lucky bitch who doesn’t know what she’s got when it’s right in front of her.”
“Harsh much?” She’s right, I know she is, but each of her words is another painful reminder of how badly I fucked this up.
“Holding someone’s heart is a big responsibility, one you just showed him you can’t be trusted with. So yeah, apologize, but more importantly, be worthy and hope he gives you another shot.”
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
“So, how do I do that?”
“That part’s up to you, Rix. You’ll figure it out. Might I suggest a ballpeen hammer style rather than another sledgehammer approach, though? And also, I just said peen and somehow was not talking about penises . . . penis-i? I would like karmic good girl credit for that.”
“Penises,” I correct.
She nods, grabbing her wine. “Okay, so now tell me all about racing . . . finally.”
I pick up my beer and tell her about everything I’m doing, from racing my Mustang to designing entire systems for the other racers at the track. Somewhere around nitrous oxide percentage ratios, I lose her, but she still nods along, and I realize how much I wanted to share this with her all along.
And maybe how I should share it with Dad too.
Chapter 20
Erica
This might be the craziest thing I’ve ever done, but I’m doing it. I’m not giving in to my own fears and insecurities this easily.
At least that’s what I tell myself right until I pull up to the gate at the Bennett ranch. Well, the closed gate of the ranch, at least. Shit, I hadn’t thought of that. I only planned on coming out here, saying all the things I’ve been practicing in my head to Brody’s face, and hoping for the best. I didn’t have a plan B for what to do if that didn’t work out.
Hopefully, this isn’t a sign of bad things to come.
I stare at it blankly for a moment before I remember that Shayanne insisted that we trade numbers at Hank’s, and I’m suddenly really grateful for their overbearing behavior that night.
Me: Hey, it’s Rix. I’m at the ranch. Can you let me in?
Shayanne: Brody’s being an asshole. That your fault?
Me: . . .
Shayanne: Are you here to fix it?
Me: Yes.
Shayanne: On my way then.
That was easier than I expected. Or maybe she’s just setting the trap and I’m waiting here like a dumb fuck for her to come kill me in person? But I’ve got to try with Brody, even if it means his sister trying her damnedest to hurt me for hurting him.
I see a small ATV coming toward the gate, a plume of brown dust billowing behind it. When it gets close, Shayanne brakes hard, almost drifting it to a stop by the fence.
“Thanks for letting me in.”
“Not happening.” Her eyes are narrow slits of accusation. “I’m not sure what you did, but Brody damn near tore the house apart last night, slamming cabinets and bitching about the back door that hasn’t closed right in ten years. The boys resorted to getting him drunk as a method of controlling his hissy fit. He’s sleeping it off at home.”