Page 33 of Held-
Aunt Jillian looks up from her knitting, her face breaking into that sunrise smile that's been my one constant. She's sitting in the chair beside Uncle Harold's bed, her gray hair pulled back in its usual neat bun, a half-finished scarf draped across her lap.
“Brayden, what on earth are you doing here at this ungodly hour?” she asks, but her eyes are bright with pleasure. She sets her knitting aside and holds out her arms for a hug.
I cross the room and bend down, careful not to disturb the various tubes and wires connected to Uncle Harold as I embraceher. She smells like lavender and that fancy hand lotion she's been using since I can remember—the one she claims keeps her hands young despite decades of hard work.
“Just checking in,” I say, straightening up to glance at Harold. He's sleeping peacefully, the steady beep of his heart monitor creating a soothing rhythm in the otherwise quiet room. “How's he doing?”
“Better. Doctor says we might be able to go home tomorrow if his numbers stay good.” She pats the chair beside her. “Sit. You look like you haven't slept a wink.”
I sink into the chair, not bothering to deny it. “Been busy.”
“Mmhmm.” She gives me that look—the one that says she can see right through my bullshit. “I heard you've been making quite the impression around town. Fixed the church van, brought in enough food to feed an army, and...” she pauses dramatically, “been spending time with Cecelia.”
“It's not like that,” I say automatically.
“Like you're interested in her,” Aunt Jillian says with that irritating knowing smile she's perfected.
I shift uncomfortably in the hospital chair. “We're just working on the charity drive together.”
“And riding motorcycles together. And having dinner together at my guesthouse.”
I shoot her a look. “You spying on me now?”
“I have eyes and ears all over this town, Brayden. You know that.” She reaches over to pat my hand, her touch gentle despite the arthritis that's starting to twist her fingers. “And I think it's wonderful.”
“There's nothing wonderful about it,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “She just got out of a bad marriage. The last thing she needs is someone making her life harder.”
“Someone like you,” Aunt Jillian repeats, brow lifting. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
I gesture at myself—at the cut, the ink crawling up my arms, the whole rough-edged package. “Come on, Jillian. Look at me. You know.”
“No,” she says, setting her knitting aside, which is never a good sign. “I don’t know. What Idosee is a man who dropped everything to help run a toy drive for kids he doesn’t even know. A man who’s been taking care of his aging aunt and uncle without a single complaint. Riding a motorcycle and wearing a leather vest doesn’t make you the villain, Brayden. You’ve had a soft spot for that girl since the day you set foot in this house. Don’t throw away a second chance just because you’re scared of what it means.”
“That’s not how I remember it,” I say, keeping my voice low so I don’t wake Harold.
“It’s exactly how things turn out if you let them,” Aunt Jillian replies, picking up her needles again. The quiet click-click fills the room, steady as her heartbeat. “And for what it’s worth… Cecelia’s been through more than you realize.”
“Yeah, I know about her ex. Real piece of work.”
“Not just him.” She glances at Harold's sleeping form, then back at me. “That girl's been living her whole life trying to meet everyone else's expectations. First her father's, then Ethan's. She never got to figure out what she wanted.”
Something in my chest tightens. “Sounds familiar.”
“Thought it might.” She gives me a knowing look. “Only difference is you ran away to find yourself. She did what was expected of her.”
I lean back in the chair, letting her words sink in. “I didn't run away. I got kicked out.”
“Semantics.” She flicks her hand dismissively. “Point is, maybe what she needs isn't someone who fits neatly into that perfect little world she's been suffocating in. Maybe she needs someone who can show her there's life outside it.”
“And you think that's me?”
Aunt Jillian's confidence in me is worse than any guilt trip she's ever laid on me. At least with guilt, I know how to push back. But this blind faith that I'm somehow what Cece needs? I don’t know how to process that.
“You're giving me too much credit,” I mutter, watching the steady rise and fall of Uncle Harold's chest. “I'm not some knight in shining armor.”
“No, you're better,” she says, those knowing eyes pinning me in place. “You're real. And that girl has had enough fairy tales to last a lifetime.”
I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the stubble I didn't bother to shave this morning. “I kissed her,” I admit, the words falling out before I can stop them. “Last night.”