Page 50 of Sincerely, Mr. Braden

“That’s your privilege talking, kiddo.”

“Why does shit always come down to what I have and who I am? What the hell does my privilege have to do with lying?”

“That’s your privilege talking, too,” he says. “I’m not talking about having more shit than you can carry in your backpack or the magazine covers you’ve graced or the money in your bank. I’m talking about what you’ve had in your life. How you grew up.”

“You mean living without running water half the time?” I scoff. “Yeah, that was a real privilege.”

“Who needs running water when you’ve got parents and grandparents who love you and siblings who’ll use their own bodies to form bridges over rivers for you?”

I smile with that memory. “That was me and Flynn being a human bridge for the others and coming out with leeches sucking our blood.”

“You know what I mean,” he barks. “You were lucky. You never had reasons to lie when you were growing up, or as an adult. But other people aren’t that lucky. You of all people know that. You can’t judge T till you’ve walked a dozen miles in her shoes. People lie for all sorts of reasons, Seth, and for some, it’s about survival, not maliciousness.” He clears his throat again and lowers his voice. “Hell, I’ve lied to your grandmother about liking her kale soup for fifty years. And I lie to her every time she asks if whatever expedition we’re on at the time is the last, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect her.”

“I have no idea how she trusts a word you say, old man.”

“Because she knows she can. I’ve shown her through my actions and the million other words I say to her each and every day.”

“Then why lie?” I ask. “I never do.”

“Sounds like you’re lying to yourself right now,” he says carefully. “Why do I lie to your grandmother? To protect our relationship. If I don’t lie, we’ll fight for months while I concoct my plans. Lying saves that headache and gives us the space to pretend I’m not a neurotic old fool who can’t stop chasing answers.”

“Gramps—”

“Nah, you listen to me, son. All I’m saying is that letting two people into your inner circle over thirty-plus years isn’t many. I’m not telling you what to do. Deal with it or don’t. But don’t pretend it’s nothing, because T’s been one of your closest friends, even if you never met her, and that kind of trust doesn’t grow on trees. Especially where you’re concerned.”

Fuck. A notification appears on my screen. An email from Taylor Mitchell. Everything inside me goes still. Our exchanges have been clipped, cautious, and courteous. I don’t trust myself not to say something I’ll regret. Or worse, something so honest it bleeds all over the page.

“Whatever you’re not telling me,” my grandfather says, drawing me back to our conversation, “don’t let pride make the choice for you. You’re too smart for that, and if I know you, you’ll regret it. Problem is, you’re too damn good at walking away.”

I don’t even know how to respond to that. I’m proud of being good at walking away.

Or at least I always have been.

Now I’m just fucking confused. Nothing makes sense.

“Listen, son, I’ve got to run. Your grandmother is calling me to dinner. If you let on that I don’t like her kale soup, I will steal your spreadsheets, your calculator, and every damn computer you own.”

“I won’t,” I say absently.

“You gonna be okay? I can tell her you’re waving the SOS flag and be late for dinner.”

“No, thanks, Gramps. I’m good.”

“Keep lying to yourself, and one day you’re not gonna know what the truth sounds like anymore. Love you, Seth. I’m here if you need me.”

I smile at his ability to tell it like it is, no matter how hard it lands, then soften it with endless support I never asked for. “Love you, too.”

The line goes dead.

I take out my earbuds and, as I pocket them, Gus’s SUV pulls into the lot. I wave and quickly open and scan Taylor’s email as he parks.

Dear Seth.

Dear? What the…?

My attention snags on the word resignation, and my blood runs cold.

“Hey, mate,” Gus says as he climbs out of his vehicle. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”