by K. Street
Still half-asleep, I reached for Presley, surprised when my hand met cold sheets. My gaze landed on the clock. It was a quarter past six in the morning.
I threw back the covers, pulled on a pair of boxers, and exited my room. I passed Zeke’s open bedroom door, taking note of his stripped bed. I continued up the hall and rounded the corner into the open living area, stopping short at the sight before me.
My heart damn near exploded in my chest.
Presley’s head rested against the back of the sofa, her glasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose. One of her arms was draped over Zeke, who had his head resting in her lap, using her leg as a pillow. Her other arm relaxed on a snoring Turtle.
The dog must have been aware of my presence because he opened his eyes but didn’t bother lifting his head.
Traitor.
I went into the kitchen and grabbed the disinfectant spray from under the sink and my phone from the charging port. On my way to Zeke’s room to take care of the mattress and put clean sheets on the bed, I snapped a picture because this was a moment I never wanted to forget.
Twenty-Seven
Presley
It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and to say my mother hadn’t taken the news well when I told her last week I wasn’t coming home for the holiday would be the understatement of the century. I’d had absolutely zero desire to attend another Gallagher holiday soiree.
Instead, Papa B and I had spent the day with Harriett, Ryder, Zeke, and several of the Silver Shores residents who, for whatever reason, weren’t able to spend the holiday with their own families. We had a potluck-style traditional Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings. Those senior ladies sure knew their way around a kitchen. I’d nearly eaten my weight in pie, which was the reason for my current situation.
“One more mile to go,” I told Ryder, who kept pace alongside me.
“I’m pretty sure you said that two miles ago.”
“What’s wrong, babe? Too much for you?”
Ryder swatted my ass and then took off like a shot.
Several minutes later, I arrived at my driveway, sweaty and out of breath, only to find Ryder leaning against my mailbox.
“What took you so long?”
“Always so cocky.”
“I’ll show you cocky, baby.” He gyrated his hips.
“Not before you shower.”
We went inside, and I filled two glasses with water, passing one to Ryder. He had come over this morning after dropping Zeke off.
The Clynes were taking the boys on an overnight trip to Tampa. Carter had scored some sort of private tour with the Tampa Bay Lightning.
Ryder downed his water and then filled up his glass again, emptying it just as quickly. He pulled his shirt off and used it to wipe his sweat.
I finished my own glass. “I’m heading to the shower.”
He held up his phone, showing me a text. “Be right there. It’s Kendall.”
“Take your time.” My calves were on fire as I ambled through the house and into the bathroom.
I turned on the shower and started to undress.
“Sweetheart? Are you expecting someone?” I heard Ryder shout over the water.
I poked my head out the door. “No.”
“Whoever it is, I hope they have Girl Scout cookies.”
I laughed at his absurd remark. “It’s the wrong time of year.”
Curiosity piqued, I pulled my shorts back up and turned off the water.
I heard Ryder open the front door.
“Definitely not Girl Scouts. Can I help you?”
That niggling feeling I’d had in my gut, the one I had done my damnedest to ignore, was back with a vengeance. And I knew it in the way you just knew things.
I needed to go out there, but my feet were stuck to the floor.
What are they doing here?
Do I get dressed first?
Greet them in my workout shorts and sports bra?
“For starters, you can tell me who you are.”
Her voice was like a hammer to my temples.
“Pres? I think you might want to come out here.”
Workout clothes it is.
I strode into the living room with a boulder the size of Texas in my stomach.
“Ryder, it’s okay. You can let them in,” I told his bare back.
He stepped out of the way, motioning them to enter.
Mother wore a sleeveless black wrap dress that hit just above her knees, a pair of black Louboutin heels, and a black boater hat. Her blonde hair had been tightly pulled back and then coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She looked like she was going to a funeral. My father looked a little more relaxed and like a Florida native in his khaki pants and ivory linen shirt.
“Isn’t this a wonderful surprise?” My tone almost sounded convincing. “Ryder, these are my parents, Victoria and Dr. Thomas Gallagher. Mother, Father, this is Ryder DeLuca.”
“It’s nice to meet you both.” Ryder extended his hand to my father, who shook it. Then to my mother, who completely ignored the gesture.
“What are you guys doing here?” I asked.
“I think a better question, young lady, is what is he doing in—”
“Victoria,” my father cut her off. His sharp tone was one I had never heard him use with her. “Presley”—he forced calm into his voice—“what your mother means to say is that we miss you. I’m speaking at a medical conference next week, and since you weren’t able to come home for Thanksgiving, we thought we’d surprise you.”
“Well, mission accomplished.”
An awkward silence settled over the room, and when it became nearly more than I could take, Ryder finally spoke, “I planned to take Presley out for breakfast. Would you two like to join us?”
My father placed his hand on the small of my mother’s back. “That sounds great. Doesn’t it, darling?”
“Of course.” She fixed her eyes on Ryder. “Perhaps you’d like to clean up a little first. Maybe put on a shirt.”
“Actually—”
Whatever Ryder was about to say would only add fuel to the proverbial fire.
“Are you guys staying close by?” I interjected.
My father answered, “We have a suite at the Yacht Club.”
“We can meet up at Keke’s in Palmetto Park in about an hour or so?” Ryder suggested.
“Dad, you’ll love Keke’s. Their French toast is to die for.”
My mother muttered something about carbs under her breath.
“Wonderful. We’ll see you kids soon.” He guided my mother out the door.
Once they were gone, Ryder’s eyes met mine.
“That was …” He trailed off.
“Intense. Awkward. A disaster,” I supplied.
He pressed his thumbs into my shoulders and kneaded away the tension. “It wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t a total catastrophe.”
“I guess,” I sighed. “I should’ve told them.”
“You should have, but what’s done is done. I’m sure I’ll win them over.”
An hour and a half later, Ryder and I sat across the booth from my parents. The server had just taken our order, and it was time for the inquisition.
My father leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “Ryder, tell me about yourself. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m an artist, sir.” There wasn’t an ounce of shame or apology in his tone.
“An artist?” my mother scoffed. “And what kind of art do you do exactly?”
“I’m a metal artist, ma’am.”
Sir?
Ma’am?
Apparently, Ryder is bringing the big guns.
“Is that lucrative work?” my father asked.
Ryder’s jaw ticced, but his voice remained calm. “I do all right, Mr. Gallagher.”
“How did you two meet?”
I glanced at Ryder. Panic rolled off me in waves as I considered my options, weighing which version of our meet-cute I wanted them to h
ear and how many details I was okay with them being privy to.
“It’s pretty funny.” Ryder recounted the story of how Zeke nearly mowed me down with his bike.
The server returned with our food and then topped off the water glasses.
Mother stabbed a blueberry with the tines of her fork. “Zeke is your little brother?”
“Yes.” Ryder cut into his steak and eggs.
“What’s the age difference between you two?”
“Twenty-two years.”
“I see,” my mother said, using her lawyer voice. “But he’s your brother?” She might as well have drawn air quotes around the last word.
The bite of French toast turned to sawdust in my mouth.
Watching the two of them was like witnessing two cars careening toward each other on a one-way street, resulting in an impending explosion you were helpless to stop.
Damn if I didn’t try.
“Mother, maybe we can go shopping while you’re here.” I dragged my spoon through the whipped cream and chocolate sauce. “I think I’m free Monday and Wednesday afternoon once school is out.”
“I’ll check my schedule.” She turned her attention back to the man next to me. “So, Ryder, do you spend a lot of time with your little brother?”
He wiped his mouth on his napkin. “You could say that. I’m his guardian.”
Silverware screeched against ceramic.
My mother swiveled her head. Her eyes conveying just how pathetic and gullible she thought I was. “Presley, please tell me you aren’t buying this. You can’t possibly be this naive.”
“Mother.”
“Victoria.”
She ignored not only me, but also my father. “There’s a gala next Friday evening. Dr. Walden and his family will be here. I’ve arranged for Hunter to be your escort. He remembers you quite fondly.”
Ryder looked at me, imploring me with his eyes to say something.
“Mr. DeLuca, I’m sure you’re … well … I’m sure you can understand how you simply aren’t a good fit for our daughter. She deserves better than a starving artist passing off his son as his kid brother. Don’t you agree?”
Ryder balled his napkin and threw it on his plate. “Listen, lady. Number one, nobody said I was starving. Number two, not that it’s any of your business, but Zeke is in fact my kid brother, and I’m raising him because our parents are dead.”
He stood, opened his wallet, and then tossed a wad of cash on the table before heading for the door.
“Ryder, wait.” I scrambled out of the booth.
“Presley Victoria Gallagher. If you don’t sit down right this minute—”
“Mother, I’ll be right back. Just give me a second.”
I scurried out the door, breathing a sigh of relief when my eyes landed on Ryder leaning against his truck in the parking lot.
He stomped to the passenger door and jerked it open.
“Ryder.”
“Let’s go, baby.”
“Look, I know my mother is horrible.”
“Are you honestly going to stand here and make excuses for her? How could you just sit there and not say anything?”
“I tried.”
“Bullshit. What the hell happened? For the last several months, I’ve watched your confidence grow. The minute your parents show up, you revert back to a version of yourself I don’t even recognize.”
“You don’t understand.”
He threw his hands up in the air. “You’re damn right I don’t understand. I don’t understand how the woman I love could just sit there, spineless and silent.”
“Ryder, you’re not being fair.”
“Let me tell you what isn’t fair. Judging me based on my occupation. Assuming I would lie about Zeke’s identity. Your mother made me feel like I wasn’t good enough to be the gum on the bottom of your shoe.”
When I still made no move to get in the truck, he slammed the door and stormed to the driver’s side.
“Please just wait,” I begged.
“For what?”
I said nothing.
“That’s what I thought. Have fun with Hunter.”
Then, he got in his truck and drove away.
I stood in the parking lot, broken and sad long after he was gone. Finally, I turned back to the restaurant and saw my parents. We moved toward each other.
Mother held up a container. “I had them box your fruit. I figured you didn’t need the French toast.”
I didn’t tell her that I had run a total of five miles this morning. Or that I’d only eaten one bite of my breakfast.
“Do you need a ride home?” my father asked.
“Yes, please.”
I tuned my parents out as we strode to their rental car. My mother droned on and on the entire drive back to my place, but I didn’t hear a word she said. I ignored them as they followed me inside, uninvited.
I went into the kitchen and grabbed a glass from the cabinet. Then, I filled it with water from the tap and brought it to my lips.
“Presley, I’m certain your mother didn’t mean to be so rude.”
“I wasn’t rude. There’s a reason it’s called brutal honesty.”
“Victoria, that’s not exactly helpful.”
“Presley, we’ve allowed you to spread your wings and sow your wild oats but the time for that is over. I have raised you to be better than this. Getting involved with a man like that. Have you even seen his financials? He is raising a child. Trust me, that is not something you want to be saddled with.”
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Each word was a blow.
“Honestly, Presley, we’ve indulged you long enough. Teaching the alphabet to a horde of sniveling children is beneath you.”
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Beating me down smaller and smaller.
“This roof over your head belongs to us.”
“Damn it, Victoria.”
“The truth had to come out eventually, Thomas.”
“What is she talking about?”
“When you mentioned accepting a job offer in Florida, I simply made a few investments. Then, I hired a property manager to run things and showed you the listings,” my father explained, as though his actions were completely logical.
“And here you are, acting like a spoiled, ungrateful brat,” my mother spat.
Every cell in my body vibrated with anger.
The glass shook in my hand, and before I thought better of it, I chucked it at the wall. Shattering it in much the same way my mother had me.
Then, I pivoted, opened my mouth, and spewed forth twenty-five years of word vomit. “Shut up! Just shut up! My entire life, I’ve listened to you tell me I am too much or not enough. Too mousy. Too average. Not smart enough. Or pretty enough. Or skinny enough. Or good enough. You never miss a single opportunity to make me feel small or remind me what an extreme disappointment I am to you. You set impossible standards, and no matter how hard I try, I always fall short.” I jabbed my finger in her direction. “You. Didn’t. Raise. Me. Mother. I was raised by a revolving door of nannies. When I was seven and broke my arm and my glasses after falling off the monkey bars, Marta was the one who took me to the hospital and the eye doctor. Cary took me to get fitted for my first bra. And when Joey Nemechek broke my heart at the tender age of thirteen, Becca wiped my tears and took me out for ice cream. So, you need to climb down off your high horse, Mother, because last time I checked, you certainly weren’t Mother of the Year.”
“Presley—”
“I’m not done,” I cut my father off. “Not even close. You just sat there and let Mother go at him. You’re no better than she is. In case you’ve forgotten, your father is a retired New York City garbage collector. Do I need to remind you how hard he worked to help you get to where you are? Yet you can’t even be bothered to pick up the phone to call him.”
Shame washed over my father’s face.
I g
lared at my mother. “And you. I am a teacher, Mother. You act like I’m some sort of prostitute. Then again”—I laughed, but it held no humor—“as long as I was a high-end call girl, it probably wouldn’t matter because it’s all about money for you.”
She gasped, but I kept right on going.
“I love my career, and I’m not giving it up for you or anyone else. As far as Ryder goes, I don’t need to see his financials. I know the kind of man he is. I love him with all that I am, and I might have lost him. Because I wasn’t brave enough to stand up to the two of you. I allowed you to disrespect him, and I allowed myself to be manipulated and belittled. I’ve spent my entire life trying to please you. Trying to be the kind of daughter you could be proud of.” My tears spilled over, and I angrily batted them away.
“It’s exhausting, and I refuse to do it any longer. Furthermore, you might own this house, but I also have a rental contract, and you have no grounds for eviction. What’s that saying? Possession is nine-tenths of the law? I’m done with this conversation. Get out.”
I left them to show themselves out and headed to the bathroom, closing the door. I waited until I heard my front door open and shut, then I went back into the kitchen and grabbed the broom and the dust pan. My insides were as raw and broken as the tiny shards of glass I swept from the floor.
Exhausted and emotionally spent, I ambled to my bedroom.
My gaze landed on Ryder’s black duffel bag still sitting on my bed. The sight of it made my heart ache because I knew he wouldn’t be spending the night. I grabbed my phone from the top of the dresser and sent him a text. Then, I unzipped his bag, pulled out one of his T-shirts, and brought it to my nose inhaling the scent of him.
Somehow … someway, I have to fix this.
I can’t lose him.
I can’t lose them.
Twenty-Eight
Ryder
Turtle’s incessant barking roused me from where I’d dozed off on the couch.
“Relax, dude.”
Bark. Bark. Bark.
The dog weaved back and forth in front of the door.