The First Time Again: The Braddock Brotherhood, Book 3

by Barbara Meyers

  “Hey, look, I’m fine.” Baylee didn’t want to rehash details of her life with her best friend. She was in no mood for one of Jenny’s well-meaning lectures. “I called to tell you I’m leaving town for a while.”

  “Leaving? What do you mean? Where are you going? When are you coming back?”

  “Jen, I’m not sure about anything right now. I’ve got a lead on a job, but I’ll be in touch, okay? Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a bit, though.”

  “Baylee. What are you talking about? You can’t leave. What about Trey?”

  “What about him?”

  “Is he going with you?”

  “No. That’s over.”

  “What do you mean it’s over? Baylee… Seth! What did mommy just tell you? Leave the kitty alone.”

  “Jenny, I’ll call you. Don’t worry, okay?”

  “Baylee—”

  Baylee pressed the End button on her cell phone.

  For Trey, the following day proved no less frustrating than the one before.

  His mother had generously offered the use of her cell phone but declined his offer of lunch in Asheville. She had a morning appointment scheduled with her hair stylist and an afternoon Apple Festival planning meeting. So Trey spent the day alone, with only his mom’s cell phone for company, which, he realized, was entirely useless to him. At the police station he reported the phone stolen and waited for them to write up an official report. From his parents’ land line he’d called his insurance company and his cell phone carrier. The numbers of anyone and everyone else he might have called, including Baylee, were on the SIM card of his missing phone.

  A duplicate of his state-of-the-art cell phone would have to be ordered and shipped to him. He’d considered throwing another fit when the clerk told him they didn’t have any in stock. Instead, he thanked her, climbed into the Cayenne and did his breathing routine until he felt calm enough to drive.

  It would have been a good idea, he realized now, to have a list of all those contact numbers somewhere besides inside the cell phone itself. He should have told Baylee to create a file for that in his laptop and print out a copy so it would be readily available should he ever lose his phone. Live and learn.

  He knew almost the moment he walked in the door of his house that Baylee had not been there. He didn’t have to check any further. The house felt as empty as it had that morning. If she’d been there and left, he’d have known it. Somehow she left a spark of energy behind each time she departed, something he could sense even after she was gone.

  He grabbed a soda from the refrigerator and took it out to the porch. Lowering himself into one of the chairs, he sipped and silently contemplated the fact that he missed her. If she had called him, he wouldn’t know it. He couldn’t call her. He didn’t have his cell phone contact list and he didn’t know her number.

  He could, however, stop by her house. Find out why she hadn’t come to work today. Find out if everything he’d thought about her, about them, was wrong. If it was, he didn’t want to know. His relationship with Baylee had seemed right in a way nothing had in a long time. Fresh. New. Without too much baggage to weigh it down in spite of their past history.

  Tomorrow, he decided, as he drained the last of the soda. If she didn’t show up for work, he’d track her down and they’d have that conversation.

  “Dad, I’m leaving.” Baylee entered the kitchen where Dan was poring over the newspaper. A mug of black coffee sat steaming nearby.

  “You’re sure about this?” Dan asked. He’d asked her the same question yesterday after she’d told him about the job offer and her plan to pursue it.

  “I need a job, Dad. This is the first nibble I’ve had in months of sending out résumés. If this doesn’t work out, I’ll look for something else, but I feel like I have to go.”

  Dan’s gaze searched her face. “What about…?”

  “What?”

  “Well, Trey. Aren’t you even going to tell him you’re leaving?”

  “I tried. I called him. I left a message. I told him how sorry I was. He hasn’t called back. I haven’t heard from him at all.” Baylee bit her lip, shifting her gaze away from her father and blinking rapidly. “I think it’s over.”

  “Are you sure? Because he sure seemed to care an awful lot about you. He told me that day he came to see me in the hospital.”

  “I said such hurtful things to him. I can’t take them back. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Dan pushed a chair out. “Sit down for a minute.”

  When Baylee didn’t immediately take the seat he’d indicated, he said, “Just for a minute.”

  Baylee complied, wary of what her father might say. They hadn’t talked much since the family sessions during his stay in rehab.

  Dan contemplated his cup of coffee as if he might find an opening there. He’d never been much of a communicator. That had been her mother’s department. As she was about to rise, to tell him it was okay, they didn’t need to talk, he spoke.

  “When I came home the other day and Matty was here, I told him there was very little in life that couldn’t be fixed.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh and glanced at Baylee. “Words of wisdom from the old man, huh?”

  “Dad, you don’t have to—”

  “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Matty. The only time you lose your chance to fix things is when someone dies. I found that out the hard way when I lost your mother. Matty didn’t believe me. Didn’t think there was anything he could do to make up for what he did wrong. It’ll take some time and some effort on his part, but he’ll move past it. He’ll find a way to repair the damage he did, as long as he doesn’t give up. I think Trey will forgive him. I hope you will too.”

  “I have. I did.”

  Dan looked at her again. “Maybe in your head you have. Your heart might take a little longer. But that’s what I’m saying. You’re both still here, so there’s a chance to fix things, to make them right again. For you and Matty and for you and Trey.”

  Baylee had to look away from her father’s knowing eyes. She blinked rapidly and gazed out the window at the overgrown wisteria bush outside the kitchen window. If Trey wouldn’t talk to her, wouldn’t return her call, wouldn’t listen to her, how could she fix anything between them? Already a part of her dreaded ever speaking to him again, of hearing his voice tell her they were done. That it was officially over.

  “That’s it,” Dan said, his voice breaking into her thoughts. “Dad’s words of wisdom. Long overdue and probably not worth much.”

  “I appreciate it, though,” Baylee said. At least Dan was trying to help, even if it was hopeless. She stood and so did he. “Bye, Dad. Thanks.”

  “Bye, honey. At least think about what I said.”

  “I will.”

  Trey could feel the black hole he’d crawled out of almost two years ago opening up beneath him. He remembered that crash-and-burn feeling, knowing he’d hit rock bottom, he’d lost everything and he had nowhere to go but up if he wanted to survive. He’d hated every second of the climb back out of the mess he’d created for himself with drugs and booze in an effort to mask the physical and emotional pain he was in.

  Somehow, right now, the lure of the black hole beckoned, called to him. In its comfort of oblivion he wouldn’t have to care, wouldn’t have to think, wouldn’t have to hurt. Wouldn’t have to acknowledge that Baylee was gone. She’d taken off at the first sign of trouble, the first crack in his armor. The first time his past came back to haunt him in a serious way, she bailed on him.

  Although Baylee’s father had willingly given him Baylee’s cell phone number when Trey explained why he didn’t have it, Dan claimed not to know where she was. Neither did Ryan, nor, Ryan swore, did his wife. Baylee had a possible job offer somewhere in Florida, and she’d be in touch. That’s all anyone seemed to know, including Matty when he tracked him down at the animal shelter. Trey had been certain Matty was telling the truth when he said he didn’t
know where Baylee was.

  Damn her! He drove his fist into the kitchen wall. The old plaster cracked, but whatever was behind it, a two by four or a brick wall, held, and Trey cradled his hand while his knuckles began to swell.

  He stared at the coffeemaker and knew coffee wasn’t going to cut it this time. He needed a drink. A nice, strong drink. Whiskey. Bourbon. Scotch. He didn’t really care. Something, anything, to take the edge off. He didn’t have to drive. He had nowhere to go, nowhere to be. He had no one. He also had nothing to drink.

  Unless Grandpa Mike or Grandma J had left something behind. Trey began opening cabinets in the kitchen. He’d been through most of them and knew there wasn’t much there. His grandparents hadn’t been drinkers, although occasionally he’d seen Grandpa Mike share a beer with his dad. Grandma J had liked those sweet, fruity, frozen drinks and occasionally ordered one if they were out to dinner for a special family event. She’d get mildly tipsy and giggle like a little girl. Trey had thought it was funny.

  But it gave him something to do, rummaging through the cabinets, searching high and low for a bottle of something. The kitchen turned up nothing, unless he wanted to chug a bottle of red wine vinegar.

  He turned on the light in the mudroom and looked around at the shelves where Grandma J had stored old jelly jars and flower pots. The gardening miscellany was a jumbled mess. Grandpa Mike had a shelving unit of his own which held jars of screws and nails and other hardware. Old doorknobs, an ancient drill, machinery parts and a few dusty tools.

  Trey opened the cabinet beneath the big laundry sink and began removing half-full bottles of cleaning supplies, insect repellant and bug killer. Something dusty and dark brown glinted from the furthest corner. Trey shoved aside moth-eaten cleaning rags and a disintegrating sponge and reached for the bottle.

  He had no idea how many years of dust coated the outside, he only cared about the contents. He stared at the label, which was a brand of whiskey he’d never heard of. He unscrewed the sticky cap and sniffed the stale aroma of well-aged booze.

  I don’t give a damn, he reminded himself. He took the bottle out to the porch, settled himself in his favorite chair, propped his leg up and took a swig straight from the bottle.

  It burned down his throat and hit his stomach in a most unpleasant manner, but he reminded himself once more that he didn’t give a damn. After a minute or so, he swallowed another mouthful of the disgusting brew. Then another, and another, until he lost count. But who was counting anyway? He’d quit as soon as he didn’t hurt anymore.

  “Hey, Trey. You in there?”

  Trey woke facedown on his pillow with a blinding headache, a stomach threatening to pitch into the back of his throat, and a gauze-like blur around everything else.

  Someone was tapping his shoulder and talking to him, but he couldn’t quite discern who it was. He turned his head one degree and opened one eye to see his father bent over him.

  He saw concern, not condemnation, in Andy Christopher’s blue eyes, and for some reason Trey suddenly felt close to tears. Before he could process the feeling, however, he leaped out of bed and made for the bathroom, nearly knocking his father over in the process.

  He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, for once ignoring the protest from his right one because he had more important business to take care of. He heaved violently and repeatedly, vaguely wondering if everything inside of his body, not just the contents of his stomach, might end up in the toilet bowl.

  Grandpa Mike’s old whiskey hadn’t tasted very good going down, and it was massively disgusting coming back up. Trey vomited, flushed, gagged, threw up some more and dry-heaved himself into exhaustion. He gave the toilet handle a final push and sat on the floor with his back to the tub, berating himself for such a stupid moment of weakness. Hadn’t rehab and AA taught him anything? Hadn’t he learned to call his sponsor when he felt tempted to drink or start popping pills again?

  He hadn’t felt tempted, though, not for over a year. He’d lulled himself into a false sense of security, believing he was so strong he didn’t need help from anyone.

  He could hear his dad moving around in the kitchen. He wasn’t ready to face him yet. He hauled himself up from the floor and stripped off his clothes. He turned on the shower and stared at himself in the mirror until the steam obscured his reflection.

  The hot water pouring down on him helped minimally. His head was pounding and his throat was raw. He had a god-awful taste in his mouth that gulping water had no effect on. Truth was he felt shaky and weak as a newborn kitten, and he didn’t like the feeling. He also didn’t like knowing he had no one to blame for his current state except himself.

  Eventually he turned the water off and toweled dry. He brushed his teeth and his tongue, which helped a little. Bracing his hands along either side of the pedestal sink, he fought for control of his body as well as his emotions. The toiletries lined up on the narrow shelf below the mirror swam before his eyes before one of them came sharply into focus. He picked up the plastic bottle and stared at it. Wild Cherry Body Lotion. He opened it and sniffed that elusive scent Baylee always wore. Every memory he had of being with her crashed over him, reminding him once again of what he’d lost. He set the bottle back on the shelf.

  In the bedroom he donned clean boxers and a T-shirt and sank down on the bed, his mind a big ball of fuzz. Now what? He had no answer to that question.

  His father appeared, holding a bottle of water in one hand and a steaming mug in the other.

  Andy had the same expression of concern he’d worn before, but Trey could see no judgment or disappointment beneath it. His dad didn’t seem angry with him. Trey had waited an awful long time for his dad not to be mad at him anymore, and now he didn’t know how to react.

  Andy handed him the bottle of water and set the mug on the nightstand. “I made coffee, but if you tell your mother I know how, I’ll deny it.”

  A weak chuckle escaped Trey.

  “Bad night?” Andy asked. The empathy in his tone pushed Trey further toward the edge. He was seriously in danger of completely losing it in front of his father.

  He sat on the bed, holding the bottle of water. He twirled it around, peeling at the label with his thumbnails, blinking furiously.

  “What can I do to help?” Andy asked.

  Trey lost it. No amount of blinking was going to hold the tears inside. He shook his head. He didn’t know how to answer his father’s question. What was he going to say? Just be my dad. Love me even though I screwed up. Don’t be mad at me anymore.

  His shoulders heaved. His nose started to run and the tears kept coming. He didn’t bother trying to wipe anything away, and it started to drip onto the floor along with the condensation from the water bottle and the little bits of the label he’d peeled away.

  “Oh, now, son.” Andy sat down next to him. As soon as Trey felt the weight of his father’s arm across his shoulders, the floodgates opened completely. He was five years old again, in pain and afraid, and he needed his dad. Trey had no idea how long it was before he got hold of himself. Andy took a clean handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his face with it. He offered it to Trey. Trey set the water bottle on the floor and buried his face in the slightly damp cotton. Calm washed over him along with a hundred memories of his childhood, brought home by the faint scent of the laundry detergent his mother’d always used.

  He wiped his face off, afraid it was going to take more than his dad’s handkerchief to clean up the mess he’d made of himself. He grabbed tissues from the box on the nightstand to complete the job. His dad kept his arm around him, his hand on his shoulder.

  “Couple of tough guys, aren’t we?” Andy finally ventured.

  Trey glanced at him sideways. Traces of tears glistened on his dad’s eyelashes.

  “Suck it up, walk it off,” Trey agreed with a watery chuckle.

  “Rub some dirt on it,” Andy finished softly.

  “Wow. Sorry about that.” Now that it was over, Trey was embar
rassed.

  “Nothing to be sorry about.”

  Trey looked at his father directly. “I am sorry, though, Dad. About everything. I know I disappointed you.”

  “Hardest thing about having a kid. Watching them screw up. I hated every damn minute of it. Couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”

  “Yeah.” Trey picked up his water bottle and studied it some more. “I was trying—”

  “I know you were—”

  “But I screwed it up again.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Trey looked at his father again, afraid to hope.

  “I’ve got a lot to be sorry for, too, son. Your mother says I’ve been behaving like an ass where you’re concerned. I believe she might be right because she usually is. But if you tell her I said that, I’ll deny it.”

  Trey almost smiled. “Seems like there might be a lot of things Mom doesn’t know about you.”

  Andy grinned. “Maybe.”

  They sat in companionable silence for a minute before Andy said, “Think your stomach can handle some food? If you tell your mother, I’ll deny it, but—”

  “Don’t tell me. You’re a gourmet chef.”

  Andy clapped him on the back. “Nah. But I can fry up bacon and scramble an egg every now and again.” He stood. “Bring that mug of overpriced coffee out to the kitchen and let your old man teach you a thing or two.”

  Trey followed Andy to the kitchen. His coffee was lukewarm, but he drank half of it before refilling his mug from the carafe. Andy had bacon sizzling in a skillet and was cracking eggs in a bowl, tossing the shells in the sink. He threw a dishtowel over his shoulder and starting beating the eggs with a fork on his way back to the stove. He used the same fork to rearrange the bacon in the pan.

  “Need any help?” Trey asked. “I don’t guess your culinary talents extend to grits and home fries.”

  “Nope,” Andy replied. “Tell you the truth we’ll be in luck if any of this is edible.”