Come Home to Me

by Liz Talley

  “You think it’s okay to belittle people who work for you?” he’d barked after she’d laughed about her housekeeper watching Hispanic soap operas and not picking the peppers off her pizza.

  Bev had assumed a deer-in-the-headlights pose. “Uh, no. I was just joking. I like my housekeeper.”

  “Being a celebrity doesn’t give you the right to act like an ass. Who makes other people pick crap like peppers off her pizza? What? Are your fingers broken?” Rhett slammed his palms on his desk.

  “No. But I pay her to do her job,” Bev said, frowning, obviously growing annoyed.

  “See, that’s the problem with people in our society, the problem with people in this town. They want to blame other people for their issues. They want to shit on people who they think aren’t as good as they are. Just a bunch of shallow, vapid opportunists occupying space. That’s what your reality show is. A bunch of nothing. A bunch of stuff that doesn’t matter. Shopping at Louis Vuitton and getting your nails done. Like that’s fucking life.”

  The network had gone to commercial break, fading from a livid Rhett Bryan and a gawking Beverly Bohanan. When it had come back on, Rhett had apologized to the viewers and proceeded with his interview with some guy from the local zoo. The next day, the morning shows were abuzz with the Rhett Bryan–and–Bev Bohanan fiasco. Memes of his meltdown on the arrogance of celebrities had popped up on social media, and even Saturday Night Live had spoofed him.

  The consensus was that the pressure of the accident that summer paired with the recent wrongful death suit had pushed Rhett toward the disdainful judgment of the very world he occupied. Some called him a hypocrite, but Summer thought his diatribe on Hollywood’s shallowness had been both horrifying and beautiful.

  Her phone buzzed, drawing her from her thoughts about Rhett’s pseudobreakdown. She struggled from the depths of the couch to find where she’d left it, which was the normal place: on the catchall kitchen table.

  Hunt.

  Scheduled D with Don Marris for Tuesday afternoon. This good with you?

  Summer stared at the text. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to David about taking pitching lessons. David had mentioned the possibility a few weeks back, and she’d halfheartedly agreed that going out for baseball might be a good way to bond with his father. But they hadn’t talked about the commitment it would take to play baseball if David made the team. Not to mention David playing baseball would be another grappling hook anchoring Hunt to her life.

  She sighed and texted Sounds fine. THX.

  Tossing her phone back onto the newly cleared kitchen table, she returned to her wine and muttered her recurring mantra, “It’s not about you. It’s about the kid.”

  That had been her guiding thought from the moment she’d discovered she was pregnant and knew she would keep the baby.

  Nothing more horrifying than facing your third day as a freshman in college while praying for your period . . . and knowing it wasn’t coming. She’d woken that morning, tiptoed from the dorm room so she didn’t wake her not-even-close-to-a-morning-person roommate, and rushed to the bathroom. Jerking down her pajama pants, she’d stared once again at the totally white crotch of her Victoria’s Secret bikinis and felt like she might vomit. Her boobs were heavy, her period totally absent for over three months. She’d told herself it was the strain of working two jobs that past summer, dieting like a madwoman, and moving to Columbia. Stress and nutrition affected a woman’s cycle. She’d looked it up in a few magazines and knew female athletes often missed their cycles.

  She’d had sex only once. And it hadn’t even been sex. It had been something altogether different. A girl didn’t get pregnant from something like that. One time?

  But in that exact humbling moment in the women’s bathroom of Hogarth Hall, she’d known the truth. She was eighteen, pregnant, and her parents were going to freak.

  Not to mention she was going to have to tell Hunter McCroy that he was going to be a baby daddy.

  At that thought, she had actually spun around and vomited into the toilet.

  The girl in the stall next to her had yelped and vamoosed, but Summer hadn’t cared because what dignity did she have left? What future remained? If her calculations were correct, she’d make it through this semester before she had to leave . . . unless she had an abortion.

  But she knew she wouldn’t.

  Her parents would never let that happen. They were deacons in the church, and even though they’d be horribly embarrassed by Summer being pregnant, they’d never forgive her if she had an abortion. An abortion would be much easier than carrying a baby, stretching out her stomach, making her look fat and gross. She knew a girl who’d had an abortion. Summer hadn’t been able to understand how someone did that, but now she understood perfectly. Erase the mistake. Don’t ruin two lives. Make it all go away.

  Summer couldn’t do it, though. She just . . . couldn’t.

  She’d wiped her mouth, padded back to her dorm room, fell into her narrow bed, and cried huge, gulping, almost quiet sobs into her pillow with the eyelet lace and purple monogram, cementing the fact that Hunter McCroy would always be in her life. She’d never be able to forget him now.

  Draining the wine, she glanced at the closed door to her left.

  Never had she regretted keeping David.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw his heart-melting grin, his clutched fist grimy with baby food, and the joy that had swept her heart when he babbled “mama.” Her parents had pleaded for her to put the child up for adoption. They’d begged her to put her mistake behind her. But Summer stubbornly refused. Because deep down she knew she would dedicate her entire existence to making sure this poor child wouldn’t get hurt. That she could ensure. Everyone thought her insane. They’d whispered about how she’d had so much potential, a full-ride scholarship, a chance to give another couple a child they so desired. But she’d dropped out of the University of South Carolina, put together the baby bed that would sit crammed between her small twin and the too-bright-purple wall she’d painted as a fourteen-year-old, and registered for community college.

  The day they’d placed him in her arms, she’d vowed to protect him with her everything.

  He was hers, and she had a mission—to love, protect, and fight to the death for her son.

  End of story.

  He was worth every tear she’d cried.

  Right as Summer lifted the glass to drain the last of her chardonnay, she heard something outside. A thump. Or maybe a scratch.

  Alarm prickled her neck hairs, and she set the glass on the narrow end table, rising and creeping toward the window. After her earlier scare in the afternoon, her senses remained on high alert.

  Likely it was the raccoon that had been plaguing her garbage can. The bastard was crafty and had figured out how to pry off the lid, causing her to spend money she didn’t have on a bigger, more secure can. Then again, there had been a rash of burglaries a few communities over. They lived far from the gatehouse, and Pete slept like a dead man, disproving any claims he made about being a light sleeper. The man couldn’t hear thunder.

  The porch light illuminated the cement stoop but not much beyond. The Carolina palmettos and lacy Spanish marsh melted into the inky darkness, but the open door of Rhett’s rental car provided enough light for her to see him sprawled on the edge of the crushed shell drive, rolling back and forth on his haunches.

  What the hell?

  Summer slid the chain from the front door and stuck out her head. “Rhett?”

  She heard a string of curse words that would make a whore blush. She shoved the flip-flops waiting beside the worn mat onto her feet and inched onto the stoop. “Rhett?”

  “What?” His voice was sharp. Or maybe holding pain?

  She walked outside, fanning away moths, and made the journey to the horseshoe loop in front of Pete’s house. The Carolina golden boy with his perfect body and too-white smile now lay on his side, clutching his big toe, hair stuck to his forehead, a horrible grimace on his f
ace. “Stubbed my fucking toe on that fucking stump. Shit, it hurts.”

  She squinted at where he cupped his big toe. “Is it broken?”

  “I don’t fucking know.”

  “Can you please stop using that language?”

  “Why?” He removed his hand and stared down at his toe.

  “I have a fourteen-year-old.” Maybe they cursed like that in California, but in Moonlight, it was still considered crass and unnecessary . . . unless you broke your toe. Maybe breaking your toe earned a person three—maybe four—choice words.

  “Sorry, it just hurts like a son of a bitch.”

  “What were you doing out here?” she asked, squatting beside him and drawing his hand from cradling his toe. She couldn’t see much in the scant light. “I can’t tell how bad it is. Come inside and let’s take a look. Can you walk?”

  “Of course I can walk,” he said, dropping a knee and rising. But even as he rose, she could see he wobbled. Made her wonder if he’d had too much of the bourbon he’d been nursing earlier. Or maybe it was something stronger. Pete had worried about his grandson living in that “godforsaken land of bad choices.” Of course, Pete thought no place compared to South Carolina—every state was inferior, whether it was full of those goll-danged tree huggers, weirdo liberals, or dumbass rednecks. But she couldn’t see Rhett having an addiction problem. He’d never seemed the sort to rely on booze or pills to get him through.

  Summer clasped his elbow to steady him. “Okay?”

  He nodded, dangling the offending foot and hopping toward the car where he’d left his other moccasin. Looked like the pair she’d given Pete for Christmas last year. The older man had never worn them, electing to wear the raggedy ones he’d had for too many years. “Except for my damned foot throbbing like a son of a—”

  “Yes, everyone on the island knows. Now, hush so we don’t wake up David or Pete. I’ll get you some ice and something for the pain.”

  Rhett did as suggested, hopping toward her open door, where no doubt mosquitos and moths were migrating inside by the dozens.

  Once in her living area, Rhett collapsed on the couch, plunking his big foot down on her coffee table. Summer stifled her frown and went to the freezer for a bag of peas. Covering the Jolly Green Giant with a thin dishcloth, she went back to the living area, perched on the edge of the couch, and peered at Rhett’s swollen right toe. The man had his head back with eyes closed. He looked out of place, and she felt a crazy inclination to shove him out the door, hurt toe or not.

  Gingerly, she ran a finger over the top of his toe. “Does that hurt?”

  “The whole damned thing hurts.” He cracked open a bleary blue eye, and she wondered if he were talking merely about his toe or . . . everything.

  “We need to stop the swelling. Let’s try this.” She carefully set the makeshift ice pack atop his foot. “I have aspirin. Can you take that?”

  “I have something stronger in my shave kit. That’s what I was after when I ran into that damned stump.”

  “I’ll get it for you,” she said, starting for the door.

  “Don’t bother. I can get it when I leave. I’m better now.”

  She hesitated. “You sure? You seem like you’re in a lot of pain.”

  Truer words had likely never been spoken. If anything was certain, it was that Rhett’s toe was the tip of the iceberg when it came to the pain in his life.

  “Come sit by me. I’d like that.” His voice sounded somehow seductive.

  Danger. Danger.

  “Rhett,” she said, caution in her tone.

  “Just sit by me. You know how long it’s been since someone sat beside me and didn’t want something from me? You don’t want anything, do you, Summer?”

  “I want a lot of things, Rhett, but none from you.” She meant the words when she said them. Or maybe she lied to herself, because who looked at a gorgeous man sprawled on a couch, a man she’d once loved to near distraction, and not want a damned thing from him? Summer had always been good at telling herself what she shouldn’t want. Actually doing that was quite another thing. Her judgment wasn’t always the best. She’d learned that the hard way.

  “Then sit by me. It makes me feel better. Tell me about Nashville. About David. About anything other than me probably breaking my toe or any of that shit that went down in California.” His voice carried weariness shaded with a dash of desperation.

  Summer sat. Not too close, but close enough to smell a mixture of bourbon and expensive men’s cologne. Close enough to feel his warmth. Close enough for him to reach over and take her hand. “You have calluses. I noticed them on the deck earlier.”

  “From the guitar.”

  The pad of his thumb stroked the side of her hand and did utter magic. She couldn’t lie about the pinpricks of heat in her belly, the lava flow of desire sliding into her pelvis. Summer could chalk it up to a lack of a man in her life for the past year, but truth lay in the fact it was Rhett Bryan stroking her hand.

  To her, he was the guy she’d fallen in love with senior year and couldn’t shake from her heart because his smile, his bluebonnet eyes, his very essence had clung to her like stink on a dead oyster. No amount of scrubbing had erased her desire to have him. This was why he was so dangerous. This was why her words seconds ago were an absolute lie.

  In that moment she remembered the way he tasted—spearmint and shame.

  “My sister owns a floral shop,” she said, because she couldn’t handle where her thoughts headed. “The old House of Flowers, but Maisie changed it to Crazy Daisies. She liked that it rhymed with her name.”

  “She was younger than you, right?” He hadn’t let go of her hand, but he’d stopped stroking it. Thank Jesus.

  “By seven years. She has two four-year-old boys—twins. Recently divorced from a dirtbag.”

  “Always a dirtbag, huh?”

  Summer sighed. “In this case, absolutely. Cheated on her with his dental hygienist.”

  “Cleaned more than his teeth, huh?” Rhett joked, before clearing his throat. “Everything around here has funny names—Crazy Daisies, Sweet Cheeks. I forget that’s how small towns are.”

  “Don’t forget the Kum and Go. Whoever thought that was a good idea for a gas station?” Summer said, wondering if she should pull her hand away from his. They were essentially holding hands.

  “A horny commitment-phobe?” Rhett asked.

  She chuckled. “Now I remember why you’re so good at what you do.”

  His smile faded, and the strange melancholy Rhett had displayed on the back deck returned.

  “Rhett, are you okay?” As soon as she asked, she knew she shouldn’t have. Hadn’t she learned anything from parenting a male? Don’t press. Let them come to you. But here she went, treading on dangerous ground like a moron.

  “Yeah, except for this toe.”

  “I didn’t mean your toe,” she murmured.

  His eyes fastened on the remote control. “Sure. I’m fine. Nothing a little rest won’t cure.”

  “I don’t think so, but I’m sure you believe that.” Shut up, Summer. Why are you poking a stick at him?

  Rhett’s eyebrows drew together, his mouth flattened. “What are you saying, Summer?”

  “That you can get rest in California. Or at that spa. I think you’re looking for something more. You’re hurting.”

  He shook off her hand, blue eyes snapping. “Who asked you what you thought?”

  “No one.” She curled the abandoned hand in her lap, studying fingernails that needed filing before they got in the way of playing the guitar. She wished she’d kept her damned mouth shut. What was wrong with her? She didn’t have to fix everyone around her. Rhett was not hers to fix. “I’m not trying to pry.”

  “You don’t know me anymore. Just like I don’t know you.”

  “So why are you sitting on my couch?” she asked.

  “You told me to come in. My toe was hurt.”

  “I’m just trying to be your friend.”

&n
bsp; “So that means you can stick your nose in my business? I thought I made it clear earlier that I don’t want to talk about why I’m here or if I’m okay. I just wanted a fucking normal conversation.” He jerked the bag from his foot and tossed it onto the table with a splat.

  He was right. He hadn’t asked for her to pry. Rhett wasn’t ready to be honest with himself about why he’d come home. Summer knew he’d come back to the place where he’d once been whole and untouched, seeking to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

  But there were pieces of himself he would never find. But he didn’t know that yet.

  “You’re right. I don’t have any business asking you anything,” she said.

  “I need to go,” he said.

  Why had she taken a simple moment and made it complicated? Maybe it was because earlier that evening, when he’d sat in that broken-down chair, she’d felt a kinship. She knew how it felt to pull on a mask while inside you curled into a fetal position. For a moment in the moonlight, she’d believed she could be part of his journey toward healing. But Summer couldn’t help Rhett. To believe that was to believe he was somehow like her . . . and he wasn’t. “I hope your toe feels better.”

  He jabbed the moccasin he’d tossed on the floor on his foot, wincing as he did so. They were definitely the ones she’d bought Pete last Christmas. Maybe they’d been too big for Pete and that’s why he’d not worn them. They looked too small for Rhett.

  “Thanks,” he said, standing. He wore baggy shorts and a worn T-shirt, nothing like the dapper man who spewed witty monologues and ate lunch with George Clooney. Again, she was taken aback at how familiar he felt. Which was weird because they’d been friends for only a short time those years ago. Or maybe they hadn’t. She still didn’t know what they’d been.

  Rhett hobbled toward the door, his shoulders hunched in protection. Summer felt a prick of guilt at driving him away with things too difficult to discuss. Sometimes she pushed too hard, oftentimes not enough. Her timing had been off tonight.