Come Home to Me

by Liz Talley

  Rhett rubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe you’re right. I wasn’t sure why I came home.”

  His grandfather nodded, and again silence inserted itself between them. Grampy puffed on his pipe, little wreaths of gray against the blue sky.

  “What do I do?” Rhett asked.

  It was the question that had pecked at him since that morning last summer. Ever since that moment when he climbed from the vehicle and saw what he’d done, he’d been lost.

  Grampy looked at him as if he sensed the depth to the question. This wasn’t about Summer, but about everything in Rhett’s life. Both he and his grandfather knew Rhett was the sort of person who made a plan and pushed forward, like a running back through a defensive line, churning his legs, looking for a hole to get through. Rhett’s life so far had not yielded much pushback. In fact, Rhett had reached the end zone time after time. But what happened when there was no end zone . . . or he couldn’t find one?

  “You put one foot in front of the other. You remember who you are. Where you came from. Who I taught you to be. A man of honor. Everyone screws up and everyone faces hard times. When your father died, a part of me went with him, but I had to keep going. I had you looking up at me with those sad blue eyes. I fought that darkness for you. So what are you fighting your darkness for, Rhett? What is the meaning of your life?”

  Darts of realism were nothing compared to the cannonball of doubt that smacked into him. What was the meaning of his life?

  “I don’t know,” he said after a full minute ticked by.

  “You might want to start with that. Maybe if you figure out what’s worth living for, you can start living again.”

  His grandfather’s last words were imparted as a closing argument. Rhett may not have been around Grampy much over the years, but he knew a final word when he heard it.

  Rhett rose and went into the house, his head swimming with thoughts chasing more thoughts. He’d gone through months of therapy, but none of the million-dollar gurus pinpointed what he was lacking like Grampy had. His grandfather could make a fortune on the mixed-up West Coasters. Hell, he could pocket a pretty penny on the screwed up East Coasters, too.

  His phone buzzed.

  Summer.

  Where’d ya go?

  He texted back. Letting you get some needed sleep.

  K. Tell Pete I’ll bring lasagna tonight. Need to plan menu for Thanksgiving.

  He sent a thumbs-up.

  And then he sat down hard on the old barstool his grandfather had gotten at a restaurant supply clearance. The set didn’t match, but his grandfather loved that they were sturdy. No flash for Pete Bryan.

  Rhett had made a mistake sleeping with Summer. The text was a prime example. Already she’d slipped him into her life. Lasagna. Holiday plans. Like they were . . .

  No. She wasn’t assuming or implying anything. Just handling dinner plans. Still, the questions Grampy asked hopped from neuron to neuron in his brain, demanding he give them attention. Paired with his grandfather’s disappointment in Rhett for messing around with Summer, the confusion about his future had him scrambling to figure out his next move.

  His phone buzzed again, jittering on the bar.

  His agent.

  “Yeah,” Rhett said, deciding to answer rather than let another message go to voice mail.

  “What the fuck, Rhett? I’ve been calling you for the last forty-eight hours. There are time constraints on some of this shit, man,” Bruce screeched.

  “Sorry. I’ve been out of pocket.”

  “Why are you still in South Carolina? What the hell is going on with you, man? Your attorney’s been calling, the network, there’s some serious shit that needs your attention. Jane Townsend called and she needs some quotes from you on the fallout.”

  “Fallout from what?”

  “On the story the Times did on the Tavares family. The one that brought out Reis Tavares’s criminal record and had neighbors admitting the Tavares kids ran around unattended all the time. You don’t have a fucking TV?”

  “As you know, I’ve been avoiding the news for my mental health.”

  “Well, people are talking. Jane did a good job of casting doubt on this family. The reporter wants to run a follow-up piece. She wants a quote from you. How horrible the accident was, how bad you feel, how you’ve suffered PTSD. But most importantly how you feel you weren’t at fault for that child’s death.”

  “You told Jane to do all this?” Rhett asked, as his gut churned. Yeah, he’d agreed it was the best defense against the suit, but something about it didn’t sit right with him.

  “She said this is what needs to be done. The judge set the trial for December so he can clear his cases before the holidays. We couldn’t wait. You needed damage control. And you disappearing makes it look even worse. You need to get back here. Lionel James called yesterday, and they want to film your cameo in the Will Ferrell movie the first part of next week. And then we have a meeting with the studio execs about the contract extension for Late Night the following day. The studio wants an evaluation by some fancy-ass shrink before they negotiate. I’m telling you this Bev shit has done some serious damage if they need you to get the okay of a shrink. I’m up to my eyeballs, Rhett.”

  Rhett felt everything around him fold in on him. This was why he couldn’t handle his world anymore. The career he’d so loved pulled harder on his feet, making the hangman’s noose tighten around his neck. At that moment, he couldn’t fucking breathe.

  “I’ll be there Friday.”

  “You need to get on a plane now.”

  “I can’t today, Bruce. It’s not possible. I have things to wrap up here.”

  “When?”

  “Friday’s the best I can do. Set up the meetings and I’ll be in touch.” He hung up before he could change his mind. Dread encircled him, squeezing his midsection.

  Rhett closed his eyes.

  He had to go back to his world. Grampy was right. He’d come home to find some goodness, but he’d also come home to hide from the hard stuff in his life. Thing was, a person couldn’t hide forever. Eventually he had to face what he’d built with the choices he’d made in life.

  His phone buzzed again.

  Summer.

  David going to movies with Maisie. Want to come back over and have . . . coffee?

  Yeah, he wanted to have coffee. Again and again. Until the world fell away. But his world wasn’t content to sit in the back seat any longer. His world was tapping his shoulder and insisting he turn around and go back to where he really belonged.

  Rhett surveyed the large living area of the Nest. Worn furniture sat pointed at the shiny new TV Rhett had bought. Duct tape covered the arm of his grandfather’s recliner, the floors needed a new stain and seal, mismatched chairs circled a table piled with mail, and a stack of Field & Stream magazines spilled out onto the hand-hooked rug where Rhett had once played with his Power Rangers. The lived-in room was an interior decorator’s nightmare . . . but yet the sight pleased Rhett.

  Part of him would always belong here, but he wouldn’t give up the life he’d made in California to stay in Moonlight. His grandfather thought LA too shiny, prefabricated, and commercial, but he wasn’t wholly right about the place Rhett laid his head most nights. Sure, there were shallow kooks and narcissistic assholes, but there were truly beautiful people, too. LA had guys who worked beneath hoods to take home the bacon for their families, waitresses slogging through two shifts to afford college tuition, medical personnel working volunteer hours at shelters. Plus, there were the Hollywood Hills overlooking a glittering LA at night and gorgeous beaches to practice his surfing skills. South Carolina would always be in his soul, but he’d made room for the sandy, sunny California. That wasn’t just where he lived—it, too, was part of him.

  His heart contracted when he thought about Summer. He’d been in some good relationships and some shitty ones, but he’d never held such a tenderness for someone the way he did Summer. He could chalk it up to having a past with
her—maybe the shared experiences during their formative years had forged a stronger connection. The thought of doing a no-mess walkaway scene like they do in the movies created self-loathing and . . . despair.

  Rhett didn’t want to ride off into the sunset.

  But he had to.

  Because he and Summer couldn’t work. Their worlds were so vastly different. Hers was French toast and hamburgers, nagging a kid about homework, and thumbing through a magazine while her son watched the NFL. His was salmon with truffle risotto, nagging a production assistant, and standing on the red carpet reading through production notes while starlets posed for the paparazzi. Worlds away, opposite coasts, staggered lives. Summer deserved someone who would come home to dinner and sit in the stands with her, cheering David on the mound. She deserved someone who was stable, who wasn’t always on the go, who wasn’t getting sued by the family of the child he’d accidently killed. Summer deserved love that he couldn’t give.

  He should have heeded the warning he’d given himself that night at the hospital. He should have stayed on the beach and not have waded into Summer’s waters. Walking away from her would hurt.

  Before he could talk himself out of it, he called and arranged for airfare and pickup for Thursday evening. He’d have Thanksgiving dinner with his grandfather before flying back west.

  “You fixin’ a sammich?” his grandfather asked as he slammed the door shut. The scent of his pipe followed him inside.

  Rhett looked down at the bread he’d set on the counter earlier and shoved his phone into his pocket. “Uh, yeah. I just made my flight to LA. I’ll go back Thursday night.”

  “Flying the coop, are you?”

  “I have to go back sometime, I guess.”

  His grandfather stomped into the kitchen and slid a plate from the upper cabinet. Setting it next to Rhett, he opened the bag and withdrew four slices. “It’s been good having you home. I know I got a little stern with you about Summer, but I’m glad you came home when you needed to.”

  “It is my home,” Rhett said, retrieving the turkey he’d picked up when he’d bought the wine and cheese for the date night with Summer. Seemed so long ago that he’d packed that basket and prepped the boat for the romantic cruise around the bay.

  “Yes, and you should always come here when you need to remember who you are. You know you’re getting everything in my will. I can’t leave this place to Carlton or Frank. They’ll get their wives in here and have it looking like some show house. Or, hell, they’d sell it and go to Tahiti on the profits. Can’t trust those two to keep your grandmother’s dream alive.”

  Rhett didn’t want his grampy to talk about dying. He couldn’t stomach the thought of losing his only family. His mother’s family had treated him like a second-rate Moped when he was in college, but when he struck gold as a DJ on a local station and got syndicated, they suddenly loved their grandson and nephew. When Rhett ended up on television and then hosting a game show, they’d shown up with hands out, requesting loans and posing potential investment opportunities. They weren’t horrible people, but they weren’t his grampy Pete. They weren’t truly his family (though they loved to be called Rhett Bryan’s family).

  Until the last few weeks, Rhett had never realized how lonely he felt in a place he belonged. Sure, he was busy in LA, but Rhett didn’t have many people in his life who were there because they wanted to be. His closest relationships were with his agent, production assistants, and casting agents. He sometimes played basketball with a fellow comedian, and occasionally spent holidays with his costar on the one rom-com he’d made. He could get dates and go to dinner with other artists, but none knew the true Rhett Bryan.

  He wanted to go back to California, but he wanted someone beside him. Maybe it was time to think less about his career and more about his happiness.

  “Let’s not talk about when that happens,” Rhett said.

  Grampy looked up from slathering mayonnaise on his bread. “Why not? Dying’s part of living, ain’t it?”

  Rhett cut his sandwich diagonally, like they did in commercials, and grabbed a bag of Cheetos. They’d always been his favorite chip, and in four days he’d have to get back to eating healthy again, settling only for a single day of the month to visit his favorite taco stand on the beach. “Yes, but I don’t want to talk about it. We’ve talked about too many heavy subjects this afternoon.”

  “You’re not holding a grudge because I told you to lay off Summer, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, so if you like her that way, why would you give her up so easily?”

  “’Cause you’re right,” Rhett said, sliding his plate onto the bar and snagging a stool. He sat down and took a bite. Damn, there was nothing better than white bread.

  “I usually am,” Grampy said.

  “And humble.”

  Grampy gave him a rare, snaggletoothed grin. “Apple don’t fall far from the tree.”

  Rhett snorted.

  “My pops told me to stay away from your grandmother, too. I didn’t listen.”

  His grandfather didn’t say anything else, and instead went about the business of making his sandwich. Rhett gave it a full minute before he said, “What are you trying to say?”

  His grandfather shrugged. “You said you liked her.”

  “I’m seriously trying to figure out if you’re being intentionally irksome or if you’ve succumbed to Alzheimer’s. If it’s the former, stop. If it’s the latter, what home do you prefer going to?”

  “You ain’t putting me in one of those hellholes. If ever I get to where I need to wear diapers or start talking to the walls, I’ll just take the boat out and pull the damned plug. I’ll go out with a glub.”

  “Again, let’s not go there.”

  “What I’m saying is you young folk don’t know how to persevere. Your grandmamma waited for me when I was over in Korea. Three years she didn’t see me and we were fine. Wrote letters, got a little leave, and met up. Spent all three days in a hotel room. That’s how your daddy came to be. We didn’t have to have it perfect. Bah, you say you can’t be there and here. Sure you can. If you want something bad enough, you make it work. Like I did with your grandmamma. Like your daddy did with your kook of a mother, God rest her soul.”

  “Summer and I aren’t in love. We’re just friends who . . . flirted with something. My life is too complicated right now, remember? I’ve got to figure some things out, and it’s not fair to Summer to ask her to wait while I decide what I want in life. Or if I even want to change anything in my life. Things are complicated.” He wanted more with Summer. But they couldn’t work, so he should start buying the words he was selling to Gramps.

  “You think Koreans shooting at my head wasn’t complicated?”

  “No, I’m not saying you didn’t exist in danger, but maybe having things cut and dried—you live, you die—made it easier for you to see what your life was. I can’t do that right now. There’s too much going on inside of me.”

  Grampy studied him for a full ten seconds. Then he picked up his sandwich and took a bite. “Want to watch football? Titans are playing.”

  Rhett blinked, trying to figure out if this was another part of Grampy’s Obstacle Course of Finding the Truth in life. “Sure.”

  “Good. I’m tired of talking about feelings. You gotta figure yourself out. I can’t do it for you.”

  True enough. Rhett picked up his plate and followed Grampy into the living room. The older man turned on the TV, found the game, and settled into the ancient recliner. Rhett sank onto the couch, balancing the old Corelle plate on his knee. The phone jittered against his thigh. He dug it out.

  Summer.

  Hello? You already blowing me off?

  He stared at the words for a few seconds, vacillating between tossing his uneaten sandwich on the coffee table and running to Summer’s house or being reasonable. He knew he should tell her it had all been a mistake. Protecting her from the hurt his departure would bring would be wise. That was as
suming she’d be hurt. Grampy could hypothesize himself to death, and Rhett could make guesses based on the past, but only Summer knew if whatever she felt was true enough to care when Rhett went back to LA.

  No way. Watching Titans game with Grampy. I’ll see you tonight.

  What would she read into that text? Many women he knew would analyze it seven ways to Sunday. Others would get pissed and tell him to go fuck himself.

  Okay. See you tonight.

  But not Summer. Because she wasn’t like the other women he’d had in his life. Summer lived in the back seat. She was a mother and therefore used to being second. Something about that was both endearing and irritating. Double-edged sword, that. He wanted her to demand he come to her, to give her the attention and respect she deserved. Yet he savored that she didn’t get ruffled and bent out of shape that he didn’t drop everything and come running for another tumble in her bed.

  But why wasn’t he running to her bed?

  If all he had were four more days of Summer and Moonlight, why was he sitting there watching a game he cared nothing about?

  “Hey, Grampy. I need to talk to Summer.”

  His grandfather stirred, obviously having already started his Sunday nap. “Huh?”

  “Enjoy the game.” Rhett tried not to look so eager to get away, but he may have run-walked to the front door. He’d tell her he was leaving and then see if she wanted to make the most of the time they had left together. He’d put the ball back in her court. Her choice. God, he hoped she chose four days of goodness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  November, present day

  Hunt would have stayed in hiding forever except his son’s tearful apology crushed the wall he’d erected against fatherhood and made him feel like a total asswipe for avoiding the kid for the last two days.

  “I’m so sorry, Dad. I was just going to have one drink so I wouldn’t look like a total dork, but then they kept giving me more. I didn’t want to tell them no. I wanted them to like me. I feel so stupid. Please don’t be mad at me,” David said when he saw him at the movie theater on Sunday afternoon.