by Marcelo, Tif
“Promise.”
“I think . . . I think my brother likes you.” She shook her head. “I saw it today, at the photo shoot, and it makes sense, with the way he’s been acting lately, so weird and giddy. Whenever he’s around you, he simply lights up.”
Geneva conjured up a blank expression, though panic ran through her. Beatrice continued to be the most important woman in her life aside from her mother, and she didn’t want her to mistrust Geneva, or to be angry. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m almost positive. I hate to even bring it up. I don’t want for it to be awkward. The both of you are working together. I was all for this setup, for this fake-couple-for-pictures situation, but today it was apparent—this chemistry Tammy was talking about. No wonder your pictures are so good . . . in real life, you’re a perfect fit. But now my brother’s got a crush on you. And I . . . I can’t tell if you like him back.” She shook her head. “Do you? Like him?”
Geneva held her breath. She would not be able to lie around Beatrice, but what of it, at that moment, could she say? She formed her words carefully. “Of course I like Brandon. I love him, much like I love you. We have chemistry because we were dance partners at your debut. I lived in your house half of my high school life. He and I know each other for who we are.” Saying it aloud was like a thunk against her chest. Because it was true, though it didn’t mean they were meant to be. “That connection is what you see, Gen.”
“You’re right.” Her face broke out into a relieved smile. “Okay, I just don’t want you to feel any pressure. I know what happens when you do.”
There was so much to unpack from the conversation, but her friend’s last statement gave her pause. “What happens?”
“You get the hell out of here, and I don’t want that to be the reason why you don’t stay. For a time there, we lost touch.”
“You mean after the wedding.”
Beatrice nodded.
The lost months. With Geneva’s breakup from Brandon, she’d naturally avoided Beatrice. She had been too much a reminder of him. The result was another breakup, though an unofficial one.
And there was one thing worse than a breakup with a love interest—it was a breakup with a best friend, even a temporary one.
“I’m sorry that happened. I was going through something,” Geneva said.
“I don’t mention it so you have to apologize. Nor do you even have to explain. Everyone needs their space sometimes. But here’s the thing. If my suspicions are right, and my brother has a crush on you, it’s only a matter of time before you like him back, because I just have a feeling, you know? Unless you end up married, you’ll break up. And I don’t want our family, which includes you, to break apart. We already went through it with Gil.”
“Whoa, ease up on the gas,” Geneva joked, though inside dread bloomed. Beatrice was verbalizing her own worry—she had laid out all the reasons why she and Brandon couldn’t be together. There was too much at stake. The friendships, the connection, the future. Geneva couldn’t believe that a second chance existed, because one couldn’t go back and fix the past, could one? It was fruitless. What remained was learning from it and not making the same decisions. With a steady voice, she said, “The family won’t break apart.”
Beatrice heaved a breath and laid both hands on the steering wheel. “You’re right. Okay. I’m sorry. I’m worried, and I don’t know why. It all feels like we’re on the verge of something. I’m picking up drama from everyone, and I’m not sure if I’m projecting my own indecision about Beachy.”
“There’s a lot going on, and it’s emotional, and it’s okay.” Geneva leaned in to hug Beatrice and hoped it was enough to ease her worry.
But she knew that the hug wouldn’t do a thing to assuage her own mixed feelings.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“You’re breaking up,” Brandon said to his iPad, propped on the steering wheel of his golf cart. He was parked in the shade, steps from the yoga studio, from where the smell of wood stain mixed in with the cooking from Chef Castillo’s food truck wafted in the air.
“Is this better?” Garrett came into focus on the screen. He was standing in one of the empty rooms of Illinois Way, wearing his usual, an oxford shirt with rolled-up sleeves and jeans. “My reception isn’t great out here.”
“My reception out here isn’t that great either. You know, this probably would have been better if you properly scheduled the call with me. I wasn’t expecting you to check in for another hour.”
“I know, but I had a house to show in the neighborhood and thought, what the hell, right? Besides, I gotta catch you while I can.”
“I suppose you’re forgiven.”
“So, how are things?”
“They are . . . complicated.”
“With Ms. Harris? Do tell.”
“That’s the thing—there’s almost nothing to tell, but it’s not awful.”
“That’s vague.”
“I know.” Brandon reflected on it, on how good he felt with Geneva in his arms and yet completely understanding that nothing was to happen between them. “It feels hopeful even if there’s nothing to shoot for.”
“I can’t say I understand. That, to me, means you’re in limbo, but who am I to judge? I’m happy you’re happy.”
“Happy is an overused and probably an overrated word.” Though the limbo comment wormed into his psyche. He tried to mentally pluck it out of his head.
“That is some fatalistic business.” Garrett laughed. “Happiness just is. It doesn’t need to be deep.”
Brandon pressed his lips together and mulled. He and Garrett could wax theoretical all day long about happiness, about what was realistic and attainable. It made him a great business partner, because work was never just about numbers. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t the goal be happiness?”
“That’s a high standard to keep, my friend. I agree to an extent that it’s good to know what aids in achieving happiness, but the true goal, in my opinion, is joy.”
Brandon snorted. “They are synonyms.”
“Depends on the context. Anyway.” He peered. “Do you know what can achieve both? Financial security.”
Here it comes. “Garrett—”
“And that means unloading Mulberry Road.”
Brandon dropped his chin into his chest.
“Have you talked to—”
“No, I haven’t.”
The rumble of a truck sounded, followed by Mike’s dusty blue F-450. He stepped out and raised a hand, then pointed to the studio’s open door, presumably to check on the crew’s work.
He nodded and gave Mike a thumbs-up. Perfect timing. “Let’s get started. My contractor’s here.”
“Yeah, I know when I’ve worn out my welcome.” Garrett flipped his screen, and the camera tracked his exit to the outside. After a quick scan of the front circular driveway and the exterior of the home, he did a systematic walk-through of the indoors. On his iPhone, Brandon took notes.
The process took a quick twenty minutes, and Brandon foresaw a straightforward plan. He breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s an incredible property.”
Garrett was sitting on the front stoop, and behind him showed the breadth of the wraparound porch. “Right? And we got it below market value. The lot’s small, probably half an acre, but coming up the drive, it feels isolated with the trees. Then the rear view of the river—that’s what makes it special. We can go two ways, as with all our flips. We can go the easy way—fix the broken, slap paint on everything else—or we go custom.”
Brandon winced at the truth bubbling inside of him. Because the house had all the markers of a success: big enough to accommodate a growing family, close enough to town, but far away for some seclusion, and most of all, it was cheap. “To be honest—”
“You love it, right?”
“I do, and—”
“I knew you would. Are you tempted, like I am, to go all the way?”
“I am, but—”
“But that’s not sm
art.” Garrett frowned and completed his thought, as was their way. “I agree. If this was a property any other time, we could do something magical with it. Right now with the economy, we need this flip to do well for us. But Bran.”
“What’s up.”
“It’s my turn to be honest. This could be my last flip. I’ve been thinking the last couple of days, man, and I can’t do this alone. I know we touched on it a little when you left. Now that we’re somewhat face to face, I need you to know that if this doesn’t make money, or if you can’t come to the table with more, I’m going to have to bail.”
Brandon rubbed his forehead, the guilt sitting right there, up front and center. “I know I shouldn’t have left without saying.”
“Look, we’re friends, Bran. I understand a lot of what’s going on. But as a business partner? I have to tell you—man, you’ve got to get yourself together. I can’t do this alone. If anything, I don’t want to lose your friendship. Working with friends, with people you care about, creates a fuzzy line. And I’d rather be your friend than a business partner. So if you can’t do something to come up with more investment, then I’m out after Illinois Way.
“I love you, man. But you’ve got to take what’s yours sometime. If you want something, you’ve got to take it and move forward. If you wait too long, then there’s a chance to lose all of it.”
Brandon was left speechless. He knew that Garrett was talking about Mulberry Road, but it felt like a déjà vu, with Geneva. What settled was this indescribable sick feeling of people speeding past him, of leaving him behind. What was so wrong with double-checking and thinking twice? Why was it a disadvantage to hold on? Holding on meant building a foundation, and without a foundation, how would the rest of a house stand?
Brandon didn’t understand. He didn’t want to be pushed. But seeing his friend with this regretful and obvious disappointment on his face made him want to fix it.
At the end of the day, he didn’t want to be left behind, especially by people he cared about.
“Garrett—”
“I know. You’re going to try. But I need you to know where I stand.”
There was nothing else to say, then. “I . . . I’ll keep in touch, then?”
“Yeah, we will. Send me what your thoughts are on the project, and we’ll go from there, okay?”
“Okay.” When Brandon hung up, he typed up the beginning of what he knew would eventually become pages of an itemized list when he got back to the house later on that night. As he did so, he realized that that wouldn’t be enough. He knew what he had to do, but the question was whether or not he could do it.
A gust of wind directed him toward the sky, where a flock of birds fought against the wind, a reminder that time was flying and there was more to do today. So he entered Hinga, where the industrial fans drying the wood floors became a relief from the punishing sun outside.
Mike was just getting off the phone when Brandon entered. “Boss! Thanks for meeting up. We’re ready to start picking paint colors.” He directed Brandon outside, where swatches of three different colors of blue were painted on the siding.
Brandon pointed to the middle swatch. Colors were his forte. “I like that one. But I’ll have to run it by Geneva.”
“I like the cobalt blue too.”
“I’ll get back to you by later on today. Though we may have to hold off from painting, right?”
Mike thumbed his phone. “The storm’s in Charleston.”
“Shoot.” Brandon shivered reflexively, but he girded himself. “That’s pretty close.”
“We’ll be ready. My team will board up windows tomorrow morning after our meeting. Maybe the weather will do us a solid and take a right turn.”
“Well, thanks for working right up to the line.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Brandon’s phone buzzed with a calendar notification, a notice for him to head northeast, to Tiwala. Unlike the rest of the houses, Tiwala was shrouded by foliage. It had survived Maximus, only needing its front porch repaired. “I have to head out. Anything else?”
“Yep.” He strode through the front entrance. “We’ll need to decide on the outside paint colors for Yakap and . . . oh, wait.” He looked up at the sky before digging at a box in his truck bed. “Scratch that. I’ll text you the houses. But if we can get the samples up and chosen, we can keep moving forward.”
“No worries; it’s in my brain.” Brandon lifted his iPad.
Mike handed Brandon paint swatches with a gritted smile. “Thank you. I’m losing my mind these days.”
Brandon heard the shake in his voice. Keeping it light and flipping through the swatches, he said, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He waved it away. “Sort of. Woman problems. Actually not a problem . . . just, never mind.”
“Do you mean Chef Castillo?”
“How did you—” His cheeks pinkened. “Oh, right, the restaurant. Yes, it is, but it’s on the DL.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice. Or tell me at all. I didn’t mean to pry. But if you need anything . . .”
“Thanks, I appreciate that. Let’s just say I didn’t expect for one meal to turn me to a one-woman kind of guy.”
“Ah.” Brandon offered him a smile of understanding, because his life forked much more often than he wished it did. “We can only do our best to adjust, right?”
“You’re right.” He pushed up the door to his truck’s cab. “You’ve been a lifesaver, and I’m glad you’re here, Brandon.” In a lowered voice, he said, “I gotta admit that when I first met you, I wasn’t sure how it was going to work out, with the two of us. I thought there would be too many cooks in the kitchen, know what I mean? But this has been good. You’re a great team player, acting as the go-between to what needs to happen on the ground.” He climbed into the driver’s seat.
Brandon grinned. What Mike was saying was code. “You can say my brother’s bossy.”
Mike scrunched his face as he leaned an elbow out the window. “That’s not it. I’ve seen bossy and worked for jerks. That’s not your brother. He’s exact, methodical. The kind of person you need up there. Don’t know about you, but I’d rather be out here in the sun and getting my hands dirty, and not doing his job.”
Brandon responded with a nod, but inside, a heavy feeling settled in. Brandon hadn’t considered this. He’d assumed that if Chris could have his hands in everything, he would, but never questioned his own preferences. “I’ll get back to you on paint swatches for the houses.”
“See you in a bit.”
Brandon gently pounded on the hood of the truck before Mike started it back to life.
Once alone, he texted Geneva, eager not only to discuss paint but to see her once more. Anything but to think of Garrett’s ultimatum.
Brandon:
I’ve got paint swatches.
Where are you?
Geneva:
I’m at Halik.
Brandon:
I can come to you
Geneva:
I don’t mind you picking them
Brandon’s hand stilled on the phone. This was a turn of events.
Brandon:
You want me to pick them?
Geneva:
You’re capable?
Brandon:
I know I am.
Geneva:
Great.
Super busy.
Halik was on his way to Tiwala, so Brandon decided to make a detour. The last text was unsettling. In the few days they’d worked together, he and Geneva had become a team. They’d discussed most decisions together.
The cart bumped down the uneven road. At Halik’s turnoff, he parked behind a line of resort vans, doors open, with furniture ready to be hauled out. Music blared from the house’s open windows, with voices interspersed. A quick peek through the shadows, and one was Geneva, wearing jean shorts and a tank and a headband, hair up in a ponytail. She was bent at the waist, wiping down the lamp with the red engravings with p
ure concentration.
Dang, she’s cute.
He knocked on the window. Geneva looked up, head cocked to the side, then, after a painful few seconds, opened it. The cold blast of AC and Geneva’s perfume were a wake-up to all his senses.
He lifted the paint swatches.
“I thought we agreed you’d pick them,” she said without preamble. Her expression was unreadable.
“I also thought that you and I were good.” he said.
“We are good.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I know you, Geneva Harris, inside and out. Something’s up. You have opinions on paint colors, on everything.”
“Shh.” She bent down lower, face closer to him. So close that the cupid’s bow of her mouth was inches from him—so close he could have kissed her frown away.
Keep focus, Puso. “So what’s this about, then?” Brandon asked.
“What do you mean, this.”
“This . . . that you can’t look at me in the eyes. Like you’re planning to bolt.”
Her expression changed. “You know?”
Brandon stiffened, and his internal monologue began: Was this about the dance? Had he been too forward? “Know what?”
“Shoot.” She shook her head. Then a noise from inside the house caused her to turn, and a faux smile appeared on her face. To someone, she said, “I’ve got to step out and talk to Brandon, but I’ll be right back. Just carry on. The iPad tells you where everything needs to go. Give me about ten minutes.”
To Brandon, she gestured toward the front door.
Brandon came round and walked toward the water. The north side of the resort, which was the right curve of the heart of the peninsula, was the most scenic. A pier extended out into the sound, punctuated by a gazebo. It had been one of the first things reinforced after Maximus—besides the beachfront—since this pier was the most photographed view.
While Halik did not have a patio, about fifty meters away was an overlook with an overhead covering. From it hung two hammocks. Brandon moseyed to the spot and leaned against one of its posts. The view was spectacular, despite the fast-moving clouds in the sky, mirroring his running thoughts. He scoured through his morning—what had he done wrong?