by Toni Blake
Even now, as he drove slowly up and down the small grid of residential streets that flanked Destiny’s town square, his chest tightened over thoughts of Lucky.
Lucky acted decent to everyone. And hell, he had a kid, which meant Mike was an uncle now. And he truly hadn’t seen his mother this happy in many years. Everybody but him, it seemed, was downright giddy about his wayward brother’s homecoming.
But there was a lot Mike just couldn’t get over.
The betrayal of being left alone when Lucky had taken off, for instance. One night, the summer after Lucky’s high school graduation, he simply hadn’t come home. So they’d called all over town, driven around all night trying to find him—but they’d figured he was raising hell somewhere and that he’d turn up the next day. And then they’d realized his clothes were gone, his underwear, his shoes. And then Mike had developed that same lump of dread in his stomach as when Anna had disappeared.
Later, old Willie Hargis had told Police Chief Tolliver that he’d seen Lucky’s car leave town the day he’d gone missing. And they finally accepted that all the fights Lucky had had with his parents and the threats he’d made about “getting the hell outta here” were coming to bear. And the rest, always, had been a painful mystery.
Then there was the fact that Lucky’s story had some big holes in it, and Mike wasn’t finding it difficult to believe the rumor of an outlaw motorcycle gang in California was true. Now, he could barely sleep nights for wondering what sort of bad shit Lucky had been involved in. Even if it was a long time ago. Mike knew enough about MCs to know “bad shit” was a mild way of describing gang behavior. Outlaw gangs were made up of two kinds of people: the ones with no morals, and the ones who followed along. He could easily see Lucky being one of those followers, especially when he was younger, more rebellious, maybe looking for someplace to act tough and feel powerful. What kinds of heinous things might his brother have done?
And then there was the bullshit of blaming his family for the way he’d turned out. Why the hell couldn’t Lucky man up and take responsibility for his actions? Mike couldn’t believe Lucky had the gall to walk back into their lives and lay the blame for his troubled existence at the feet of his parents, who’d already suffered more than enough. And they’d acted like they agreed with him on it all, but he didn’t remember things that way. And he figured his mom and dad were just so happy to have one of their missing kids suddenly back, grim reaper tattoo and all, that they’d have agreed with anything.
Rachel had been giving him a hard time for not cutting Lucky any slack, and it was true, he hadn’t. The truth he hadn’t admitted to anyone, though, was that he was impressed with Lucky’s willingness to step up for his kid. And he was equally impressed with Lucky having built his own business. Both were more than he might have expected.
Lucky had taken their parents to his house during their visit, but Mike had conveniently had to work that night and he wouldn’t have gone anyway. Yeah, he was mildly curious to see where Lucky lived, and even see the work he did—but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t get past the granite wall that materialized inside him every time Lucky came to mind.
“Mike, you should see what an artist your brother is,” his mom had told him afterward. “And he’s put together a nice home for little Johnny.”
Mike had merely grumbled something in reply.
And then his dad had spoken up. “Son, I know this is hard for you—it’s a strange time for all of us. But your mother and I would appreciate it if you’d make an effort with Lucky. We all have to put the past behind us now.”
Yeah, that made sense. There was no other way to move on. So, for the sake of his mom and dad, he’d said he’d try.
But he hadn’t.
He’d just kept thinking, and thinking. About all the times it would have been nice to have a brother in his life over the past fifteen years. About what a hard man he’d become, and still was to many degrees, because of all the loss he’d suffered—and Lucky was a big part of that. Rachel had . . . hell, she’d softened him more than he’d have believed possible, but he supposed the way he felt about Lucky now was proof that he was still a hard-ass and probably always would be. He just didn’t know how to forgive.
Just then his cell phone rang and he glanced down at the screen. Rachel. He picked it up. “Hey, baby,” he said easily.
“Oh good, you’re in range.” His phone, she meant. “Up for late dinner?”
Sometimes, when he worked the night shift, Rachel met him at Dolly’s Café on his break. It was almost that time, and he could use a break. Not from his work, but from the thoughts swirling in his head. Hell, it was almost enough to make him wish someone would commit a damn crime so he’d have something else to focus on. “Yeah, that sounds good. Half an hour?”
“See you then, Officer Romo.”
After Mike hung up, he drove slowly around the town square—quiet at this hour, but the warmer weather was keeping people out a little later. He saw Amy watering the flowerboxes outside the bookshop, probably getting ready to close for the night, and lifted his hand in a wave.
A minute later, he turned onto Stone School Road and found himself driving past the town’s old elementary school. It was no longer in use—a new school had been built in the nineties not far from Destiny High, and now the old one housed the board of education and the small community ed program. But it was where Mike and Lucky had gone to school as boys, and it conjured up a lot of memories, many of them good.
Even being two years apart, he and Lucky had been close then. Their Boy Scout troop had met in the room at the front right corner of the building, which he braked to look at now. Their classes had played kickball in the large yard out back. Lucky had once fallen down while playing tag in the gravel lot outside the small gymnasium, ripping his pants and tearing up his knee pretty bad, and Mike had come running, eventually helping Lucky limp inside to the office for first aid while he tried not to cry in front of the other kids. Something about that, the mere fact that Lucky had once been a child who cried, made a lump rise to Mike’s throat as he sat in his car on the quiet road in front of the school.
And then other memories came flooding back. An art teacher—Miss Bailey. She’d been pretty, with red hair, and she’d come to Destiny Elementary one day a week, spending an hour with each grade. Lucky had had a crush on her. He’d never said so, but Mike had been able to tell and he’d teased Lucky mercilessly for it—yet he’d never mentioned it to anyone else, keeping it just between the two of them.
Mike almost smiled remembering the awe on Lucky’s face one day when . . . how old were they then? It was soon after Anna was gone, so Lucky had probably been ten or eleven, Mike twelve or thirteen. And Lucky had climbed on the school bus trying to act cool but not doing a very good job of it—happy as hell because of a note Miss Bailey had written on an assigned drawing he’d done of their family, copied from a photo that hung on the wall above the TV. Mike remembered it saying in red capital letters, excellent—A+. And the note had said Lucky had real talent and should continue to develop it. It had been one of the first nice things to happen to any of them after losing Anna, one of the first moments when anyone in the family had had a reason to smile.
And when they’d walked in the door at home, Lucky had yelled out, “Mom! Dad! Look! Miss Bailey says I’m talented!”
And Mike had known from the expression on his mom’s face that it wasn’t a good time, but Lucky, in his excitement, had missed that and gone pulling the family portrait from his notebook. And their mother had promptly burst into tears and fled the room.
A familiar old sadness, too big for a kid to have suffered, closed around Mike now. He’d hated seeing his mom cry. He’d felt pissed at Lucky for causing it and for being too immature to see she was on edge when they’d walked in. And that overwhelming guilt from those days came roaring back to him. Another reason to be pissed at Lucky that day? Mike had been happy for a little while, distracted by something, and Lucky’s actions had
brought all the bad stuff back.
Mike blew out a long sigh. He hadn’t had reason to think back on that day . . . probably since it had happened. And for the first time in his life, he wondered if his mom or dad had ever said anything nice to Lucky about the praise. Probably not.
Mike narrowed his eyes, still looking at the old stone building. It hadn’t been long after that when Lucky had won first place in the school art contest with a painting of their house. Mike remembered hearing about it at school, being proud of his little brother and a little amazed at how good the painting was. He remembered seeing the blue ribbon in Lucky’s hand, and later, hanging from a bulletin board in Lucky’s room. But what he couldn’t remember was . . . anyone at home making a big deal out of it. Or ever even mentioning it at all.
Shit. Was Lucky right? Had they really ignored him that much?
Whereas Mike could clearly remember feeling loved and acknowledged when he’d done good things. He recalled a special cake when he was named MVP of the basketball team in eighth grade. And his parents had been in the stands for every sporting event he’d ever taken part in, from Little League to high school. He remembered a special dinner at a steakhouse over in Crestview once after he’d brought his grades up from Cs to As.
Mike’s achievements had always been celebrated in their house. But maybe Lucky’s really hadn’t been. And until this moment, maybe Mike had chosen to believe Lucky just hadn’t excelled enough to have any achievements, but now he was forced to realize: He had. For a while anyway. Until he’d kind of just . . . given up and quit trying.
And maybe . . . maybe Lucky was right. Maybe Mike’s accomplishments had been celebrated because he’d been in his own private, guilt-stricken hell over Anna and his parents knew it. And because they felt guilty, too. And since Lucky was the only one of them who didn’t have anything to feel guilty about, maybe that had left him on the outside in a way. Hell.
Talk about guilt. Mike was starting to feel pretty fucking guilty right now.
By the time he pulled up outside Dolly’s a little while later, a knot had grown in his stomach. He kept thinking back through those years after Anna’s disappearance, and the more he thought, the more he realized . . . he’d never noticed Lucky was fading into the background. Because he was a kid. With his own issues. His own life. But Lucky had faded. Slowly but surely. And by the time he’d reached twelve or thirteen, he’d turned into a pretty bad kid.
When Mike walked into the café and sat down at a small table next to his fiancée, she looked into his eyes and immediately asked, “What is it?”
“I’ve been thinking about Lucky,” he said. “And I’m gonna say something I hardly ever say. I think I was wrong.”
Rachel’s jaw dropped, which Mike could easily understand.
“Not about everything,” he went on. “I still don’t know what he was up to the whole time he was gone, and I’m still not sure I trust him or think it’s smart for Tessa to be with him. But some of the stuff he said about when we were kids, about him getting neglected . . . I’m starting to think it might have been true and I just never saw it.”
In reply, the woman he loved reached under the table to squeeze his hand and said, “I’m glad—relieved—to hear you’re starting to see things in a new way. But . . . maybe instead of telling me, you should be telling your brother.”
By Saturday night, Tessa still felt lousy, and it made Lucky feel like someone was reaching into his chest and squeezing his heart. She’d insisted he work Friday during the day, but otherwise, he’d hung out with her and wished he could make her feel better. The fact that he couldn’t left him feeling helpless—as helpless as he had as a kid.
And what did Lucky usually do when he felt helpless, like he had no control over a situation? He ran. He’d run away from Destiny, and later, he’d run away from the Devil’s Assassins. That move had been a smart one—but it was still running.
Yet over the last couple of days with Tessa, he’d been forced to realize that . . . well, maybe his running instinct was more of an old urge than a thing he really wanted to do. And maybe his fears for the people in his life were silly and impractical. Maybe his fears about her expectations were silly, too. This, being here with Tessa when she needed him—that was practical. In fact, she kept telling him to go home, so he had an out if he wanted it—but while she was sick . . . hell, he couldn’t leave her. In fact, the second he’d discovered she was sick, it had washed away every thought in his head about slowing things down or staying away from her.
Now they lay on Tessa’s bed, atop the covers, side by side. Lucky stroked her arm, sometimes brushed his fingers through her hair, hoping it somehow helped a little.
“What exactly do you feel when you’re sick like this?” he asked her quietly.
“It varies from person to person, but for me, the main symptom is nausea. Sometimes I have a dull stomachache, too, or sharp pain in my lower abdomen.”
“I wish I could fix it, babe,” he whispered.
“I know. That’s sweet,” she said.
He glanced down at her—God, she looked so tired. “How long does it last?”
“Hard to say. These days, anywhere from a few hours to a week or so.”
He nodded.
“Although,” she went on, “I actually feel a little bit yucky at some point every day. I’m just used to that part.”
And that took him aback. When he thought of all the time he’d spent with her, he’d never had any notion she’d felt bad, even for a minute. “I didn’t know that.”
She shrugged against her pillow. “No need to talk about it. And I don’t like bringing other people down.”
At that, Lucky reached to tilt her chin upward with one bent finger. “Tessa,” he said, “don’t worry about that with me. You can tell me if you feel bad. I mean, keeping it to yourself probably isn’t good. I kept a lot to myself as a kid and . . . let’s just say it didn’t do me any favors.”
Yet she shook her head. “No—it’s better for me to be tough about it. Talking about it much is just . . . indulgent. I never want to wallow in self-pity. I did that in the beginning, and it didn’t help.”
He sighed, gave another quiet nod, and thought she was tough. “Will you . . . at least tell me what happened? In the beginning? You never really told me the details of how you wound up back in Destiny.”
Tessa supposed she knew Lucky well enough now that she owed him an answer if he really wanted to know. And even though she’d actually been mad at him at first for forcing his company on her when she felt crappy, she was beginning to realize . . . how darn sweet it was. Pushy, but sweet. And whereas two days ago she’d been fairly horrified for him to see her like this, now she realized it was unimportant—he still liked her just as much. Nothing had changed . . . except that maybe she felt even closer to him now.
“I got sick out of the blue,” she said. “Just basically woke up one day unable to digest anything. I was living on cereal for a while, and I got very weak. I couldn’t go to work for a couple of months, and the doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with me, even after extensive testing.”
“You were in Cincinnati for all this?”
She nodded against his chest. “My mother came after about a month. By then, I was having trouble taking care of myself. I was losing lots of weight, and before long, I couldn’t even think clearly. What I didn’t realize was that I was eating and drinking so little that I’d become severely dehydrated. And I later learned that once you reach a certain point, your body stops absorbing what you do drink.”
Tessa paused then, deciding how much to say. She was willing to share it with him, but she still wasn’t willing to indulge in making it as drawn-out and dramatic as it had been at the time. “At one point, I collapsed from the dehydration. My blood pressure was sixty over twenty.”
She felt him flinch slightly. “Jesus, is that even possible?”
“Believe it or not, yes. So I had to start drinking gallons of Gatorade and other s
tuff with electrolytes to replenish everything I’d lost. It took about six weeks to fully rehydrate my body, but even after that, when you add in the poor nutrition, I was pretty weak and underweight for about a year. I underwent tons more testing without a diagnosis, and though I became able to digest a few more foods, it was still rough.”
She sighed, remembering the next part. “On the occasions I did try to go to work, I’d end up with my head down on my desk or having to cut client meetings short because I was about to keel over. And I began to realize that my bosses and colleagues, even people who I’d considered real friends, were looking at me differently.”
Lucky sounded puzzled when he said, “Looking at you how?”
“I know they cared about me, but at the same time . . . I was very aware that I was making their lives harder by not being dependable. That’s when I felt people thinking of my condition as the biggest part of me. And after a few months, I knew they wanted to fire me and that only kindness was keeping them from it. So I quit, without a plan. Which was really scary. But it was all really scary, and kind of overwhelming.”
“I’m really sorry you had to go through that, babe.”
“Then another interior designer I knew told me she was opening a branch of her firm in Crestview of all places. She knew about my problem, and that my family was in Destiny, so she offered me a job with the understanding that I might need a lot of flexibility. Like I told you before, though, the job fell through—almost as quickly as I’d bought the cabin.
“Coming back to Destiny was the hardest thing I’ve ever done—because I felt like I’d failed, and it was for reasons totally beyond my control. But it seemed the only sensible choice—and it relieved my mom and dad to have me close. My little brother is in Afghanistan right now, and I think feeling like both their kids were in danger, away from home, was killing them.”