The Other Brooks Boy (Texas Wildfire Series)

by Diane Roth

  She pondered calling him, but had no idea what she'd say to him. On some pinched off, purely cerebral level, she could understand how Greg must be feeling. Pushed out, forgotten, not chosen. But in her maimed, bruised, painful heart, she felt he should have been able to give her some time, some space to work this out with Ryan. How did he think she could just shove this down her son's throat? This boy who still missed his dad everyday and took every less-than-sterling utterance of him as a pure insult to the man's memory. How was she supposed to do that? He'd given her no time. No options. Surely he loved her enough ... and Ryan, too, to offer that.

  And still he didn't call.

  The week got past her, and then another. The pain did not. It took up residence, settled in for a long winter's nap, but woke with a start should she try to forget about it by doing something productive, or distracting, or even mildly entertaining. Oh, no. There would be none of that.

  She realized at some point that she actually hurt worse than she had when Jason had died. She'd been shocked to the marrow by his death. It hadn't been in the life script they'd written together that he would die so young. But if she were really honest with herself, she knew that there had almost been relief in the ending of her married life. She'd danced the good wife dance he'd demanded of her for so long, so faithfully that she'd forgotten to see if any of it was real anymore. And so much of it wasn't, she discovered when he died. His affair was simply confirmation of all of that. It galled to think of him up there having another love, having fun and having sex and having a freakin' life, damn it, while she was down here keeping his real life all together with taking care of home and kids and bills and laundry. Drudgery, and with no days off. No sex, no fun, no nothing, even when he came home. He only brought his used up carcass home and was usually too tired and "overworked" to do anything or go anywhere, and he didn't care enough to even offer excuses. He was just here.

  So, yeah ... it was almost a relief when that all ended.

  This ending felt more like a real death than that had. And it didn't feel like it was getting any easier either.

  Barbara called and asked what their plans were for Thanksgiving. It was immediately clear to Cara that she knew about the break up, but she didn't come right out and say it.

  "It'll be just you and me and the kids, I guess. Greg's going to be in California next week for a job interview," Barbara said, dropping it on her nonchalantly.

  "Really," Cara said, unable to hide her surprise. "Who is he interviewing with?"

  "You know ... I don't think he ever came right out and said which university it was. I only know it's in California, and it's hush-hush until something is decided. You know how secretive they are about these positions. It's sometimes worse than the big coaching positions," Barbara said, but all Cara heard was that it was in California.

  Was he really thinking of leaving her and starting a new job in California? Was it that over? That utterly lost and hopeless and ... done?

  She sleep-walked through the rest of the conversation, through the remainder of the day, and most of the week. It was as if her hope had dried up like the mess of autumn leaves on her front lawn that needed raking. She tried so hard not to think about him, but everything reminded her of him. She had a flat on her car and had to call a roadside service guy to come change it when she couldn't budge the lug nuts, and all she could think of was what his arms might have looked like straining against that tire tool, how his shirt would have stretched across the muscles of his back, and then she felt foolish for thinking it. Every motorcycle rumbling past made her look to see if it was him. But it never was. Every jock commercial on TV, every sweet song on the radio, every sexy song on the radio, every time she climbed into her bed alone made her think of him and how much she missed him.

  But he still didn't call.

  He had simply gotten done. Done and done.

  ***

  Thanksgiving wasn't exactly his favorite holiday of the year, but Greg usually enjoyed it. Great food, cozy weather, family together, his mom's pecan pie, tons of college football ... what was not to like? So eating a turkey sandwich in a lonely hotel room in sunny California with a crappy TV to boot, made for just about as sorry a holiday as he'd ever spent. Even recognizing that things would have been tense, at best, this Thanksgiving didn't make it any easier to be alone.

  His interview was early tomorrow morning. He wanted to tell them that it was really sorry of them to mess up his Thanksgiving, making him come for the interview on the Friday after, but he hadn't. They'd sought him out of their own accord, and travel arrangement had been difficult, he figured right here at the holiday. There didn't seem much to do differently. He hadn't been looking for a new job, but when they'd contacted him with the opportunity, he'd had to stop and consider. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe it was Divine Intervention. Maybe it was his hand up out of the very black place he'd been in for the past few weeks.

  God help him, he hoped so.

  He'd buried his head and worked like a fiend, trying to not think about Cara. He had to work hard to not worry about her, not miss the kids. He even missed Ryan, having grown so close to him over the past two years, and he worried how this might affect him in the long run. He worried how his off-season training was going without Greg by his side, coaching him through the unglamorous stuff that required more self-discipline than most fifteen-year-olds possessed.

  It didn't seem to have affected Cara at all. She'd dusted her hands of him and moved on when she'd felt he wanted her to choose between him and Ryan. And that was nuts. He hadn't wanted anything but to handle Ryan in an effective way. Something conducive to teaching and molding him into the kind of man he needed to be instead of the bratty, coddled whelp he was proving to be right now. But Cara hadn't seen it like that.

  God, he missed her with something like sickness. He wanted to hold her and sink himself in her warmth, to share her days ... the good and the bad. He wanted her. All that there was about Cara Brooks. He wanted it all.

  He dropped the remains of his dinner on the room service plate and pushed it away, suddenly disgusted and feeling sorry for himself. He looked at the clock and decided he should call his mother and wish her a happy Thanksgiving. Surely they were finished with lunch and Cara and the kids gone home by now. He dialed her number and listened to it ring several times, surprisingly, and he was preparing to leave a message when she finally answered.

  "Hello?"

  It wasn't Mom, but Cara's voice that greeted him. Greg felt like he'd been punched in the gut when he heard her voice, so familiar, so normal, so close sounding. He pulled back to look at his phone, thinking he'd dialed her number by accident, but he hadn't.

  "Hello?" she answered again.

  Shit.

  "Uh, yeah ... um, hello ... Cara," he said, sounding like a fumbling idiot.

  Dead silence on the other end.

  "Hello?" he said now.

  "Yes, I'm here, Greg. Just answering Barbara's phone. She's up to her elbows in left-over turkey," Cara said, sounding as awkward and contrived as he felt.

  "Oh ... okay. I thought I'd wish her a happy holiday ... figured you guys would be all done and gone by now," he said, then cringed, wishing it hadn't sounded so much like he was avoiding her. Which, of course, he was.

  "We decided to change things up a little this year ... do dinner instead of lunch like we usually do. It was different," she said, and he knew she was struggling with the call as much as he.

  "Well, sure," he said, then he didn't know what else to say.

  "Things are going well for you in California?" she asked after an uncomfortable silence.

  "My interview is tomorrow morning." He guessed his mom had filled her in on the details.

  Another silence stretched out like a taut rubber band, and he wished the damn thing would just break.

  "Listen--" he said.

  "I hope--" she said at the exact same time, and they both stopped cold.

  "Sorry. Go ahead," he said.


  "I just wanted to say 'good luck' on your interview. I hope it turns out like you want it to," she said, and he could swear there were tears in her eyes. He knew every nuance her voice possessed, and he'd swear there were tears welled up in those big brown eyes he loved so much. It slayed him to hear it.

  "Oh, yeah ... well, I don't even know how I want it to go, you know?" he said, planting his forehead in his palm. He sighed at the silence that followed. She didn't have any preference, it seemed.

  She damn sure didn't say, don't do it. Don't take that job even if they offer it. It's what he so wanted to hear her say ... what he'd give anything to hear, but he didn't. He didn't hear anything at all, but the background sounds of Thanksgiving at his mother's house, the clinking of dishes being washed in the sink, the drone of football announcers on TV, and muffled voices. Normal, happy, family sounds.

  "Well, okay. Tell Mom I called ... and to save me some pecan pie, okay?"

  "Sure will. Bye, Greg," she said.

  "Bye," he said, and felt more disconnected than he'd ever felt in his entire life.

  ***

  Cara was thankful her kids were engrossed in the football game and Barbara elbow deep in turkey so that she could manage to get herself back to rights before she had to face any of them. Barbara's ancient home phone didn't even have caller ID on it, so it had been an unholy surprise to answer it and hear his voice on the line. She hung up the phone and willed her heart to slow down. It had taken up a drumming, near-painful tattoo in her chest when she realized who it was, and hadn't slowed back to normal yet.

  She slipped into Barbara's powder room and ran some cold water over her hands, pressed them to her hot cheeks, and tried so hard not to cry. She'd cried enough tears in the past month to fill her pool and she was so tired of it.

  But her heart seemed to be a wellspring of saltwater, and it came climbing up her throat until she felt she was drowning. She clamped her hand over her mouth, watching herself in the mirror, and cried silently, hoping she could get herself back under control. Shouldn't she be past this by now? Shouldn't she be moving on like Greg so obviously was ... willing to uproot and do something different? She felt mired in a murky pool of hurt and lost hope and had no idea how to get past it.

  Finally she splashed water on her face again and dried it, then went back to the kitchen to help Barbara finish the clean up.

  "Who was that on the phone, dear?" Barbara asked. She stood at the sink scrubbing the huge roaster that had been a part of every holiday gathering Cara had ever been a part of in this family, regardless of what might have been cooked for the meal.

  "Oh, sorry. It was Greg calling," she said, trying to make her voice sound light and unconcerned. She gathered napkins to take to the laundry room, but ventured a quick look at her mother-in-law.

  Barbara had stopped the scrubbing and half-turned to look at Cara. "Oh?" she asked.

  Cara nodded tightly, then moved toward the laundry room. "Said to tell you he called with Thanksgiving wishes and to save him some pecan pie," she called over her shoulder.

  There was a long pause, and Cara knew Barbara was pressing her lips together in a tight line and nodding in that way she did when nervous. "Okay. I will," she said, and turned back to the sink just as Cara came back from the laundry.

  "You want me to dry?" she asked.

  Barbara nodded again. "Oh, sure." She passed the roaster to Cara, then dived back into the dishwater in search of something else to wash.

  Silence seemed the go-to tactic in this situation, and it held sway again, stretching out between the women as they worked side-by-side. So unusual, Cara thought. Normally, they'd be chatting up the Black Friday ads, or recipes, or something, but hardly ever did this strained silence stretch between them.

  Cara hated what this was doing to her entire family.

  "I'm okay, Barbara," she said quietly, but didn't look at her.

  Barbara didn't look either, but put great deal of concentration into washing a gravy ladle spotlessly clean. "No, you aren't, love," she said, just as quietly, but with much more conviction than Cara's statement had held.

  It broke the dam, and to Cara's horror, she began to cry again. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she dried the ladle like they had complete dominion over her will. It was undoing. For so many years she'd trained herself to control her emotions and keep a tight rein on what she allowed others to see of her true thoughts. But there was no discipline for this, no strength of will that could stop it from overwhelming her. She covered her face with the tea towel and let it have its hateful way with her.

  Barbara made a clucking sound, dried her hands quickly on the apron stretched across her belly, and gathered Cara into a hug. "Oh, honey ... I've known you were not okay."

  "I'm not, Barbara," she warbled into the towel. "I'm miserable and not okay at all."

  "Shh, now. It's going to be all right," Barbara told her, patting her like she might a child.

  "It's not, though," Cara said, removing the towel from her face to argue her point. "He's out there interviewing for a job. He's going to up and move to California and leave me here. How can he do that?" she whispered.

  Barbara's face was lined with worry. "We don't know that yet. They might not even offer him the job. He's only interviewing," she said, trying to be hopeful.

  Cara sank back into Barbara's embrace like a child might, seeking comfort, assurance, just anything that might make her feel better. She was completely beyond pride, denial, or even worry about her children in the other room hearing her crying. Purely selfish, purely survivalist, it was all about her and her fears, her pain, and doing what she could to get through it at this point.

  Barbara did the best she knew how, but it was all just placating and empty assurances. She didn't have any idea that Greg might not take the job if offered it, though she tried to tell Cara that. But what did it matter really, whether he was here or there? They hadn't spoken in nearly a month before today. Proximity had little to do with the gulf between them.

  Cara did her best to shore up her defenses and get her crying jag under control. She'd fallen quite handily off her Stepford Wife perch and didn't think she'd ever regain that long held ability to pull a stiff upper lip and fool anyone. It was gone, forgotten, and she found that, except for her children, she simply didn't have it in her to worry anymore about what the world thought of her decisions, her life.

  The ride home was unusually quiet. Whether from stomachs full of turkey and pecan pie, or a touch of sadness for the loneliness of this Thanksgiving, her kids were nearly silent all the way home. Cara pulled into the garage and killed the engine and was about to get out of the car when Maddie stopped her.

  "Mom?"

  Cara had picked up her purse and unbuckled her seat belt, but paused before opening the car door. "Yes?"

  Maddie looked at her with a genuine concern shining in her brown eyes. "What were you crying about at Nana's house?"

  Ryan, who normally might have been in the house and halfway up the staircase by now, sat eyeing her from the backseat. The garage door opener offered little light, but it didn't take much to see the worry in her kids' faces.

  Cara exhaled a long deep breath. It felt like she'd been holding that breath for about six months now, just waiting. Waiting to admit to herself that she was in love with Greg, waiting to get caught by the kids, waiting to tell Barbara, waiting for the censure of the world. All for the great crime of loving Greg Brooks. She set her purse back on the console between herself and Maddie, then half-turned in the seat so she might look at both of them.

  "I was crying because I'm in love with your uncle, and he's possibly moving to California for a new job," she said, done with being dishonest with her kids. Her reserves were empty. She had no more heart for deceit or hiding. This was who she was. If they found they couldn't handle it or didn't love her because of it ... well, she'd simply have to seek some kind of help for them. She was tired of trying to act like she had all the answers.

  Ryan s
lumped back against the seat and looked sullen. It was less than she might have expected, given his recent hysterics about the subject. Cara tried really hard to ignore it.

  "Are you guys still seeing one another?" Maddie asked timidly.

  "Not much," Cara said. "But that doesn't mean I don't still love him."

  "I hope he goes," Ryan said.

  "Shut up, Ryan," Maddie said, turning around from the front seat to shoot irritation at him from narrowed eyes.

  "You shut up, Maddie," he said right back. "Why'd you even have to bring him up?"

  "I didn't bring him up. I asked Mom what she was crying about, and she told me. Why can't you pull your head out of your ass and act like you're more than a four-year-old brat?"

  "Why does it make me a brat because I don't want my mom to be in love with my uncle?" he asked plaintively. "I freakin' don't get what you don't get about that."

  "Why does it matter to you who she loves as long as she's happy?" Maddie asked.

  Ryan had no ready reply for Maddie, but he was thinking about what she'd asked, Cara could see. She watched this play out between her kids, knowing that any honest communication was better than none, even if it was painful.

  Maddie's voice dropped lower, less provoking. "What do you expect her to do with the rest of her life, Ryan? Sit here and mourn for Dad? Cry all day and be sad? Is that what you want for her?"

  "No," he said, defensive. "I want it to be like it was. Mom and Dad together and happy. There's just something jacked up about her dating his brother. It's cheating," he said, gathering a head of steam again.