“Yeah, in December.” Grayson dumped some creamer into the cups. “I know it’s a surprise, but I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.”
This was news to Beau. For over a decade, his eldest cousin had been running one of the largest holding companies in the state, taking over the family business after his father, Grayson Browning III, had died in the same tragic car accident that had taken the lives of the Colonel’s mother and sister-in-law. Beau hadn’t had an inkling the man was considering retiring. Of course, he had been somewhat preoccupied lately. “Does this have anything to do with what happened in California?”
Grayson’s chipper demeanor faltered as he finished off the coffee prep. “Maybe a little,” he said, sinking into a vintage wingback armchair in front of Beau’s desk and setting the cups down with a sigh. “Hell, maybe a lot. It certainly put a few things in perspective, I’ll grant ya that.”
“Such as?” Beau closed his laptop, turning his full attention to his cousin. Grayson was looking at a picture on his desk, a photo taken during a rare weekend when all Beau’s brothers were home at the same time. Max had only been a couple months old, and Jackson was holding him in the shot, a wry smile on his face because he’d just been hammered with baby puke, and they’d all fallen out laughing.
“You know,” Grayson said somberly, “the second I walked into that airport last month and saw my brother and his boys for the first time in ten years was the second I regretted every one of them that I hadn't gone to visit.” Pale blue eyes flashed as Grayson rocked forward. “I know we were there to help Little Gray find Kory. I know that was the mission. But, honestly, all I could think about while we were in California was how much I enjoyed being part of my brother’s life again, and how much I wanted to be there in the future.” The Colonel swallowed hard, the subtle play of lines about his face deepening. “But then that gun went off, and I saw George go down… and there was this really long second when I thought I might not get the chance.”
“Grayson…” Beau found himself unsure of what to say because he wasn’t exactly sure if the tears in the Colonel’s eyes were from the burning hot coffee he’d just gulped down or the memories that were haunting him.
“I’m taking the chance now.” Grayson set his cup down and wiped at his mouth. “I’m done living at the office. I’m fifty-two years old, and I’ve got more money than I’ll ever need. I’ve got a big-ass house with a big-ass pool and a big-ass water slide, but none of those things are worth a damn if I got nobody to share ’em with. So I’m getting out now. I’m taking my chance. I’m getting my family back.”
“Yeah?”
“Hells, yeah.” Grayson’s cocky grin returned. “I’ve invited George and the boys over this year for the holidays. Kory too. The more the merrier. Magda can do her Christmas Eve brunch, Lily can sing some carols for us, ’cause my girl has a voice like an angel, and I want you” — Grayson jabbed a finger at him — “and all your brothers playing football on my big-ass lawn. Now, I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
“No, not really.” Beau sipped at his coffee. “Got any other demands?” he asked, knowing full well that the Colonel always had more demands.
“Yeah, you can bring PJ over. I know Francine’s apartment isn’t far from your condo. Hell, she can come too if she wants. Christmas is a time for forgiveness.”
Beau swallowed another bite of beignet carefully. “Do you think that’s wise? PJ and Lily aren’t exactly the best of friends.”
“Like I said, Christmas is a time for forgiveness. My Lemon Drop and my Lily Darlin’ need to settle their differences. Life is too short. Brothers need their brothers, and sisters need their sisters.”
Beau thought “sisters” was a rather loose interpretation of that relationship. “Grayson—”
The Colonel cut him off with a brisk wave. “Just make it happen.”
“You want me to negotiate some kind of truce between those two?” Beau asked incredulously.
“That’s exactly what I want you to do. PJ likes you, Beau. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” Beau shifted in his seat, uncertain from the man’s neutral tone what he’d noticed exactly. “Look,” the Colonel persisted, “PJ listens to you. All you need to do is give her a little guidance, help smooth some of the rough edges, and I’m sure the girls will sort things out. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
It absolutely was too much to ask. Beau would rather bury himself in more paperwork at the office or sit through another leprechaun tantrum at his son’s school. Playing matchmaker to two headstrong chicks was not his idea of a good time. But instead of saying any of this, he merely nodded.
“Excellent!” Grayson drummed the hammered bronze surface of Beau’s desk, then rose from the chair. “In the meantime, you’ll come over tonight. Mags is doing shrimp creole for supper and her pineapple upside down cake for dessert. I think it’s her idea of a peace offering for that business with the cereal.” Grayson frowned as he headed for the doors. “Infernal woman… stealing a man’s cereal. It’s just not right.”
Beau glanced at his schedule app and sighed. “Janelle and Aaron have a Lamaze seminar this weekend, so I agreed to do the switch early. I have to pick Max up from therapy tonight—”
“Fantastic! Y’all can come over after.”
“He’s not done until seven. It might not be the best time. How about tomorrow?”
“No can do,” the Colonel said. “Magda’s got the day off, and Watson’s coming over to install new security cameras around the properties, and you know how I like to rubberneck that business, and then we might watch some of that Anglish football he loves so much, and—”
“Fine, we’ll try and make it.”
“Great! See y’all tonight.” The Colonel sailed from the office without looking back. Watson fell into step behind him. Beau reopened his laptop.
Ten seconds later, his best friend sauntered in and snagged the paper bag from his desk.
Beau ripped his glasses off in disgust. “Good night! I’m not getting anything else done today, am I?”
“Probably not.” Eli chomped down on a beignet.
“Shouldn’t you be recording something?”
Eli grinned as he waved the pastry around, dripping powdered sugar all over Beau’s reports. “Already did. Marty killed it. My boy’s vocals are sick.” Eli was twenty-seven, and he still talked like they did when they were teenagers. He also still dressed like it.
“Do you know that one in five men experience twisted testicles after wearing skinny jeans?”
Eli wiped his hands on a tight-fitting tank, then flicked him off. “Thanks for caring, boo. When you done today? We should hit the ramps or something.”
Beau shook his head. Eli was always trying to get him to blow off work to do stupid shit. “Aren’t we getting a little old to be picking up chicks at the skate park?”
“Speak for yourself, dawg. The ladies can’t resist this. I’m like Tiger Woods, Tony Hawk, and Randy Jackson all rolled up into one glorious package.”
This wasn’t even remotely true. Elias Park had no kind of skills on the range, he was only passable on a board, and he definitely wasn’t a black dude. But he was biracial. Eli’s mom was a Korean American cardiologist. His dad was white and had once been the drummer for some ’80s rock band. Eli had used his parents’ vocations to come up with the snazzy name for his business, Heartbeat Studios.
“Come on, it’s Friday,” his friend cajoled. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand. We should hit the river, bust out the skis, and hang with some super-fine honeys—”
“Man, are you crazy? It’s not warm enough yet.”
His friend didn’t appear too interested in the weather report as he waggled his brows. “Dude, I got this keyboardist, Melinda. She’s got mad talent, and she’s smokin’ hot, and for some mind-boggling reason she seems real interested in you. Want her number? Y’all can double with me and Trish?”
“Tempting. But I’m gonna have to pass. I’ve g
ot Max early this weekend, and way too much work to do.”
“Did you know that one in five young entrepreneurs burn out by forty?”
“You just made that up.”
“Sure did.” Eli snagged the remains of Beau’s breakfast and headed towards the bass now blasting from his studio.
“The same could be said for you, ya know.”
Eli paused in the doorway and smiled. “Yeah, but at least I’ll be having a kick-ass time while I’m doing it.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” Beau told his friend.
“I’ve heard that one before.” Eli bobbed his head to the beat of the music as he shot him a peace sign.
Chapter 11
By the end of PJ’s first week at Journeys, she’d sat through three training videos, four hundred PowerPoint slides, and she’d consumed more nonfiction in a five-day stretch than she ever had before in her life. It was an intense experience, and as she sat in one of the private therapy rooms that bordered the clinic’s common room, clicking through yet another slide, PJ was forced to admit she hadn’t been fully prepared for it. Having one friend on the spectrum did not make one an expert. Neither did a crash course in Autism Spectrum Disorder and Applied Behavioral Analysis. But it was a start.
PJ scanned the hodgepodge of notes she’d scribbled in her training manual. Most were an incoherent mess, but she’d highlighted several important details, the first being a basic definition of the disorder. The gist of it was that people on the spectrum shared three main characteristics: challenges with social skills, delays with speech and communication, and a tendency towards specific repetitive behaviors. The extent to which any one person with autism exhibited each of these characteristics differed greatly, however. Only a quick glance towards the common room was confirmation enough of that.
Randall, the boy with the headphones, was sixteen and almost completely nonverbal. When he did speak to his therapist, Luanne, he usually just parroted things back to her in a low mumble. Thelma Beauxfort, on the other hand, had no problem talking. Her issue was that she was a hormonal drama queen, and none of the boys at her school seemed too interested in talking back. This usually led to her storming into the clinic and “having a behavior.”
“Having a behavior,” PJ had learned, was not a good thing. In the case of some of the younger kids at the clinic, like Max or Brecken’s patient, Danny, “having a behavior” might involve a lot of hand-flapping, crying, or rolling around on the carpet. In the case of Juliana Beauxfort’s fifteen-year-old daughter, “having a behavior” might involve throwing a chair.
And that’s where ABA therapy came into play. The goal of the approach as an autism intervention was to improve the skills and to decrease the unwanted behaviors. This seemed straightforward enough to PJ. The methodologies for doing so, however, were not so simple. They involved hours of lesson plans customized for each individual patient by their parents and a certified program specialist, as well as hours of direct observation and data collection by therapists like Brecken, Luanne, and if her brain wasn’t completely fried, hopefully herself soon.
PJ clicked on another slide as her phone buzzed on the table. Looking down at the graphic Beau had sent, PJ couldn’t help smiling. Something else she’d learned in the past week, was that friendship with Beau Browning came with strangely well-timed cat memes. Today’s was a picture of an office cat pawing at a keyboard. The line above it was, “I keep hitting the escape key, but I’m still here.” PJ giggled. The guy was too much. Gorgeous, funny, and a cat lover? Keeping things in the friend zone was going to be hard.
“Looks like you’re ready for a break.”
PJ’s gaze swung to the doorway, where she found Brecken shooting her a caught-ya wink as he leaned inside. “Oh, sorry.” PJ shoved her phone in her bag, but Brecken only laughed.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been through those slides. If the ‘Four Functions of Behavior’ PowerPoint doesn’t get you cravin’ a good cat meme, I don’t know what will.” Brecken nodded towards the four bold letters on the slide in front of her. “You want to demonstrate ‘E’ for escape, right now? Rhonda and I are taking the boys to the park while there’s still daylight.” PJ was already hopping up from her chair as he asked this. Brecken chuckled as she fell into step behind him.
Several minutes later, they rounded the corner towards a large playground one block over. As soon as he saw it, Max bolted. PJ smiled as she watched him go. Except for his overgrown hair, Max was a dead ringer for his daddy, and despite the lanky awkwardness of his skinny frame, he’d clearly inherited his father’s passion for running.
Coordination on the monkey bars? Not so much. PJ cringed as she saw him slip from the third rung, flail, and hit the wood chips below. His therapist was there to scoop him up. Rhonda was good with him. PJ had ended up shadowing her as much as she had Brecken in the past few days because Max and Danny were about the same age and played well together.
“Want push, please,” Danny said, trying to lift himself onto a rubber seat dangling from a swing set. Brecken strode over and gave him a boost.
“Wow, buddy! Thanks for saying please. That’s good manners. I’m giving you a star point for that.” Brecken turned his tablet towards PJ, so she could see how he logged Danny’s reward. Star points, PJ had learned, were the primary incentive the kids worked for throughout their sessions and could be redeemed for anything from extra free time in the common room to snacks from the kitchen.
“Got it?” Brecken smiled at her as he finished up on the tablet. PJ nodded and he handed her the device. “Good, then you take data.”
“Sure,” PJ said as Brecken gave Danny a big push.
“Remember how I showed you,” Brecken called out to the boy. “Kick the legs forward and back, bud!” Then he turned back to PJ. “Set the timer. He gets five points for every twenty seconds he completes the motion successfully. We’re trying to master out some gross motor lessons.”
“Will do.” PJ pulled up the clock app and sat down on an empty swing to observe.
After a few seconds of pushing, Brecken stepped back, folding toned arms across his Journeys T-shirt as he glanced at her. The dude was hot. Maybe not Beau Browning hot, but he definitely had it going on with the surfer blond hair and the dimples. “So, was that your boyfriend?” he asked with a playful smirk.
“Huh?”
“The cat memer?”
“Nah, he’s just a friend.” PJ didn’t take her eyes from the kid swinging because if she did they’d probably betray the fact that she was in serious lust with said cat memer.
“Sure, okay.” Brecken didn’t sound as though he believed her. Tugging a cellphone from the pocket of his jeans, he swiped at it and flashed her a series of texts. “My guy is a dog memer.”
PJ laughed at the silly image of a poodle flying in outer space. Then she bumped his hip with her swing. “Poor you. Cats rule. Dogs drool.”
“Yeah,” Danny hollered from his swing. “Cats rule. Dogs drool!”
“Kick those legs, Mr. Cheeky. You got four seconds.” Brecken rolled his eyes as the boy dissolved into giggles.
“So, what’s your man’s name?” PJ asked after logging Danny’s points.
Brecken’s tanned cheeks turned a little ruddy as he scratched at the stubble along his jaw. “Mike Myer,” he mumbled.
“No way!” Now PJ was dissolving into giggles. “Mike Myer? Like the crazy dude in the mask?”
“No, that’s Michael Myers. My man is a Mike. Like the comedian.” Brecken swiped at his phone and flashed her another dog meme. “Except he’s way funnier.”
“Yeah, okay.” PJ laughed as another thought occurred to her. “Wait! So, if you two get married, you could be Brecken Myer. Isn’t that the name of that teen actor from the ’90s—”
“Whoa there!” Brecken held up a palm. “First off, different spelling. Second, easy with the marriage business. This is a new thing. Only four months now. Don’t jinx it.”
“My bad,” PJ said, logg
ing another round of points. “No more marriage talk—”
“Need bathroom,” Danny interrupted, a sudden urgency in his voice as he dragged his sneakers through the wood chips.
Brecken helped him slow the swing, and the boy hopped down, grabbing for the snap of his jeans. “Whoa!” Brecken said again, “Nice job on the fly, buddy, but remember we do that in the bathroom.” As the pair rushed over to a small brick building on the edge of the park, PJ gave Danny another star point because she’d observed enough of his lessons by now to know he was also working on the fine motor stuff like buttoning, snapping, and tying.
When she looked back up from the tablet, she caught sight of Max still over at the monkey bars with Rhonda. The kid appeared to have made it to the fourth rung before he’d fallen this time. PJ walked over to him as he was dusting off his sweatpants.
“Good job, dude. You made it halfway.”
Rhonda smiled at PJ and shot her a thumbs-up. One of the lessons Max had been working on in the last couple days was giving and receiving compliments. The boy wasn’t too great at doing either, and everyone at the clinic had been making a point to test him with frequent words of praise. PJ’s words hadn’t been any sort of lesson, however. They’d just slipped out naturally because the kid was stinking cute with his crazy mop of curls and fierce expression.
For a moment, it appeared Max might snarl at her, but then Rhonda caught his eye with a warning prompt. “Max,” she said calmly, “what can you say when someone pays you a compliment?”
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
“What was that? We couldn’t hear you.”
“THANK YOU!” Max hollered, his face a comical mix of irritation, sweaty stubborn fury, and a hint of pride.
“Cool. Let’s see you add one more bar and get to five.” PJ leaned against the ladder at the end of the play structure as the boy raced back to the other side. The trick with Max, PJ had quickly deduced, was to appeal to his love of numbers, so as the kid swung through the first few bars, she shouted them out with enthusiasm.
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