by Lilly Wilde
HEAVING SOBS RESONATE THROUGH THE phone.
The name displayed on the screen was Loretta Perez but no way could this be her. Not the Loretta Perez I know. But I still ask, “Loretta…is that you?”
“Yes.” She sniffs. “It’s me.”
“Has something happened to Mama or Jace?” My breath catches as I await confirmation of my worst fear.
“I’m sorry but I have horrible news. Something I still can’t process.”
I brace myself, prepared to hear that Mama has disappeared again or something worse—that her mental issues have hurt Jace somehow.
“It’s Jimmy.”
Jimmy? Speaking of which, why is Loretta calling me instead of him?
Another sniff.
“Jimmy is…is…” She falls silent, as if she’s choking back more tears.
I hold the phone as the hairs on my neck stand up.
“My Jimmy is in heaven with his mama,” she finally gets it out.
Her words cycle back through my head. “I couldn’t have heard you right.”
She breaks down, crying convulsively, the sobs mingled with the sound of struggles to breathe against the cries. “He’s gone, Branch. My Jimmy is gone.”
“Loretta, what happened?”
“He passed away in his garage. He’d been working late on a car he wanted to get to a customer the following morning. I was driving home after a trip to the grocery store and decided to stop by to tell him the work day was over and I wanted him home with me.”
Before she can finish, she’s overcome with emotion. I hold the line—already numb by news I can’t seem to wrap my head around. After she composes herself enough to go on, she says, “Everything was quiet when I walked in. Too quiet. And then I saw his feet. He’d been—”
Her words are cut off when the deep sobs resurface. And again, when she’s restored a margin of calm, she continues. “He’d been trapped underneath the car. I called 911, but it was already too late. His body was almost completely severed. He’d been lying there for hours.”
I fall back, stumbling and dropping in the chair closest to me. My body lax. My mind racing. “No. Not Jimmy,” I mumble.
“I can’t believe it either. I keep telling myself this is some horrible nightmare and I’m gonna wake up and Jimmy will be walking in the door ready to tell me some new story about how he knows I’m carrying a boy this time. And the girls…they’re devastated. Jimmy was the world to those kids.”
“And to you.”
“Yes…and to me.”
And to me.
“I’m trying my best to keep it together. But I don’t know how to exist without him. I just don’t. He’s all I know.”
I’m silent. Staring straight ahead, my eyes glazed over. I swallow the words I need to say and just listen, but the line is quiet. And then Loretta starts to cry again. She needs to hear words of comfort. She needs to know that it will be okay. But how the fuck can it ever be okay? Do I lie and tell her what I know isn’t true? No, I can’t do that. But what I can tell her is that she has friends and family who will be there, to help her through this but silence holds my tongue. I’m flooded with memories of Jimmy, of the lessons I’ve learned, of the talks that kept me sane at a time when Mama had driven me to the brink…of my acceptance of his role as my honorary father without my ever actually saying the words aloud. That’s what’s between Loretta and me. Memories. Those that belong to her and Jimmy, those that another soul will never know, those that will remain forever in her heart. I need to tell her that. That Jimmy will always be with her. That he is in their kids…in their unborn child, but I say nothing. I hear Loretta crying, and the words still don’t come. Jimmy Perez. No longer in this world? The thought alone is so fucked that I can’t imagine the reality.
Almost robotically, I ask, “Have you made any arrangements? For a service?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m calling. I’m meeting with the pastor and his wife this evening and they’re gonna help with the planning. I’m in the hospital.”
“Is it the baby?”
“Yeah. My blood pressure shot through the roof and now I have something called preeclampsia, so they’re taking precautions.”
“And the kids. Where are they?”
“My aunt is here and my sister is flying in tomorrow or the next day. I can’t remember what she said, to be honest.”
I stand, then pace back and forth between the window and the TV. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Just be here. You’re family and having you close will feel as though another part of Jimmy is here with me. I need that right now.”
This doesn’t seem right. Jimmy can’t be dead. No fucking way.
“Branch?”
“Yes. I’m still here. I’m just…I don’t know.”
“Umm. The service will be later this week. Thursday.”
“I’ll be there, Loretta. Anything else you need, just let me know.”
“Thanks, Branch. I will.”
“And call anytime.”
The call drops and so does the air from my lungs. I stand in place, my fingers curved around the phone. A burning in my chest courses through my frame and I explode with rage. My phone flies across the room, shattering the eighty-eight-inch screen TV, then falling to the floor and breaking into scattered pieces.
I place the glass on the bar and reach for the bottle of Macallan.
I’ve had this one for a while.
Was saving it for a special occasion.
When Jimmy told me he thought they were finally going to have the boy he wanted, I decided that would be the occasion. To drink it with Jimmy and celebrate the birth of his fifth child. His boy.
I look at the bottle, turning it over in my hands before finally deciding to open it. Foregoing a glass, I bring the bottle to my lips and swallow, the sting of the whiskey burning on its way down.
How can Jimmy be gone?
I walk toward the window that spans the side of the room and stare out into the Dallas night. Tears burn the back of my eyes, but not being one to cry, I bring the whiskey to my lips and as if the bottle were an untapped spigot, I pour the alcohol down my throat. If I’m taking it this bad, Loretta and the kids are barely holding on.
For the next hour, I sit in this spot, beside the window, my vision blurred as I lose myself in the bottle of whiskey.
I’m drunk as shit but it does nothing to dull the gravity of loss. With a grimace, I polish off the remainder of the alcohol, then grunt as I pull myself up from the floor and stagger to the bedroom.
I need to get back to Georgia. To be there for Jimmy’s family like he was there for me. I don’t know how to begin to step into his shoes. Jimmy always knew the right thing to say. He knew when it was best to say nothing at all, to let you figure things out on your own. Can I be that person for five kids? And a widow? Shit, I can barely do right by Mama and Jace.
Jimmy would tell me I’ll be exactly who and what they need when the situation presents itself—that all I’ll need to do is follow my gut. So that’s what I’ll have to do. When the time comes, I’ll follow my gut. For now, I have to prepare myself to bury a man who was more like a father. A man who was my best friend.
I awake on the floor next to the wall of windows. An empty bottle of whiskey and a brunette are my companions. I squint at the light pouring into the room, a million tiny hammers pounding in my head as I try to retrieve the events of last night. But when it all comes crashing into my mind’s eye, a tsunami of grief rolls through me. I deploy the methods I’ve used in the past to quieten emotions I don’t particularly care for, but this I can’t control.
I look up at the ceiling, remembering the phone call. Loretta’s voice. Her sobs. And my inability to comfort her. And then there was my cell and the shattered TV screen.
After my rendezvous with the first bottle of whiskey, I grabbed my tablet and FaceTimed Connie, telling her I needed a replacement phone and a flight to Georgia. Then I asked her for something else. And since ther
e’s a naked woman lying inches away from me, she obviously delivered.
I scan the span of the space around me. The upscale penthouse. The expensive furnishings. The Branch McGuire Wall of Fame. The brunette on the floor. And the empty bottle of liquor.
It all twists like acid in my gut, and suddenly everything I thought I wanted becomes everything I need to escape. What the fuck have I been doing? The total disregard for anything significant. The random women. The lack of connections—something I suddenly feel desperate for. Someone to hold. Someone who will understand. Someone I can drown myself in.
But there isn’t anyone.
I think of Connie and Vaughn. I think of my teammates. Then I think of the people in Blue Ridge—Mama, Dad, and my high school buddies. I cycle through the haze of images running through my head until one slows with laser-sharp focus.
Ragan.
I START TO WAKE UP.
It feels like I’m lying in a sauna and it takes my breath. I swallow and wipe the back of my hand over my forehead. My skin is clammy and my throat is parched.
With exaggerated effort, my lids flutter open, bringing the patterned markings on the ceiling into focus.
Movement in the corner of the bedroom pulls my attention toward the door, and my gaze falls upon Aunt Sophie sitting in the chair across from me.
With a groan, I push myself up and peel back the layer of blankets.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
I look at her, disoriented. “What’s going on?”
“You fainted.”
I don’t remember anything.
“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”
For the first time in as long as I can remember, she looks at me with kind eyes. Her short dishwater-blond hair, accented with graying curls, falls on either side of her slim face and a sweet smile spreads over her thin lips. It’s still oddly peculiar to see concern in her expression, especially in relation to me. “I don’t remember.” I move to get out of bed.
“Stay put. I’ve made stew. I’ll bring you a bowl.”
As I start to gather my wits, I realize it’s been a week and I’ve heard nothing. I have absolutely no idea where my daughter is, if she’s okay or if I’ll ever see her again. How can anyone elicit this type of mental anguish on another human being? How?
Hayley has been with me nearly every day—Channing Tatum in tow. She’s afraid to leave him alone because his condition is deteriorating. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Noah. I’ve actually avoided his calls, only replying in text that I’m crazy exhausted from work and we’ll catch up when things settle down. The last thing I need is for him to come here and land himself in trouble. Carrie has stopped by, called or texted her prayers that CeeCee will be home soon. Dad, Uncle Stan and even Aunt Sophie have surrounded me with support and kindness. But I see the worry in their eyes deepen with each passing day.
Each swallow of Aunt Sophie’s stew is like dropping a coin into a well with no bottom—I’m on empty, both emotionally and physically. I take in as much as I can before that same sick feeling that’s kept me bent over the toilet resurfaces.
After sitting still for a while in hopes the food stays down, I decide to shower the past several days’ worth of grime away. Setting the temperature of the water as hot as my skin can tolerate it, I stand beneath the shower head and let it spray over me. The cyclic heaves from continuously throwing up over the last several days have left a tender ache in my belly. And now as I start to cry, my body shakes and prods those sore muscles.
When the water starts to run cold, I slip out of the shower and grab a towel to dry myself and another for my hair. I could actually go back to sleep—anything to make me forget what’s going on. Instead, I pull on a pair of jeans, noticing how loose they are but taking no joy in the obvious weight loss. I grab a sweatshirt from the pile of clothes I’ve yet to fold and pull it on before unwrapping the towel from my hair and throwing the partially dry heap into a scraggly ponytail. I check my phone—on the off-chance Ethan has finally grown a conscience but there aren’t any calls from him. Just a text from Carrie saying she’s praying for Cecelia’s safe return.
Stepping into the hallway, I head to the living room when I hear Aunt Sophie exclaim, “Oh, thank heavens. Ragan, come quick. Hurry.” With my heart in my chest, I run toward the voices and see my smiling little girl in Dad’s arms.
A flood of relief rushes through me as tears spring to my eyes and my heart finally starts to beat at its correct rhythm.
“Mommy,” my daughter yells. Dad passes her to me and I pull her into a hug, so caught up in her that I don’t bother to notice that Ethan isn’t in the room.
THE NEXT THIRTY-SIX HOURS ARE spent soaking up every second I can with my daughter before falling back into my routine. What I really want to do is grab CeeCee and our few belongings, hop in my car and just drive. Placing everything about Blue Ridge where it belongs…behind me.
As for the father of my child, not only had he taken my daughter in the most underhanded and despicable way, he returned her home in much the same manner. My little girl was standing at the front door alone while my worthless ex sat in his Jeep waiting for her to ring the bell. And when Dad answered and scooped his grandchild into his arms, Ethan pulled off without a word.
For the thousands of heartbeats that throbbed in my chest and the hundreds of breaths I struggled to catch, for the countless tear drops that soaked my pillow and the millions of seconds that fear inhabited every cell in my body, he excused it all with a letter. A half-page of his messy script explaining that our daughter’s happiness was the most important thing in the world to him, even it that happiness meant bringing her home when she asked. That’s how that bastard ended seven days of misery—with a fucking letter!
I’m not stupid. He didn’t bring CeeCee back to me because he valued her happiness. The only reason he brought her home is because he’s ill-equipped to care for a toddler. Taking my daughter was nothing more than a power play. To show me he has the upper hand and he’ll use it whenever he wants.
I fight to drown the emotions that will most assuredly ruin my day, then busy myself with cleaning the tables in my station, more thankful than ever for the generous tips from the regulars. Since a court order is the only way to protect my daughter, every extra dime is going toward legal fees. Of course, that means working more hours, which unfortunately means less time with CeeCee, but what choice do I have?
I tuck the few bucks in my pocket and whirl around just as the chatter in the diner increases an octave, a knot forming in my throat when I discover the cause.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my brows furrow as Branch comes to a stop a few feet in front of me. “I thought we agreed to stay away from each other.”
“We did.”
“Then why are you here?” Is it because of the fight with Ethan? Or the night we’d had sex? Either way, he shouldn’t be here.
“Did you hear about Jimmy?”
I stare at him, confused. He looks different…tired. Like he hasn’t slept in days. His eyes are bloodshot and the bill of his hat is pulled low over his face, as if he’s hiding what he doesn’t want the world to see. “No, I haven’t heard anything. Or even seen him since the day on the lake.” Not to mention, I’ve had my own stuff to deal with.
He looks as if the mention of Lake Blue Ridge is a memory he’d rather forget. “I’m in town for his funeral.”
“What? No!” I reply, a palm covering my gasp. “What happened?”
For a split second, sadness clouds his features and then it appears he chokes back a surge of emotion. When my customer beckons for her check, I ask Carrie to cover for me as I step to the breakroom to speak with Branch in private.
At the back door of the diner, Branch shifts his feet, lets out a sigh and says, “I know he really liked you, so does Loretta. So I figured you’d want to know.”
I liked Jimmy, too…and his wife. They seemed as if they were the perfect couple. “I’m so sorry.”
I didn’t know Jimmy very well, but I knew he meant a great deal to Branch.
He leans against the door, exhaling his grief as he looks up at the ceiling. “I just can’t believe he’s gone, you know.”
I reach out to him, my hand settling softly on his forearm. “Is there anything I can do?”
Branch meets my eyes. He looks lost, as if he isn’t sure what he needs or who can give it to him.
“Will you go for a ride with me?”
“Er…sure. I guess.”
“I’m not ready to face Loretta and the girls just yet. And I’m not ready to be around anyone who really knew Jimmy. Not right now.”
“Okay. So where would you like to go?”
“Anywhere.”
I still have another half hour before my shift ends and I honestly don’t think I’m the best choice of distractions, but I don’t have the heart to tell him that.
“I’m here for another thirty minutes.”
“I’ll wait.”
Before we exit the diner, Branch purchases a few bottles of beer, then we walk out to a huge black SUV—not the red Corvette he usually drives. We end up at a typical modern-styled house that looks to be abandoned. From the outside, it appears to equal the size of Dad’s place but with a perfectly manicured—although yellowed—lawn and everything in its rightful place, as if it’s for sale but missing the realtor’s signage.
Branch and I walk up the drive, only awkwardness between us, and sit on the front steps. After a period of silence, he starts to talk. About nothing in particular. Just arbitrary things. I suspect this is his way of overshadowing the space in his head he isn’t ready to deal with.
Our conversation wavers from general to personal, then back to general again. He eventually tells me we’re sitting on the steps of a house he owns—the one he grew up in. Each time he visits Blue Ridge, he stops by and sits on the steps. Sometimes he lounges in the porch swing but that’s as far as he goes. Although it’s fully furnished, he never steps a foot inside.