by Aly Martinez
God…would this day ever end?
After I’d spent a sleepless night with Travis at the hospital, I’d walked outside to discover a flat tire, which made me late to the walkthrough with the city inspector. And then he found four violations that my contractor swore weren’t his fault. It was going to take at least a week to get everything up to code, including changes that would require removing one, if not both, of the freezers.
More time. More money. At that rate, it’d be a goddamn miracle if we opened on time.
It had been three years since my brother and I had gone into business together, but in that time, I’d completely forgotten what a nightmare it was to open a new restaurant. Though, that might be because, back then, I had been desperate for the distraction. Back then, I’d been floundering in virtually every aspect of life. I’d gone from being a workaholic investment banker to a single father of two literally overnight. Hannah was only six months old at the time, but Travis was eight. Watching my son nearly collapse from grief was more than I could bear. In the weeks that followed, he became angry and began lashing out at anyone and everyone he could reach. First and foremost: me. I couldn’t blame him; I was pretty damn pissed at the universe too.
But he made me recognize that something had to change. I couldn’t keep going to work, pulling sixty-hour weeks, and using nannies and babysitters to deal with the fallout Catherine had left behind.
In order for us to heal, we had to do it together.
I was all they had left.
They were all I had left.
Well, them and the acidic anger eating me away from the inside out.
I’d become a shell of the man who’d once smiled because it felt natural and laughed because everything held humor if you looked close enough.
That had all died with Catherine.
She’d ruined me.
And, worse, she’d ruined our children too.
The pain I’d felt when my son had looked up at me the day of his mother’s funeral and asked, “Who’s going to take care of me now?” had shattered me.
Hate and despair fused within me, plunging me into the darkness. I lost my job after I’d punched my boss when he’d dared to insinuate that I needed to take a few days off. And then it was just me and the kids functioning without feeling.
After Catherine, the world wasn’t such a beautiful place anymore. It was sick and tainted, sucking the life out of me with every passing day.
Despite how isolating those first few months felt, I wasn’t struggling alone. I had an amazing family who rallied around me and the kids.
Tanner was a lot of things: arrogant, obnoxious, irresponsible.
But he was also my little brother.
As a world-renowned chef, complete with his own show on The Food Channel, he stayed busier than I could ever imagine. But, when I found myself on my knees at the mercy of the universe, he stepped up in a big way.
He proposed that I partner with him to start a restaurant. As the head of the business side of the house, I would be allowed the freedom to make my own schedule and, if need be, bring the kids to work with me.
While it sounded like an appealing offer, I laughed at him. I could barely scramble eggs. What the hell did I know about starting a restaurant? But he assured me he knew what he was doing.
It was a huge fucking lie.
He’d vastly underestimated all the things that happened outside the kitchen.
Payroll? Staffing? Marketing? Customer service?
We were in way over our heads, but we were the Reese brothers, so we buckled down and forged ahead—fighting with each other every step of the way.
Christ, Tanner and I didn’t agree on anything. That had been the case for most of our lives, and I had no clue why we’d thought working together would be any different.
And, trust me, it wasn’t.
During one of our early conversations, he’d specifically told me that he wanted something casual. To me, that meant burgers and fries he could spice up with some of his signature flares. So, one weekend, while he was gallivanting in New York, rubbing elbows with the likes of Bobby Flay and Wolfgang Puck, I did some preliminary planning. Hand on the Bible, I thought he was going to have a stroke when I showed him my Trapper Keeper (the only true way to organize). He balked at the location I’d picked, laughed at the proposed ambiance, and appeared downright offended by my suggested price point.
So we did what any two men in our early thirties would do to solve a disagreement. We built a Ninja Warrior course in the backyard and competed against each other, the victor earning the right to make the final decisions on everything from the menu to the table decor. I’d like to note that it was a hell of a lot safer than the bareknuckle cage match he’d first proposed.
Smiling, I was lost in fond memories of my come-from-behind victory the day we’d named the restaurant when my cell phone started ringing. Wedging the office phone between my shoulder and my ear, I began patting down the stacks of papers strewn haphazardly across my desk. A cup of pens fell off the side, scattering over the floor during my search, but I finally found my cell hiding between an empty to-go container and one of Hannah’s Barbie dolls.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Reese?”
“This is he.”
“This is Harvey from Total Electric—”
Just then, I heard the same question in my other ear. “Mr. Reese?”
I pivoted the cell away from my mouth and spoke into the office line. “Yes! I’m here.”
“Sorry about your wait. It’ll be just a minute longer,” she said.
My shoulders fell. I’d been on hold with the doctor’s office so often over the last week that I’d memorized the majority of their mind-numbing hold music. Trust me, no one had the space in their brains to store the jazz instrumental versions of the Jackson Five. But, if I could get Travis an appointment with Dr. Mills, it could have become the soundtrack of my life, for all I cared.
“No problem,” I replied with reluctance.
“Fantastic!” Harvey exclaimed. “We’ll get this scheduled for next week.”
I swung my cell back down to my mouth. “Wait. What the hell are you talking about?” I barked at Harvey.
“Excuse me?” the woman in my other ear said.
“Not you,” I snapped only to remember I was supposed to be in ass-kiss mode. “I mean…I’m sorry. I was talking to someone else.”
“Right,” she drawled, but a second later, a saxophone flared on the hook of “I Want You Back.”
I shifted the phones again so only Harvey could hear me (hopefully). “What the hell do you mean, next week?”
“As I said…we’ve had a slight delay—”
Clearly, the day could get shittier.
“Listen, pal, I don’t care if you have to drive to the factory and assemble the damn things yourself. We went with your bid even though your prices were astronomical because you promised you could deliver on schedule.”
“Yes. But things have changed.”
“Then un-fucking-change them!”
His voice became cautious. Wisely so. “I can get you six tomorrow and the rest by the first of next week.”
“Our soft opening is next week.” I rocked back in my chair, but I wasn’t calm in the least. Without those lights, we were fucked. “Listen, Harvey.” I stressed his name to be a dick. “This might be a stretch, but I’m thinking people are going to want to see their food before they eat it, and it’s my job to make sure that happens. So hear me when I say this: I want them all today or keep the damn things. Central Electric has what we need.” They didn’t. “In stock.” Seriously, I was so full of bullshit. “I’m done waiting.”
“But—”
“But nothing! You’re wasting my fucking time. Either get me the lights or get off my fucking line so I can call Central Electric.” Please, God, do not get off my line.
He went quiet, and I waited anxiously.
“What about tomorrow?” he asked.
I launched to my feet, quietly celebrating as much as I could with two phones held to my ears. When I got myself back together, I cleared my throat and said, “I’m not happy about this. But you come through tomorrow and we won’t completely write off doing future business with you again.”
“We’d appreciate that,” he said evenly, probably doing some silent celebrating of his own. (Or, at least, I pretended as much.)
“Hi, Mr. Reese. This is Rita Laughlin,” the woman on the other phone said.
Without saying goodbye to Harvey, I hung up.
“Riiiitttta,” I purred. “You are a hard woman to reach. Please, just call me Porter.”
“Sorry about that. I’ve been slammed this week. I’m planning this Spring Fling and…” She paused. “Sorry. I’m rambling. What can I do for you, Porter?”
First name. I was so in there.
“I need an appointment with Dr. Mills.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding surprised. “Our receptionist should have been able to handle that for you.”
I drew in a deep breath and finished with, “For my son.”
“Ohhhh,” she drawled in understanding. “I’m sorry. Dr. Mills doesn’t—”
“Treat children. Yes. So I’ve been told. But I’m asking you. To ask him—”
“Her,” she corrected.
“Right. Her. Sorry. All I’m asking is for you to ask her to make an exception. Just once.”
She sucked in a sharp, hissing breath. “I’m sorry. She doesn’t make exceptions. Though I have the name of a fantastic pediatric pulmonologist—”
“Martin, Craig, Lorenz, Rogers, McIssanson, Goldmen,” I listed. “We’ve seen them all. And each one has assured me that Mills is the best.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Reese.”
Shit, back to my last name. I was losing traction.
Gentling my voice, I turned the charm on. “What if you schedule me a consult and I’ll ask her myself? Could you be a dear and do that for me?”
“No. I can’t be a dear and do that for you,” she clipped.
Okay. Too much charm. Time to reel it back in.
“Perhaps I could make a monetary donation.” I had plenty of money. Plenty meaning I could afford private tutors, nice daycares, and impromptu family vacations. Though constructing a hospital wing in Dr. Mills’s honor was pretty much off the table. Unless they accepted a payment plan—for individual bricks.
“We don’t accept bribery, either,” she said dryly. “Look, Dr. Laughlin is Dr. Mills’s partner. He has a few openings. I could probably get your son on his schedule.”
“Ugh.” I groaned. “I’ve heard terrible things about him.”
She didn’t immediately reply, and it took several seconds for the memory of her last name to hit me.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and mouthed a string of expletives to myself. “I mean…I’m sure he’s an amazing—”
“No, you were pretty much spot-on the first time. He’s my soon-to-be ex-husband.”
A blast of relief surged through me. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Listen, I really want the best for your son. But I’ve known Dr. Mills for a lot of years. And she does not treat children. No exceptions. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have—”
My stomach dropped. “Please don’t hang up,” I rushed out, my anxiety climbing. “We’ve done the breathing treatments and inhalers. But nothing seems to keep him out of the hospital anymore. He’s getting weaker, and the other pulmonologists expect us to accept that this is how things are going to be for him. But I’m not quitting on my son. I need Dr. Mills. Please. He’s eleven, but he’s never been able to be a kid. Help me give him that.”
“Porter,” she sighed.
Back to first names.
“Rita, all I’m asking is that you let me talk to her. I’ll do anything.”
“Anything. Right.”
But I’d never been more serious in my life. I was sick and tired of watching my son waste away. I needed that appointment.
“You like steak, Rita?”
“Uhh….”
I blew out a hard breath and grasped at the only card I had up my sleeve—a silly two of clubs. “I own a restaurant. You get me in with Dr. Mills and I’ll get you free steaks for life.”
I expected her to laugh. Maybe even hang up and block my number.
But I’d never expected the pique of interest in her voice as she replied, “You own a restaurant?”
* * *
“Happy Birthday, Lucas,” I whispered, staring up at his picture on Brady’s mantel.
My heart ached no less than it had the first minute I’d realized he was gone. And on every single one of the 3,467 days since. It had been almost ten years since I’d seen my son, and the wounds were no closer to being healed. Time wasn’t the miracle cure so many had told me it would be. For me, time wasn’t even a Band-Aid.
Reality slashed me every morning when I opened my eyes. Though, through the years, I’d become too callused and numb to feel it anymore. The constant agony had become a way of life.
I stayed busy, kept to myself, and made a difference in other people’s lives as some sort of penance for having failed the one person who had truly depended on me.
That same act of voluntary self-punishment was exactly how I ended up at Brady’s house once a year. With Lucas gone, we had nothing tying us together. No forced relationship God knew neither of us wanted to maintain. Yet there I stood, staring up at a framed picture of my newborn little boy on what would have been his tenth birthday.
“You coming outside?” Tom asked gently.
Wearing a weak smile, I turned to face him.
As we all had, he’d aged. But he’d done it well. The pepper was now missing from his silver hair, and the tiny crinkles that had once pinched around his eyes when he smiled were now a permanent fixture regardless of his expression. He was a far cry from the man who’d knelt in front of me that day at the park, swearing to me that he would never stop trying to find my son.
It was funny. Looking back, I’d realized that not once had he told me that he would find him. Just that he would never stop trying. Fortuitous as it might have been.
“I’d rather be shot,” I replied softly.
After brushing his sports coat back, he slid his hands into the pockets on his khaki slacks. “That makes two of us, then.”
I went back to staring at the picture. It was the same one on my nightstand. I’d long since memorized every curve of his cherubic face. Yet, somehow, seeing it in Brady’s house and not stained with my tears made it feel new.
“Your mom just got here. You’ve got about ninety seconds before she comes looking for you.”
My lids fluttered closed as I sighed. “Christ. Why do they insist on doing this every year?”
His footsteps moved closer, and his hand landed on my shoulder. “It’s therapeutic, Charlotte.”
I shook my head, knotting my hands in front of me. “No. It’s torture. And, quite honestly, it’s a tad disturbing.”
“Yeah, okay. It’s a little bit of that, too.” His hand squeezed gently. “But it makes your mom smile, and Brady usually manages to pull his head out of his ass for at least thirty minutes.”
My shoulders shook as a sad laugh escaped my lips.
Tom Stafford was the father I’d never wanted. He was such an amazing man, but I wished with my whole heart that we’d never been forced to meet. But I guessed, if there were any silver lining to be found in this whole traumatic experience, he would be it.
He’d been the detective in charge of Lucas’s disappearance since day one. In the beginning, we’d spoken every day—usually multiple times. But, as time had marched on, leads becoming fleeting and hope fading out of reach, our relationship had become personal. Whether it was Saturday-night dinners, the occasional drink, or his silence on the other end of the line when I’d call him at three a.m. to sob, he was always there. While I’d never specifically asked why he was so good to me, he’
d told me years earlier that he’d lost his daughter to an accidental drowning when she was three. I figured I must have reminded him of her. I don’t know how I would have made it through those first pitch-black years without him.
“You going to ask her out today?” I asked.
His hand spasmed. “Leave it alone.”
“It’s been five years since Dad died,” I stated, peering up at him over my shoulder.
His hazel eyes turned dark as he stared down at me. “I know. I was at the funeral, Charlotte.”
“Then you know it’s time for her to move on. She’s lonely, Tom.”
“Yeah. I know that too. Actually, it’s time for both of the stubborn-ass Mills women to move on,” he said pointedly.
I rolled my eyes and stepped away. I wasn’t a nun or anything, but when the highlights of your social life revolved around dinner and drinks with a fifty-six-year-old man who was sweet on your mother, it could be said that you weren’t exactly far from it.
“Billy was asking about you again. I could—”
“No way,” I said, cutting him off. “We are not discussing Billy Weiner again.”
His lips twitched with amusement. “Come on. He’s a good guy. I’d marry you off to him if I could.”
“His last name is Weiner.”
A smile broke across his face. “Give him a shot, sweetheart. Things work out, you can make him take your last name at the wedding.”
I almost smiled. For the briefest of seconds, the guilt I carried around like a boulder in my chest seemed to defy gravity.
Almost.
Until it came crashing down at the sound of his voice.
“We’re about to do cake,” Brady announced from the doorway. “You coming outside?”
Tom went on alert as we both spun to face Lucas’s father.
I’d known that today was going to be hard. Every year, I’d dreaded that party like the plague. But this year was different, and I’d been preparing myself more than usual.
His name was William Lucas Boyd. My mother had informed me the day he was born. But the sight of him felt like I’d been hit by a freight train.
My heart ached.
My hands twitched.
My mind screamed.