Chapter 14
I got righteously drunk that night on a bottle of scotch I’d been saving. World-ending soul suck seemed as good an occasion as any. Or at least it did at eleven p.m., when I was faced with the prospect of sleeping in a bed that still smelled like Lance. At five a.m., with the worst hangover of my life, each footstep down the stairs made my head pound.
I did the opening prep on autopilot—seriously groggy, cutting-corners autopilot.
Around six, Brady showed up, coming in the front entrance. He waited patiently under the front canopy for me to unlock for him. Outside, the weather was dark and nasty with a heavy drizzle. He stamped his feet off on the big mat.
“You look like crap,” he said as he grabbed an apron from the hooks behind the coffee bar.
“What are you doing here? Thought it was supposed to be Trina.” I arranged trays of pastries for the glass display case next to the coffee bar.
“Sick. She texted you but said you didn’t reply.”
Fuck. I’d turned my phone off last night, afraid that if Lance tried to call I’d lose all my resolve and end up begging for forgiveness.
“Hell.” I dropped a turnover on the floor.
“No offense, boss, but you’re kind of a mess.” Brady stepped back from me, like he was afraid to get a good whiff of me.
“Heh.” I made a noncommittal sound, even though I totally was a sloppy, dragged-out mess. My center of gravity kept tilting, like the worst of the hangover hadn’t even hit yet. Hell, I still might even have been slightly buzzed.
“Go back to bed.” Brady took the tray from me. “Go sleep it off. I can handle the morning shift.”
“Nah. Can’t leave you guys—”
“We’ll be fine. Marty and Alyssa will be in soon. This place can run without you for a morning.”
“Okay.” My head hurt too much to argue.
“And maybe when you wake up, you’ll figure out how to fix things. You guys are good together.”
“Not talking about this with you. And no, not fixable.”
“You were happier with him than you ever were with Randy.”
“Thanks.” For making things worse. I rubbed my temples, trying to keep my brain in my head. Heading up the stairs, I felt adrift, like I’d swam so far away from happy, I’d never find my way back. Lance thought I was a fish and a rock and all sorts of pretty metaphors, but truth was, I would have given anything in that moment to be an ostrich.
When I woke up from my much-needed nap, I did something I almost never did and made a pot of coffee in my own kitchen. I wasn’t ready to face anyone yet. Dug out my French press and some single-origin beans I had in a sampler one of the local roasters had sent over. Took my coffee with a chaser of painkillers for my head.
Still walking slowly, I went to feed the fish. The new betta fish bobbed up to the surface as soon as I sprinkled food in his tank. Likewise, the Calico Moor twins chased their flakes with the sort of vigor I couldn’t summon. But Scruffy was nowhere to be found in the big tank—not by the castle and not in the feeding frenzy at the top. Finally, I discovered him at the bottom of the tank, not swimming. I’d owned fish enough years to know that these things happened, but I still got choked up as I disposed of him and readied his friends for a full water change.
I took my time cleaning the tank. Dragged stuff to the bathroom for a full rinse, cleaned the castle and the rocks. Paid extra attention to the filters. I clung to the task, every single bit of its minutiae, like it was a life raft keeping me afloat.
I couldn’t lose any more fish. Sometimes fish deaths came in clumps—something in the pH of the water or an illness—sometimes they were just a fluke. I needed Scruffy to be a fluke, needed my happy little Calico Moors to keep swimming, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d done something to cause Scruffy’s death. Had I forgotten to check the water last night? Been too preoccupied to notice what Lance was seeing?
Scruffy was my oldest fish—eight years. He’d started as a tiny guy, swallowed up by my giant tank, but quickly grew to a solid nine inches. He was there through the good middle years with Randy and the bitter end, and through Lance. Randy had never gotten my fish thing; he’d thought some of my tats were cool, but he thought keeping fish was a bit weird and never hesitated to tell me so. But Lance had always accepted my marine fascination as a part of me—asking questions about the fish and what they ate and what they liked. He liked to trace my tats with his fingers while we made love. And he’d noticed Scruffy was feeling off long before I did.
I missed Lance’s little observations already—the way he’d have out-of-the-box ideas about routine things. He saw my life with fresh eyes. Made me miss things I hadn’t thought about in years, made me want foolish things I’d always disdained. I tried to channel his optimistic spirit; I had to believe that he would be happier in the end. Down in my soul, I believed that someone better for Lance was out there. Someone who would come along at the right moment, after he’d had his adventures. Someone young and bright like him, who could make him laugh. And I hated him already. My fists clenched. Pessimism won the battle for my brain. Lance would move on—he had to. But me? I never would.
When I finally worked up enough energy to head downstairs, I caught sight of the bakery truck through the window next to the service entrance.
Oh, fuck. I wanted to race back upstairs. I went to the kitchen door, intending to take the coward’s way out and have Brady handle it, but he and the other baristas were juggling a line six deep.
Be a man. You can do this. You don’t have to say anything. I gave myself the world’s worst pep talk as I opened the back door to discover not Lance but his scowling hulk of a cousin.
“Lance offered to come help me paint trim the next three weekends if I would take this delivery this week. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?” His glare hit me like a search beam, finding all my inadequacies and failings.
“Not your business.” I wasn’t going to be intimidated by Vic.
“You know, you’re lucky you’re such a valued”—he spat the word out like eggshells in his pancake batter—“customer of the bakery. Otherwise I’d have to call you out.”
“Don’t let that stop you.” I pulled myself up taller. Hell, I hoped he would hit me. I’d almost welcome the pain.
“You hurt Lance. He looked like he hadn’t slept when he came in this afternoon, and he could barely get the words out to ask me to cover. I should deck you for that alone.” He stepped up into my personal space, but he didn’t hit me.
“Go right ahead. I deserve it.” I stood my ground even as my jaw started to brace for impact—Vic was ripped like an action star.
“He’s a good kid—”
“I know. And that’s the thing. He’s a kid. And I’m trying like hell to do the right thing by him, so either hit me or back the hell off.”
“Tell me about this right thing.” Vic’s face softened, and he stepped back to lounge against some of the shelving. I hoped it could stand up to his bulky frame. His big brown eyes—almost identical to Lance’s—said he was perfectly happy to hang out there all day.
I made a show of putting away the bakery boxes. Two could play this waiting game.
“You’re all Lance has been able to talk about for weeks now,” Vic said much more amiably now.
“Really?”
“You know Lance. That boy can’t keep his mouth shut about things he likes—school, his friends, you. I’m surprised you’re not in more of the pics he posts.”
“Fuck. I never wanted him to get in so deep. This was just supposed to be a fling. And I knew it was wrong from the get-go.”
“Hey.” Vic held up his hands. “No judgment. You’re an ass for breaking his heart, but if you mean the age difference thing, I’ve got almost a decade on my boyfriend.”
“Doesn’t it feel wrong?”
Vic glowered at me, his eyebrows cinching together. “You insulting me? No, it doesn’t feel wrong. It’s the most right thing I’ve ever had in my life.”
There was a sureness in his gaze, an absolute certainty that he was supposed to be with this other person. Like he knew he was good for that person, too. My ribs ached, tired of holding my throbbing heart. I had certainty, too; so much of it I felt bloated with the knowledge I was doing what I had to by cutting Lance free.
“Well, I want better than me for Lance. Okay? I’m sure whatever you’ve got going works for you, but Lance is young. Still in school. He doesn’t need to be tied to someone like me.” And then it all came tumbling out: Lance’s getting into USC and his wanting to stay in Oregon and how I was not going to let him screw up his future.
“Fuck. I didn’t mean to unload on you,” I finished lamely. “I’m so, so sorry I hurt him, but he’s going to get over this.”
“Yeah. Probably,” Vic said, rubbing his chin. “But you won’t. And what if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.” I leaned on the counter, letting the edge dig into my hip.
“Look.” Vic’s tone had gentled considerably. “I don’t know if Lance has told you, but our family’s had a lot of loss the last few years. And if there’s one thing that death has taught me, it’s that there are no second chances.”
“Which is why—”
“You want the best for Lance. I get it now. I really do. But you have to ask yourself, at the end of the day, when you’re looking back at your life, are you going to be all smug and self-righteous that you let him go? Or are you going to wish like hell you’d tried to make it work?”
“It doesn’t—”
Vic held up a hand. “Don’t answer right now. Think about it. Really think. And then think about whether it’s possible you’re wrong. And think about what Lance’s answer would be.”
“He doesn’t know what he wants.” I ripped a hand through my hair. “He’s young and—”
“Now you’re making me mad again. Lance is the smartest person in our family. You don’t trust him to know his own mind? Don’t trust him to make good choices? Maybe you’re right, and you don’t deserve him.”
“I don’t,” I said lamely. I was going to have bruises from the counter tomorrow, but I needed its pressure to keep me upright. Lord knew my spine wasn’t up to the task.
“Here.” Vic fished a piece of paper out of his pocket, set it on the counter. “Wasn’t sure if I was going to give you this, but I suppose it’s possible you might manage to dig your head out of your ass. Here’s his address. He tell you about his birthday?”
“Yeah.” I squeezed my eyes shut.
“You’re going to be seeing me, not him, all week. That’s the deal I worked out with him. Turns out I really hate painting trim. But Chris?”
“Yeah?”
“Think about what I said. People want to believe life is full of second chances. But that’s not really the case. Sometimes we only get one shot to get it right.”
I kept my eyes shut, rubbing the bridge of my nose. I heard the door slam, heard the truck start, and I still kept them shut. I didn’t have to be told to think about Vic’s words; they were already a part of the jumbled mess of thoughts in my brain.
I tried to imagine telling Lance yes, letting him give up USC to stay in Oregon. It wasn’t a terrible school—still top 100 or something—but it wasn’t Lance’s dream. We’d have a good run of months, but what would happen when he’d hear about some seminar at USC? Or when the fall came and he was stuck here for another rainy season? Wouldn’t he eventually come to resent me?
Then I imagined doing the distance thing. The issue wasn’t whether I could trust him—one of my favorite things about Lance was how darn loyal he was. No, the issue was him carrying around his cell phone, glancing down at it when he should be admiring the sunshine around him. Turning down drinks with new friends because he had a Skype date with me. Rushing back on break instead of going with his buddies on a trip to Mexico.
I wasn’t sure what miracle Vic thought I could work. The only options I saw were ones bound to end in heartache.