by Aly Martinez
I had none to give though, or I sure as shit would have kept some for myself while breaking down in the shower that morning.
The feel-good chats were never my specialty. Advice? Please, I could barely take care of my own life. Now if someone needed a one-liner, I was the guy. And if the situation was awkward enough and someone didn’t need a one-liner, I unfortunately was still usually that guy too.
It was the worst thing I could say. I knew it before I even opened my mouth. But right or wrong, it was better than saying nothing at all.
“Oh, I was saying you won’t be alone in jail. Tommy No-Name is by far my least favorite of all Rob’s kindergarten friends. If that fool takes one step out of line, you and I will be sharing a cell in the slammer.”
She didn’t laugh.
She didn’t even smile.
She did, however, stare at me like I had two heads, so I took it as progress from yelling at me about the whole tie thing.
“Right,” she murmured. “We should get going before we’re late.” She started away.
I caught her hand and pulled her back. “Look. I’m a shit fill-in for Rob or Jessica in this situation. But I promise I’m here for you today. You get overwhelmed or feel like you can’t take any more, just say the word and I’ll drive the getaway car. Don’t for one second think that it makes you a bad wife or a bad person. Whatever you do or don’t do today, that’s for you and your heart. Rob doesn’t need you to suffer through any social construct to prove how much you love him. And that’s love, Bree. Present tense.”
She stared at me for a long second, her cheeks still damp, but the tiniest flicker of light hit her sparkling green eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, using her other hand to cover mine on her forearm. “I needed to hear that.”
“Good. Then I’ll write it down for future use because I feel like I might have just peaked.”
She shook her head, the corner of her mouth rising almost imperceptibly. “Probably.”
“At least we’re in agreement.”
That time, she laughed. It was quiet and sad, but on the darkest of days imaginable, a laugh was a laugh any way it came.
Rob’s funeral was a far cry from Jessica’s quaint affair. The cathedral downtown was packed, standing room only. I wasn’t surprised. Everyone who had ever crossed Rob’s path considered him a friend.
But nobody had known him like I had.
Nobody had failed him like I had, either.
In a black skinny tie, I never left Bree’s side. She’d highly underestimated herself that morning. Bree was a rock star during the funeral. I waded in and redirected conversations when it looked like she was waning, but for the most part, she was the epitome of grace and strength. I even played a few sneaky games of Rock, Paper, Scissors with Asher when it looked like he needed a distraction. But make no mistake about it, the agonizing guilt was still there, rotting the very core of my existence from the inside out.
Just as I deserved.
EASON
“Open up,” I said with the spoon catapult poised in front of my face.
Asher giggled, his mouth so wide it was a wonder his jaw didn’t come unhinged.
“You ready?”
“Ha ray uh tow et,” he said in a language only dentists could understand, but I assumed he meant yes.
Ever competitive, I spread my legs and bent at the knees to center my balance. The shot could be make or break, and there was no way I was going to be the weak link. “Okay. Okay. Here we go. One, two, three!”
The waffle sailed through the air with nearly perfect aim, but of course, just like the last four pieces I’d flung, it bounced off his nose before landing on the floor.
“No!” he yelled, pounding his fists on the white marble bar. “I was so close.”
I went back to cutting up tiny bites of Bree’s famous sweet-potato-and-spinach waffles. Trust me, I used the word famous lightly. My tastebuds had all but declared mutiny the first time I’d tried one, but she made them in bulk and kept them in the freezer for the kids to eat throughout the week. When it came to juggling breakfast for three children, I was never one to complain about quick and easy.
Over the last month, life had moved at lightspeed yet also in slow motion. Bree and I were still emotional zombies, going through the movements for the sake of the kids, no closer to peace or acceptance, but pretending had gotten easier.
The fire still haunted me. Obsessing over all the things I could have done differently became a nightly staple in my routine. “If I had just…” followed by a fill-in-the-blank with whatever ludicrous and impossible superhero act of the day my mind had conjured up was how I passed the time until my brain finally gave up and allowed me to slip into what could only loosely be described as sleep.
Sometimes I raged. Sometimes I dropped to my knees and cried. Sometimes I just stared into space, resigning myself to a life lost in sorrow.
But each morning, I put one foot in front of the other for my daughter. That little girl, with her honey brown eyes and wispy hair, was my reason for existence.
I’d started therapy—for Luna.
Diligently taken the antidepressants my doctor had prescribed me—for Luna.
And I was currently reading my second parenting book for widowers—for Luna.
People told me to take care of myself, and I guessed in a way I was, but only because Jessica would have wanted our daughter to have the very best in life. Unfortunately, I doubted Jessica, wherever she was, would agree that the “best” was me.
But I’d try anyway.
I wasn’t a big believer in the old adage that everything happened for a reason. I’d never be able to accept there was a purpose in Jessica and Rob being stolen from us. But you’d never be able to convince me it wasn’t a miracle Luna hadn’t been in the house that night. Whether it had been because of habit or circumstance, Jessica and I hadn’t gone out much. And since the day she’d come home from the hospital, Luna had never slept anywhere other than her crib. In her room. In her house.
Until that night. That tragic, horrific night.
So, yeah, I was still struggling to breathe most days, but at night, when I fell asleep staring at my daughter in a portable crib next to my bed, I had a reason to wake up. I clung to that even in my darkest hours.
And trust me, there were a lot of those.
“One more time,” Asher begged from his stool at the bar. “I can catch it this time, I know it.”
Smiling, I scooped the diced waffle onto the tray of Madison’s highchair and glanced over to Luna as she played in the activity saucer. “What do you think? Should I do it again, Lunes?”
“Please, Luna. Say yes, say yes!” Asher yelled.
My daughter bounced twice before shooting me a gummy, slobbery grin.
“All right, buddy. That sounds like a yes to me!” I cut the corner of the puke-green waffle. “Get your choppers open. Incoming in, ten, nine, eight—”
“Absolutely not,” Bree said, walking into the kitchen, empty coffee mug in hand and exhaustion on her face.
“Mooom!” Asher whined.
She pressed a kiss to the top of Madison’s head before moving to her son. “I know. Worst mom ever.” She paused, her gaze snapping to mine. “Is that syrup?”
Shit!
“What? Where?” I snatched Asher’s plate and quickly scraped it into the sink.
“Hey! I was still eating that.”
Strategically avoiding the lasers shooting from Bree’s eyes, I gave the plate the old rinse-and-scrub routine before stashing it in the dishwasher. “No, bud. That was my plate, not yours. Ya know. With all-natural honey. There’s no syrup in this house.” I not-so-sneakily slid the bottle of Hungry Jack behind a canister.
“Nuh, huh. You poured it on my plate and said, ‘Here, Ash, let’s make this edible. Just don’t tell your—’” He snapped his mouth shut so fast that I could hear his teeth clink. “Oops.”
Bree’s lips formed a thin line. “When he’s bouncing off the
walls and playing airplane from the top of the stairs later, I’ll be sure to send him out to the pool house.”
“Fair enough,” I mumbled sheepishly.
Shaking her head, she helped him off the stool. “Go brush your teeth. Like six times. And then never eat anything Uncle Eason feeds you again.”
Wise like the owl, he didn’t argue as he bolted up the stairs.
No sooner than he disappeared, Bree’s shoulders sagged, and she sat down on his stool. “Hit me, bartender.”
I forked the last two waffles onto a plate and slid them her way. “How’d your call with Prism go?”
“Like I need to pour a tall glass of red wine at eight a.m.” Using the footrest on the stool, she stood up and leaned over the bar, grabbing the not-so-hidden bottle of syrup. Then she began drowning her waffles.
“Amateur. Morning drinking is dominated by vodka or Irish whiskey or—” I stopped and lowered my head before letting the word champagne trip out of my mouth. I doubted either of us would ever touch the stuff again. “So, Prism…” I led her to continue.
“It’s a mess. Like a genuine grade-A disaster over there.” She tore into her breakfast, a small moan escaping with the first bite of forbidden syrup. “This is better than wine.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Well, let’s see.” She shoveled in another fork-load of breakfast and then talked around it in the least prim-and-proper Bree way possible. “For some asinine reason, Prism contracted a new manufacturer a few months back. Not only did the fabric fail our quality inspections, but they only sent half our order. Meanwhile, the hotels are breathing down our neck for products they’ve already paid for, and we have nothing to send them. Oh, except for pillowcases. We seem to have two full warehouses of those and not one single buyer requesting them. There’s apparently a maintenance guy, some guy named Barton, who hasn’t shown up for a month or been officially terminated. So I guess I’m paying employees to just stay home. Oh, and the best part is I’ve spent all week reaching out to every connection I’d ever had and can’t get anyone to call me back. And in a rather interesting turn of events, HR called today to tell me that I would no longer be covered by Rob’s health insurance because he is no longer employed with Prism, as if I don’t own the entire freaking company myself.”
I headed for the coffee pot. I was on cup number three for the day, but Bree had a strict morning routine. Two-mile run, yoga, protein shake, and only then did she allow herself a perfectly portioned eight ounces of coffee—black no less. However, since she was downing syrup like she was drinking directly from Willy Wonka’s chocolate river, I figured we were making exceptions that morning. I filled her mug and she didn’t hesitate before lifting it to her lips.
“What does all of that mean?” I asked.
“It means I have to go into the office and see if I can figure out what the hell Rob was thinking. Did you know he downsized the comforter division to the point that I could quite literally go back to sewing them in my dorm room and make more profit?”
“Fuck,” I mouthed, very aware that Madison was done with her banana and watching our interaction like a ping-pong match.
“My thoughts exactly.” Bree shoved another sugary bite into her mouth, chewing as though it had wronged her.
“Relax. I’m sure he had a plan.”
“Yeah. But I’m assuming it wasn’t dying and leaving me with a company I don’t even recognize anymore.” Her voice hitched, but she quickly covered it with a cough before turning to her daughter. “Hey, baby. You want to go to the office with Mommy for a few hours?”
“Why don’t you leave the kids with me? I don’t have anything going on today.” I didn’t add that I was hoping the noise and mayhem might distract me from reality for a while.
Bree laughed and stood up, sliding the tray off the highchair before unbuckling Madison. “Thanks, but it’s fine. She can play with Asher while I make calls. Besides, don’t you have an interview this afternoon?”
“It’s not an interview. The job’s mine—I just needed to fill out the new-hire paperwork.” After over a decade, I was going back to the same dueling piano job I’d hated in my twenties. But much like then, I was desperate and needed a way to pay the bills.
My agent had a few leads on selling the songs from Solstice in the ’92, though it would take time before I got paid. Bree had been generous to let Luna and me stay with her for the last month, but it was high time we found our own place.
The insurance company was rebuilding the house Jessica and I had shared; however, there was absolutely no chance in hell I was moving back there. If I was lucky, I could sell it and use any profit I made after paying off the mortgage to put a down payment on something small. Until then, I needed a steady source of income to show a future landlord.
I had zero clue what I was going to do with Luna on the nights I had to work. Daycares didn’t exactly operate at three a.m. But much like I was doing with the rest of my life…I’d figure it out as I went.
Somehow.
There was no other choice.
I handed Bree a wet rag to clean Madison’s face and hands. “Come on. I’ve been keeping them all week while you take calls upstairs.”
“Yeah, but I was upstairs. And this time, I would be…at the office.”
“Which is ten minutes away.”
She laughed again.
I did my best to not be offended—but let’s be real, that shit stung. “Look, you know as well as I do, if Madison doesn’t get her morning nap, you won’t be making any phone calls that don’t involve a baby screaming in the background. Plus, I heard that someone who shall not be named gave Asher sugar for breakfast. How much work do you think you’re going to get done with him doing parkour off the desk?”
She slanted her head. “Did you plan this?”
“No. But I would have if I’d thought of it in advance. Come on. Let me keep the kids for the day. You can put Madison down for her nap before you go. I’ll put Luna down too. Then Asher and I will run laps around the living room for two hours.” I snapped a few times when I thought of a way to sweeten the deal. “While practicing his multiplication tables.”
I was greeted by another Bree Winters specialty glare, but thankfully, this one held slightly less heat than when she’d seen the syrup. “He’s five, Eason. He doesn’t know multiplication.”
“Well, not yet anyway. You’d be surprised how much math there is in music. There’s all those twos and fours and threes and sixes. Sometimes a wild eight here and there.” I moved around Bree and picked up Madison. As usual, she whined and reached for her mother, but it was nothing a little Superman spin couldn’t fix.
Madison giggled and I’ll be damned if it didn’t stretch a rare smile across Bree’s face too.
“Traitor,” she whispered to her daughter. Just as quickly as it had appeared, her flicker of happiness faded. “I don’t know, Eason. Nothing against you, it’s just, after everything…”
Knife.
Heart.
Twist.
But I just kept on grinning. It was less awkward that way.
Our whole I’ll hate you, you hate me, but we do it together agreement hadn’t come into play often over the last month. And the truth was, I didn’t ever actually hate Bree.
I hated myself. For not being able to save Jessica or Rob. For not knowing about the gas leak. And a myriad of other things that factored into us being in the house that horrible night.
Clearly, my grin didn’t hide everything though.
“I mean, it’s not that I don’t trust you,” she rushed out. “I do. It’s just… I have a hard time leaving them with anyone.”
“No. I get it. No explanation needed.” I gave Madison’s belly a tickle—anything to avoid Bree’s gaze.
She rested her hand on my forearm. “I appreciate the offer though.”
“Yeah. Of course.” I forced a smile. “Anytime.”
Bree extended her arms and Madison all but leapt to her, leavin
g me standing there empty-handed and wondering how I’d managed to both embarrass myself and shatter whatever progress we’d made toward comfortably coexisting.
“Hey, uh, I’m going to take Luna out and get her changed. Looks like she used that banana I gave her as a hair gel instead of breakfast.” I squeezed past Bree, careful not to touch her, and scooped Luna out of the activity saucer.
“Eason…” Bree trailed off, cleared her throat, and then smiled. She wasn’t as good at faking it as I was, so it was closer to a grimace. “Thanks again. For everything. Except the syrup.”
I jerked my chin and winked. “What syrup?”
Without giving her the time to respond, I pulled the back door open and slid through it, my baby girl babbling the entire way.
BREE
“You sure I can’t get you anything else?” Rob’s secretary, Jillian, asked, cleaning up the remnants of snack wrappers and juice boxes she’d magically produced from her Mary Poppins desk drawer. I guessed being a sixty-five-year-old grandmother to nine meant you learned a few tricks about being prepared.
I held the phone between my ear and my shoulder, offered her a tight smile, and lied, “No, I think we’re good. Thank you.”
Truthfully, I was drowning. Just setting foot in Rob’s office had been a herculean task. He should have been there. Sitting behind the huge mahogany desk, welcoming us in with a smile—or, if it had been me without the kids, a mischievous glint in his dark-brown eyes.
Without him, the massive corner office filled with bookshelves and a six-person sitting area was too empty. I’d told myself this was just a quick stop. I’d grab what I needed, take the rest home, and work on it at night when the kids went to sleep. Though actually locating the things I needed in his messy cabinets was something different altogether. For as clean and tidy as Rob had been in virtually every other facet of his life, his filing system made my eyes twitch.
Jillian had known where most of the contracts I needed were, the majority of those being digitized, but there were quite a few orders I couldn’t locate. So, rather than the quick stop I’d hoped for, we were on hour number two of me calling our vendors all around the world.
