by Susan Ward
This moment got real heavy, too fast. “That’s fucking deep, Hank.”
“I’m a goddamn poet.”
“That’s taking it a little far.”
“Intimidated by my superior wordsmithing? Don’t answer. Stop busting my chops and get the fuck out of here. I’m all talked out for one day. Besides, your family’s waiting for you to take them to dinner.”
I PULL BACK THE glass door and gesture Avery into the restaurant. I catch a glimpse of Ethan’s dubious expression before he follows her.
This is going over fucking great and it was probably a lame move to bring them here. But, fuck, nothing bad ever seems to happen to me in Capitol Hill, and after talking with Hank it seemed wise to avoid the upscale restaurants where there might be press or paparazzi, and this is the best food I’ve found in Seattle even if you have to pick up your own order.
Avery plants her hands on her hips and stares wide-eyed. “This is your A game, Eric? Dear God, what did they do to you in rehab? Did they erase your memory or something?”
I make a face at her and she gives me a little shoulder bump to make sure I know she’s teasing. I like them ribbing me; it tells me they feel comfortable around me, which is a big deal and much better than them being worried and feeling like they have to tiptoe around my issues.
“This is my A game in Seattle. Don’t you remember the dives we used to go to on tour? Those were good times. Once you get your food, you’re not going to question why I brought you guys here.”
Avery’s face glows from the memories and I smile back at her. It was our thing. Diners and dives. I’m glad she remembers.
“Frank’s Chicken Shack.” Ethan says each word slow and heavy like they weigh a ton in his mouth before howling with laughter.
I shake my head. Way to keep an open mind, bro.
“Do you want good food or good ambience?”
“I didn’t know that was an either-or proposition,” Ethan rebukes. He winks at his wife. “One thing for sure, Avery. My brother didn’t raise the bar tonight. He’s got less game than I do when planning an evening out for you.”
Ethan slaps my back before he heads to the order counter.
I glance down at Avery. “You want to order or pick a table?”
“Tough choice.” She makes a quirky expression. “I think I’ll choose the table, because Noah’s heavy. E can order for me. He knows what I like. Just tell him I’m starving.”
When I join Ethan in line at the order station, thankfully it’s not Valerie, my teenage girl stalker, working the register. With how this is going over, I don’t need one more thing for my brother to give me shit about.
Ethan studies the menu on the wall, rubbing his chin. “What’s good here, EJ?”
“Everything. They make it all fresh right here. Nothing premade. It may look like a fast food joint, but it’s not. Just casual, that’s all.”
Ethan’s lips tighten; he’s holding back a smile. “Don’t sweat it, bro. You were the one who lived like a rock star practically from birth, with all the fast-lane glitzy exclusive everything. Avery and I are into simple and down-to-earth. Judging by how much food I see on those plates being carried away, this is exactly the perfect place for Avery. This kind of place is right up our alley. Especially now that we have Noah. We never know if we’re going to get through an entire meal with him sleeping, and Avery’s not to the point yet where she’s willing to leave him at home, not even for an hour or so.”
“She’s a new mother,” I point out. “That’s not surprising.”
“Nah, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. We’re both pretty obsessed with being Noah’s parents.” His face shines with pride. “Being a dad is the best gig there is. I never thought it’d feel this way to have a son. But he’s pretty awesome, isn’t he?”
“Awesomeness personified.”
Ethan studies me, pensive. “You must miss Hana a lot. I didn’t mean anything with that being a dad is the best gig thing.”
“Don’t sweat it. I know. And it’s been rough being away from Hana. I won’t lie. But this year has been an important part to get me on track to be the best dad I can be to her. When you leave rehab you’re sober, but that’s when the work starts, sorting through all the issues you haven’t sorted out yet. It was better I didn’t rush home to her and try to cope with all the stuff I’d left behind there too soon.”
E’s hand closes on my shoulder, giving me a tight squeeze. “Hana’s doing well at the folks’. Both Avery and I visit her every chance we get. It doesn’t make up for you, but the whole family’s doing what they can for Hana. You’ve got nothing to explain to me or anyone else about the decisions you’ve made. We all support you. Whatever you need, brother, we’ll all do what we can for you.”
I’m choked up. “Thanks, E. When I go home, I’m never leaving Hana again.”
“That sounds pretty decided.”
“It is.” I rake back my hair and focus on the entrees listed.
His gaze shifts to mine and he quirks a brow. “We’re in the same boat, brother. Two dads trying to figure out how we can balance doing our careers without being away from our families.”
“One thing for sure, I’m never going to try to make it work the way Dad did.”
Ethan groans. “Hell no. No way am I ever taking my kid on the road. Not doing that to Noah. Not leaving Avery.”
“I’m not doing that to Hana either.” Or Willow, but I don’t add that out loud because it’d sound arrogant given the status of our relationship.
“Besides, Avery wouldn’t let me.”
I’m laughing. “Dude, you are whipped.”
“Dude, I just let her think I am because I’m loving how she cracks that whip.”
“E. Seriously. You’ve got it bad.”
He shrugs. Don’t care.
I stifle a grin. When Ethan falls, he falls hard and isn’t embarrassed to own it. It tells me that things are going to be different between us when I go home, but I don’t care. Avery’s wonderful, everything I could want for my brother.
Ethan steps toward the counter and starts rattling off his order. I turn my head to look over my shoulder and scan the room for my sister-in-law. She’s at a corner table by the window, jiggling Noah as he sleeps while her eyes are glued out the window, watching the people passing by on the street.
Avery’s a people watcher. Probably why she’s a blogger. It reminds me of Willow. If Willow were here, we’d be sitting at a table by the window. The thought makes me smile, though a little sadly.
After we’ve finished placing our order, I stay at the pickup station to wait for our food while Ethan takes our drinks and condiments to the table.
Our order comes up and I grab the tray, carrying it to the table. “I hope you’re hungry,” I say, smiling at Avery.
Her face shoots toward me, looking all worried about something. I frown. Shift my gaze to E. Then back to her.
Something’s wrong.
How they’re looking at each other puts my nerves on alert. “Hey, what’s up with you guys?”
Christ, why are they staring at me that way?
“You going to tell me or what?” I ask.
Avery’s expression goes taut. “What does Willow look like?”
“Willow? Why?”
“Does she have dark hair and brown eyes?” Avery asks.
“Yeah.” I’m getting the feeling I won’t like where this is going.
Avery flushes. “When Ethan got back to the table I kissed him. After I pulled away, I noticed a woman staring at us from across the restaurant.”
Oh, fuck me.
Ethan grimaces. “She gave me the finger before she ran out of here.”
“She went that way.” Avery points in the direction of Mel’s. “And I can’t be certain, but I think she was crying.”
Damn it.
I only told Willow my sister-in-law was in town.
I never mentioned Ethan.
“I’ll be back,” I say before I hurry toward the door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Eric
ON THE SIDEWALK, I look toward Mel’s—obvious choice—but it must not be because I don’t spot Willow. As I scan the other direction, then the opposite side of the street, my heart’s racing in what I’m sure is an extreme way given the circumstance. A harmless mix-up, someone thinking it’s me instead of Ethan. It used to happen all the time. But I don’t need one more thing sinking me deeper in the shit pit I’m in with Willow.
I need to calm down.
This is easily fixable.
About the only fucking bad opinion Willow has of me that is easily fixable.
I try not to look too harried as I hustle toward Mel’s. I don’t want to create a scene when I get there and make the situation worse.
Pulling back the front door, I pop my head in and scan the bar. I avoid making eye contact with Ivy as she looks up from setting down drinks to see me hovering in the doorway. I jut my chin at Griff, but otherwise my eyes are hyperfocused on a single target.
I don’t see Willow. It’s Wednesday night and the bar isn’t packed to the point I could miss her, and in truth, if it were overflowing with people I still wouldn’t miss her in the crowd. I’d know she was here even if I couldn’t see her.
She’s not inside the bar.
Maybe upstairs in the apartment?
On my way here I didn’t notice any lights on from the second floor, and if Willow had run into the bar crying then disappeared upstairs Ivy would assume that had something to do with me and would have pounced on me by now.
Willow’s not in the building.
If she went for her car I’m screwed.
I let the heavy wood door slam shut and lean back against the exterior of the building. I take out my phone and scroll down through my contacts to her number.
A knot forms in my throat as I see Willow’s picture icon—one of the shots I’d taken of her long ago curled around her pillow, sleeping.
Even though she blocked my number back when Tara had gone nuclear on me, FaceTiming Willow with her poisonous version of the truth, I’d moved her contact information from phone to phone. I’d assumed that after blocking me she’d probably changed her number. Keeping hers never made sense, but I liked having it, opening it from time to time just to see her.
When Ivy finally trusted me enough to give me Willow’s new number, I was shocked. It was the same number she’d had back then. Mine had changed more times than I could count in the past seven years, but not hers. I’d fucking had a means to contact her all along but hadn’t known it.
Me: Willow, where are you?
Waiting for her response, my heartbeat accelerates. She’s not going to blow me off. She’s too angry. I need only be patient and wait. Ding.
Willow: None of your damn business. How’d you get my number?
Me: Same number you had seven years ago. My number’s new. I’m not blocked anymore. Tell me where you are. You’re not driving, are you?
Willow: I wouldn’t be texting if I was. I’m not like you. I care about others’ safety.
Safety. That lands like a spear in my gut. It’s more than a casual comment and it packs punch. Yes, I’ve hurt her. Yes, I love her. And yes, I’ve fucked up everything with her—again.
Me: I care about you. I always have. What’s happened between us past and present doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring or loving you. If you’re not driving, where are you?
Willow: What I do is none of your business. If you care about me go away. Leave my neighborhood. Leave my life.
Me: Can’t. You are my life.
Willow: Don’t text me again.
Staring down at my screen, I feel the knot around my heart move into my throat. Don’t text me again. That’s a clear boundary I have to respect. Ignoring it will do more harm than good.
I head back in the other direction past Frank’s and keep walking. Where would Willow run when upset?
My phone vibrates in my hand.
Willow: The woman at Frank’s. Does she know about me or are you making a fool of her, too?
Me: Yes, she knows about you. She’s my sister-in-law, Avery, and that was my brother, Ethan, you gave the finger to. It wasn’t me. I was at the counter waiting for our order. You shouldn’t have taken off. I’d have introduced you to them. They’ve been asking to meet you. They know how important you are to me.
Willow: Do they know what a snake you are?
It fucking hurts so badly to see those words. I debate how to answer then send another text.
Me: Probably better than you do. When you meet them, you can compare notes.
No reply text.
That was probably pushing it.
But she didn’t order me to stop again.
Me: There’s no excuse for any of the things I’ve done. I’ve done a whole lot wrong trying to love you. But it’s not because I’m playing you for a fool or anything. It’s because I’m still learning how to love you as you deserve. Don’t shut me out. Not now, baby. If seeing me with Avery gets you this upset, it means you still feel something for me. It’s a start. Let it be our start.
Willow: Please stop. I can’t drive when I’m upset, and I want to go home and forget I ever knew you.
I sink down on a bench, my fingers aching to respond and my heart not letting them. This time I don’t think she’s going to text me back again.
My legs feel weak and I can’t catch my breath. I sit, staring vacantly out at the cars passing me on the street, oblivious to everything but the fucking pain slashing through my guts.
Just when it seems waiting for her is a lost cause, my phone trills.
Willow: Why didn’t you tell me seven years ago who you really are? Were you playing some rich prick game with a poor girl or something?
Seeing Willow’s perspective on what I’d done is like a boot kick in my stomach. I never imagined that’s how she would see it.
Me: Never. No game. I liked that you liked me for me. I’d never had a girl like me for me before.
Willow: ??? I don’t understand. You pretended to be someone else with me. Why would you do that?
Me: The only thing you saw was me, not the money or the fame my family has, and you liked me. You treated me better than any girl I’d ever been with in my life and I didn’t want the truth to change that. I never wanted you to see anything but me. I like who I am through your eyes.
My breathing is coming in ragged spurts. It’s the fucking truth and seeing it kicks up the junk in me. Willow’s the only girl I’ve ever been with who liked me for me, could see only me, whether I was Eric James, broke-ass loser, or EJ the homeless street musician. That makes what I’ve done to her even more crushing.
Willow: If that’s true why not just be yourself? Why not really let me see you? Tell me who you are? Approach me like normal people do? Why all the elaborate changes when you came back to Capitol Hill? Why not face me as you?
Me: I did. Me, the Eric who loves Willow. The realest man I can be. I left out the junk about being famous and my family. Trivial stuff. I shared me with you.
There are no bouncing balls in the chat box once my text is delivered. Fuck, maybe that came out too self-serving. It’s the truth—well, my convoluted version that I’m sure only makes sense to me—but I’ve never felt more myself anywhere than in Capitol Hill with Willow.
Willow: What happened to your tattoos? Did you get them removed so I wouldn’t recognize you?
Me: My tats?
Willow: You had over a dozen on your back. I used to count them when you slept. I know them all by heart from memory. They’re gone. All except that little bit of ink on your right shoulder and arm. And that’s new. I’d never seen it before.
I know them all by heart from memory. I rub my eyes, fighting back the emotion. She’s carried me in her heart and m
emory the same way I have her. It’s the first thing since this communication started that betrays that I’m right; she’s never stopped loving me.
Me: The glass wall I fell through. Remember when I was in the hospital? My back got ripped to shreds. Stitches then scars everywhere. Made a mess of the ink. Got more screwed up when the doc tried to laser the scars so they’d be smooth. I got rid of the ink and never replaced it. I wanted to see the scars to remind me of the pain I caused those I loved and you. My own private penance.
Willow: I forgot about that.
Me: It reminds me why I lost you.
Willow: I can’t do this anymore. I’m crying again.
Me: Don’t cry, baby. Tell me where you are.
Willow: I’m not ready to see you yet.
I know that’s it. She’s not going to text me back this time. She’s sorting through her emotions and the things I told her.
But I’m smiling as I head back toward Frank’s Chicken Shack, even though she said I’m not ready to see you, because she finished it with yet.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Eric
OVER THE NEXT TWO days, I don’t hear from Willow. I stick to my routine—well, my new routine of long-ass days with Ethan in Willow’s apartment trying to get it shipshape for her to rent.
Miracles of all miracles, we’ve got it cleared out and the floors stripped, sanded, and stained. The plaster fixed, and the walls repainted. The whitewash removed from the window frames in the living room and the original wood hue returned and made new. Updated appliances. New counters installed in the kitchen, thanks to Avery stepping in as our design consultant like that chick Christina on the fixer show.
My sister-in-law does a pretty fine imitation of her every time she says, “These high-end finishes will appeal to upscale tenants.” That gets both Ethan and me busting up when she says it and helps me not to dwell too much on the stalled status of my relationship with Willow.
