by Lilly Wilde
Branch throws a glance at them and his eyes are back on me, flashing a smile that squares his jaw. His lips spread over perfectly white teeth that could easily dazzle every woman in this diner all at once. And probably some of the guys, too, I figure, thinking of Ronnie, one of our regulars. Yeah, Branch would bedazzle the hell out of him.
Branch glances at my name tag and his eyes flash back to mine. For a long beat, there’s nothing. He simply stares. But why? Does he remember me? Nah, that can’t be it. Is he into me? That certainly isn’t it. Oh fuck. Say something already. But he doesn’t. So I stand there, my body prickling under his gaze. “Is there anything else? If not, I need to grab those beers.”
With a shake of his head, he rakes his eyes over me again, taking in what I know is a disheveled heap that’s only marginally passing as a waitress. Why, oh, why couldn’t this have been Carrie’s table?
“Branch, don’t keep the girl waiting,” Matt says.
He stares long enough to make me uncomfortable before he narrows his eyes and grins. “I’m done,” Branch says as if dismissing me.
“I’ll be right back with your drinks,” I say and turn, heading toward the rear of the diner. Finally. Thank fuck. I have no idea what was running through his head. He was basically fucking with me because he could. And having me stand there when he clearly didn’t want anything pissed me off, but it also made me think things I shouldn’t. Like how it probably takes little to no conversation for him to get any woman naked.
“How did he smell?” Carrie whispers when I’m back behind the bar.
My brows scrunch. “What? I don’t know. I didn’t get close enough to smell him.” But that’s a lie. I did, and it was a raw woodsy musk that my body reacted to immediately. With his scent alone, he’d taken control of my bump-and-grind parts. My you-know-what is still clenching as if someone hit vibrate on a remote setting.
“Damn, I wanted that table,” Carrie says, her eyes glued to the hot quarterback.
“Take it. It’s yours.”
“My shift is over and Tony’s outside waiting on me. He has as much patience as a pecker getting its first piece of petunia.”
“Lucky you,” I say. “You get to leave.”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong. I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat. Just to smell Branch McGuire’s sweat,” she says, her eyes stuck on the local football star, her gaze like that of the lovesick Pepe Le Pew.
“Go home and have sex with your husband and quit lusting over someone who’s young enough to be your son.”
“Sex is definitely on the menu tonight. And sure, I’ll be holding on to Tony, but I’ll be imagining those loose flabby arms of his are the nice, tight, firm muscles of Branch McGuire,” she says, dotting her face with a napkin. “I’ll get his autograph before I head out. That will make Tony less crabby about having to wait on me.”
“Don’t forget to lean in and get a good whiff of Branch’s sweat,” I say, jokingly but serious all at the same time.
“You’re in the wrong profession, Ragan because you were reading my mind—that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
“You do know you’re married, right?” I ask and place the last glass of beer on the tray.
“Yeah, but I ain’t dead.” She removes her apron and looks up at me. “And honey, where does it say I can’t look or use my imagination? You need all the imagination you can muster when you’re trapped underneath Tony.”
I laugh and head back toward the four men who were undoubtedly going to make my next hour the most unbearable part of my day.
“Let me know how it goes.”
“Won’t be much to tell,” I say, glancing over my shoulder.
“Watch out, Ragan!”
I spin around and before I know it, the tray goes flying and I’m on my ass. The glasses are in the air, and I’m looking up at the beer as it comes falling to the floor.
“Dammit.” I lift my gaze, immediately finding Branch as his eyes flicker to mine. He looks at the mess I’ve made and returns his gaze to me, a slightly frustrated expression on his face.
Jim Bob dashes from behind the counter. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Just embarrassed as hell.
“Why is that mop bucket still here?” he asks, his face marred in a frown as he reaches to help me from the floor.
Oh my God. Why is this happening?
“I told you to move that thing after you clocked in.”
“I’m sorry, Jim Bob.”
“I’ll clean this up,” he says, looking over the broken glass and wasted liquor. “Go ahead and get some more beer for that table.”
“Will do.” I head back to the bar. I can’t believe that happened. And now my reluctance to meet Branch’s gaze increases tenfold.
I concentrate on placing the glasses on the tray and getting the beer over to the table. But it takes more effort than it should. “Sorry,” I repeat as I walk past Jim Bob who’s still cleaning up shattered glass and alcohol.
“This is coming out of your check, Ragan. You can’t keep breaking all of my shit,” he says, grumpy and low enough that only I can hear.
I let out a sigh as I move closer to Branch’s table. “Here ya go.” I place the glasses in front of each of the guys who are clearly amused by my fall.
Jerks.
“I suppose I should have warned you that stepping away from me wouldn’t lessen the effect I have on you. But you need to be more careful, sugar,” Branch says.
Aesthetically speaking, he is perfection. But yep, absolutely hotter with a closed mouth. “Trust me… that had nothing to do with you and everything to do with a mop bucket that was someplace it wasn’t supposed to be.”
He responds with a deep manly chuckle. “If you say so.”
Biting my tongue, I turn away from the asshat who’s pulling at my patience—and my loins—and face the others. “Have ya’ll decided what you want?” I grab my pad and pen and take down their orders. After scribbling the last one, I tuck my pen behind my ear. “If that’s all, I’ll get those out to you in a few.”
“Try not to drop it this time, darlin’,” Branch says. “We’re in a hurry.”
“Yeah, and I’ll try not to spit on it either, darlin’,” I mumble, the guys snickering as I step away.
January 16, 2017
“SO YOUR PHONE DOES WORK?” It’s more of an accusation than a question.
“Er… hello? Branch, is that you?”
“Yeah,” I reply, apprehension already creeping in.
“It’s… er… good to hear from you. I have to say I’m shocked though.”
“Can’t be any more shocked than I am that you answered.”
“You’re my son. Why wouldn’t I answer?”
“Jace called you a few days ago.” He’s your son, too, but you sure as fuck didn’t answer.
“Er… yeah. About that. I’d planned to call him, but I got busy and it slipped my mind. Is everything all right?”
This guy. Fucking typical. “Had you given a damn, you’d know the answer to that question.”
“Let’s not start this, Branch. You know good and well why things are the way they are.”
“Is this the part where you blame Mama again?”
“If history has taught me anything, it’s that conversations about Mary never end well. I don’t like to go down that road with you boys.”
My fingers curve around the phone and I fight the urge to hang up.
After an extended silence he asks, “Are you still there?”
I swallow the anger that’s clawing its way to the surface. “I’m in town. We need to talk.”
“Oh… uh… okay. I’d like that,” he says, the shock sifting through the phone. “It would be great to see you. How long has it been, Branch?”
“I don’t know. I stopped keeping track seven or eight years ago.”
“Son, I—”
“I’ll be at the garage tomorrow at noon.”
“At Jimmy’s?�
� he asks, the hesitation apparent in his voice. “I think we should meet someplace else, don’t you? Why not come by the house? Meet your brother. Say hi to your stepsister. And Charlene—she’d love to see you.”
Yeah, and Mama will have a fucking coronary if she ever finds out. But that’s not the reason I won’t go. “Will you be there or not?”
He’s quiet for a beat and finally says, “As long as Jimmy is cool with it… I am, too.”
“Jimmy’s cool. Jimmy’s always cool.”
“Well, okay. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then. And Branch?”
“Yeah?”
“I know I said it already, but I’m glad you called. It’s been too long, son.”
“Yeah. Sure.” I hang up and meet the eyes of Dad’s former best friend.
He slaps me across the shoulder. “I’m proud of you. That’s a big step.”
I shrug off his words. “Haven’t done anything yet.”
Jimmy doesn’t say another word, but I’m sure he knows where my head is. On my parents. And on the hell they made of the McGuire household. My thoughts flash to the brief phone call—to Dad’s words of not going down that road. Not only did he avoid the road, he avoided the whole damn vicinity.
Sure, he made the effort… for a while. But then his visits to the house stopped. I couldn’t tell if that made Mama better or worse. Or how the hell they managed to get past their bullshit long enough to create Jace. That one is still a mystery to me. They’d been apart for years, argued for years—before, during, and after the divorce. They never got along, at least not in front of me. So when she told me she was pregnant, I was floored. And I had questions. How long had it been going on? Did it mean they were getting back together? Or did they just fall into a moment of weakness? And where the hell did Charlene filter into all of it? Never figured out what the hell any of it meant because Mama would never answer my questions, and despite the pregnancy, things didn’t get better. The downward spiral continued.
More arguments, more of what I thought at the time were Mama’s crazy woman days, and more struggles to make ends meet. Days without electricity, days when the water was off, and days when breakfast, lunch, and dinner consisted of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Not sure why dear old Dad figured it was cool to withhold financial support, but he did. And that was around the time I started working more hours with Jimmy.
Those were hard times. Times I want to forget, but can’t. Times that—to this day—shape my views about money. You’d have to live under a rock to not know who I am, but on the off chance you didn’t, you’d often think I was a typical Joe Schmo who worked a nine to five, living check to check. But then there are cases when my status speaks for itself—the NFL career, the luxury penthouse, the fancy sports cars, and over-the-top parties. But that’s not my everyday mentality. Although I have a shitload of money now, it’s not easy to shake off what I grew up living every day. So for the most part, I live rather conservatively. My money is saved, invested, and diversified. Because there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t remember where I came from and how I intend to never go back.
I’ve made provisions to ensure Mama and Jace will always be taken care of. They’ll never see the dark days of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. As for Dad, I honestly don’t give a fuck. For years I’ve figured that ran both ways, but something in his tone has planted a seed of doubt that I can’t shake.
The crew breaks for lunch, leaving Jimmy and me in the garage. And at the top of the hour, in walks the guy I can barely stand the sight of.
I’m in the same room with the man who gave me life. Curtis McGuire. My father. Unwillingly, I study him. He’s almost unrecognizable. The lines etched in his face show signs of the years between us. He’s heavier, at least twenty pounds or so. And he’s sporting a beard, a full beard.
I let the shock settle, only to open myself to the more familiar emotion—the anger that’s always lying idle in my chest.
“You look good, son.”
I tip my chin. “Dad.”
“Hey, Jimmy,” he says, reaching out to shake his hand.
“Good to see ya, Curtis,” Jimmy says. His exchange is genuine, verifying what I’ve questioned for years—he misses his best friend.
“Can you imagine? My boy. The Man on Fire.”
“He’s something else, all right,” Jimmy says. “You should be proud.”
“I am,” Dad says, looking back at me. “There aren’t enough words.” He extends his arms. “Branch. Son, can I—”
I take a few paces back. “Can you what?”
“Give you a hug?” he asks, closing the space between us.
“I’m not here for any father-son moments.”
Dad drops his hands, and his sideward glance at Jimmy says he’s embarrassed.
“So another kid, huh?” I ask.
He gives a proud smile. “Yeah, you have a new baby brother. Curtis, Jr. I’d like for you boys to meet him.”
“I don’t think so, Pops.”
“Branch, I’m trying here, but are you gonna keep shooting me down? And I’ll be honest, I don’t know where to start with a son I’ve had nothing but a one-sided media relationship with for the past fifteen years. But I was hoping your call meant you were ready to meet me halfway. Was I wrong?”
“That call had nothing to do with me. This is about Jace. He’s gonna need you to step up. As a parent.”
“Is Mary all right?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Man, don’t pretend as if you give a damn.”
“Now wait a minute, Branch. You got no right claiming to know how I feel.”
“If you felt anything at all, she wouldn’t be like she is now.”
“I didn’t do anything to that woman.”
I take an involuntary step toward him. “That woman? That’s all she is to you now?”
“Branch, I’m tired of being painted as the bad guy in all of this.”
“Are you saying the state you left her in is the state you found her in? That you aren’t responsible for supplying her with the drugs that fucked her head up?”
“I’m saying she made her own damn choices!” His voice rises. “Same as I did.”
“You need to take some responsibility for what you did to her!”
“That was of her doing. She did what she wanted. She asked for something and I gave it to her.”
“You lying piece of crap.” I rush him, my hand fisting his shirt as I shove his body against the wall, my knuckles inches from his face.
“Go ahead. Hit me! If that’s gonna make you feel better, do it!”
Yeah, it’ll go a long way toward making me feel better. Knocking the hell out of him is long overdue.
“Branch, beating the shit out of Curtis won’t erase any of the memories… or the pain,” Jimmy says.
I pull my eyes away from Dad and look over at Jimmy. He takes a step closer, his empathetic gaze flush with mine. “It won’t give back anything you’ve missed. And it won’t fix Mary.”
Jimmy’s said all he plans to, and he won’t physically restrain me from a fight that I want. But in his eyes, I see the words he won’t speak. He wants me to handle this like a man, not like a scorned kid. I’m pretty familiar with all of Jimmy’s expressions. I know when he wants me to choose for myself. I know when he wants me to do the right thing. And I know when he’s disappointed in me. This look is a combination of all three.
I turn back toward Dad. “You should have been there, dammit!” I explode. “You should have fucking showed up.” I release my grasp of his shirt and my fist goes through the drywall. Jimmy and Dad say nothing.
Knocking the fuck out of Curtis McGuire won’t change shit, but it sure as fuck won’t hurt. Jimmy’s right, though. It’s pointless. It won’t erase the days I sat outside the school and waited for Dad. It won’t expunge memories of the game nights I scanned the bleachers hoping to see his face, or the banquet dinners with the other parents, where Jimmy and Loretta always filled in for mine. Or th
e times I sat in the park and watched him with his other family. And it won’t fix the mess he left behind for me to clean up.
“Don’t you think I wanted to be there?” Dad asks, the impassioned tone of his voice forcing me to take pause. “Everything I tried, Mary made it impossible. That’s why I stopped coming to the house. But I thought, hey, I can go to the school, meet up with Branch there. Maybe hang out with him before practice and stick around for a while and watch him do his thing. But you know what? The first time I did that, your mama somehow caught wind of it. And so she made a point of showing up every day after school.”
He stops briefly, taking in my expression. “I see it on your face. You remember, don’t you?”
I do, but I won’t say. I look at him, confusion combating the anger.
“And there was that one time when she showed her ass, literally, to your whole damn team. Do you remember that? Do you remember how humiliated you were? Do you think I wanted that for you? To be the laughingstock? So then I figured, I’d go to your away games. Back then, Mary hated sports and I figured she wouldn’t go through the trouble, but guess what? She was there, too. That woman was determined to make it impossible for me to be the kind of father to you that I wanted to be. So I stopped trying. I didn’t want any more images in your head that you couldn’t get rid of, so I prayed the good memories you had of me were better than the ones she’d smear… and I stayed away. And I was hoping you’d give me the chance to explain one day—that you’d somehow understand.”
I see the plea in his eyes, desperate for my belief in him. And as much as I don’t want to admit it, I know he’s telling the truth. And it hits me hard. As though someone has jabbed me in the gut. I sit on the stool beside Jimmy in the garage. With nothing to say, I place my hands on the worktable and open the toolbox. Dad follows me and goes on, telling me things I’m not sure I want to hear.
“I loved your mother, Branch. I did. And I would’ve stayed with her until the end of time. But she didn’t want that. She didn’t want me. She stopped looking at me like she used to. She stopped loving me,” he says. His voice breaks on his last couple of words, and I’m left dumbfounded because nothing he says lines up with what Mama has convinced me of over the years.
