by Loren, Roni
Even his family hadn’t bought into that idea.
Right now, he wasn’t sure he fully bought into the idea. Knowing he was about to take that leap again, launching a restaurant—even a small-scale one—had an element of blind terror to it.
Sometimes the scariest thing was finally having what you thought you wanted most. Dreams couldn’t be touched or marred. There was no failure in dreamland. Reality didn’t offer that kind of assurance.
Now there were high stakes. The food truck, the kids, and other people’s money were in his hands. The first time, he’d failed himself. That had been horrible enough. But this time he had to worry about so much more. Failing Rebecca. Failing the program. Failing the students.
Wes took a deep breath as the anxiety tried to creep in, and he let the hum of low chatter and the soft lighting in the ballroom soothe him. In rehab, they’d had the one-day-at-a-time mantra hammered into their heads. He would have to lean on it now. Focus on the next task and not gaze too far into the future. He needed to clean a bus. That was it. He could do that.
With Rebecca, he wasn’t going to think about it as a relationship or a rebound or anything complicated. They were new to each other. Friends. Acquainting themselves. There was an undeniable attraction that they both wanted to act on. It didn’t have to be a big deal.
She was just a woman he liked kissing. A woman he would be working on a project with.
A woman he’d missed when he didn’t get to talk to her last night.
His stomach sank a little further, and he tripped over a power cord on the way to the omelet station, almost falling.
One thought went through his head as he steadied himself.
If he had fallen, would he have bounced?
chapter
FIFTEEN
On good days, Rebecca felt like a survivor. On days like this, she felt like an imposter. The gentle tinkling of silverware against plates and ice cubes against glass grated against her eardrums and made the muscles in her neck tighten. She shouldn’t be here. She should be at Bitching Brunch with her friends, telling them how she’d somehow managed to get involved in a food-truck project and how she was spending time with the man she’d once gone up against in court.
Instead, her dad had convinced her to do this speech under the auspices of it being an important way to give back to the community, but she knew it was more about being good for the campaign. This was his dog-and-pony show, and she was the pony. Giddyup, girlfriend.
The speaker before her had wrapped up an inspiring talk about her fight against cancer, making everyone break out the tissues to dab their eyes and then rise to their feet in a standing ovation at the end. Rebecca was up next, and her fight-or-flight reflex was so ramped up over what she was going to have to talk about that she worried she’d sprout wings and fly out of the room.
Everyone took their seats again, and her gaze drifted over the audience, finding her father sitting a few tables back from the stage. Every salt-and-pepper hair in place. Suit perfectly ironed. Attention of the guests at the table solidly on him. Even though Rebecca was doing this for him, he hadn’t looked her way once since she’d walked to the front of the room. Not that she’d expected him to. Because why would he be checking on her? What would he have to worry about?
Rebecca was as reliable and predictable as the sunrise peeking through the high windows on the side of the ballroom. She’d vowed from a hospital bed many years ago that she would never cause him worry again. She’d stuck to it.
But right now, she felt more like her fifteen-year-old self right before her first running-for-class-secretary speech than the accomplished attorney she’d become.
Her heartbeat thumped in her ears, and her fingernails dug into her palms as the emcee went to the stage to thank the previous speaker and to introduce Rebecca. Her throat felt like she’d swallowed one of the dry pastries on the tables whole. She didn’t want to be introduced. She didn’t want to tell her story. She wanted to be at brunch with her friends or talking about the food truck with Wes or back at work where she was the confident lawyer doing her thing.
Here she felt too exposed, too…observed. It wasn’t the public speaking part. She did that for her job all the time. But this wasn’t a courtroom or a divorce mediation. This was a charity brunch full of society’s ruling class, and there were reporters here. And gawking people. And she was one of the spectacles. Again.
All because of that documentary on the shooting. She’d thought this part was done. People had short memories and there were always new tragedies, so Long Acre High’s prom night had gotten filed away in people’s minds after a few years. Not forgotten but no longer a fascination. She didn’t think the documentary would be anything but a blip in the news cycle. But the thing hadn’t even premiered yet, and there was buzz building, clips leaked. She was that girl again. One of the lucky few. One of the ones who got away.
But she didn’t see how that was an accomplishment. She’d been shot in the leg instead of somewhere more deadly. That had been pure dumb luck and Finn throwing himself in front of her to throw off the shooter’s aim. And now, because she hadn’t turned into a complete disaster, she was an “inspiration.”
Such a farce. She had no business inspiring anyone. If these people knew the whole story, they’d run her out of here with pitchforks.
She was an imposter.
Still, here she stood. Because this would help her dad. Because the movers and shakers of Austin were in this room and this was good PR for him. Because she couldn’t tell the truth about why she shouldn’t be giving speeches like this or why she should be the last person people looked to for inspiration.
So here she was, about to vomit on her shoes.
The emcee was reading her bio. Something about valedictorian and top of her class in law school and successful divorce attorney—all the stuff that she’d spent her life busting her ass to accomplish but that somehow rang hollow in this moment.
Who the hell cares?
She clutched her notes in her hand, the cards crinkling under her grip.
“Please welcome Ms. Rebecca Lindt.”
The claps and camera clicks were amplified in her head, the claustrophobic feeling growing. Her feet froze in place. Anticipatory glances slid her way because she hadn’t moved yet. Her father finally looked at her. His brow wrinkled, and he tilted his head toward the stage as if she needed to be reminded what direction to walk.
She closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath. She could do this. She could get through her speech, answer a few questions, and be done. If she made some sort of scene, it’d be more newsworthy, would bring her more of what she didn’t want.
Pretend it’s a courtroom.
Yes, she could do that. Court was safe. Court was her domain. Where she was in control. Where fear and memories didn’t touch her.
She opened her eyes and made her way to the stage, fighting hard to disguise her limp. Everyone in this room knew she’d been injured all those years ago, but she didn’t want that pity directed her way. She didn’t deserve it. Her heart was still beating. She got to wake up every day and see the sun. So many of her classmates hadn’t gotten that chance. No sympathy should be wasted on her.
The lights on the stage were bright, blinding her view of the audience except for the first row of tables, and she braced her hands on the podium. There was a sheet of paper taped to it, listing the presenter schedule. The top of the page had the slogan for the event.
Be the Voice That Makes a Difference
The words landed like stones in her gut. Make a difference. What if the difference wasn’t a good one? What if you made a difference that ruined everything?
“Hello.” The word came out as little more than a choked whisper, and she breathed through the growing panic, trying to find someone to focus on in the front row. Talk to one person. That had been a trick she’d learned in speech class in high school. But her gaze caught on a young male face near the stage. One that looked all too familiar
as he slouched in his seat. One whose dark eyes seemed to see into her, to dare her. Just like the night she’d been mugged, a rush of dread flooded her. Everything blurred together. Past. Present. Leaving her in some nightmarish space in between.
The boy sneered. Go ahead, Becca, tell them just how great you are. Lie to these nice people and look like a hero.
Rebecca’s skin went clammy beneath her business suit, and she gripped the podium harder, her knuckles bulging and bloodless. Not him. He wasn’t here. He was dead.
Coward. Coward. Coward, the boy mouthed, the taunt loud in her ears.
Not! Real! She silently screamed the words in her head and blinked rapidly, her vision going liquid. Finally, the tormenting face morphed into one she didn’t recognize. One with a different haircut and heavier brows. One with bored eyes instead of accusing ones. Just a teenager attending an event with his parents.
Her ribs loosened a little, allowing her to catch a breath.
“Sorry.” She grabbed a glass of water to sip and then picked up her notecards again. Her hands shook. “My notes were a little out of order. Who knew lawyers could ever be at a loss for words?”
A few polite laughs filtered through the audience, and she tried to focus on what was on the cards in front of her.
“Thank you for the kind welcome.” She took another breath in an attempt to force the ugly images from her head and chase the tremble out of her voice.
She could do this.
“In May 2005, I walked into my prom expecting to have a fun night with my date. I had no idea it was the night that would change my entire life…and take so many others.”
That was all it took. Any attempt at regaining her composure slipped through her fingers. Pictures pushed at her brain like an angry crowd trying to get in the door, invading and stealing her words. Yearbook images of her classmates, the ones they always used on TV after the shooting, flashed at a rapid pace. Frozen smiling faces of people who would never grow old. Then the sounds joined in. Gunshots. Screaming. Looping scenes of people bleeding on the floor, people who were too still. Trevor’s face above her, the chilling sneer, the death sentence in his eyes. Joseph and his gun.
She swayed on her feet, her fingers glued to the podium and her skin rapidly cycling from hot to cold. She closed her eyes, lost for a moment, dizzy, the sounds of the past blending with the present. “I’m sorry, I…”
But right before her knees gave out, a warm hand cupped her elbow with a firm grip, steadying her. Quiet words murmured against her ear. “Easy, lawyer girl. I’ve got you.”
Her brain spun at the familiar voice, trying to put pieces together and not finding any that fit. Was she dreaming? She leaned into the voice as if it were a lifeline that would pull her out of the abyss of memories or nightmares or whatever the hell this was. “Wes?”
“Yes. It’s me. Let’s get you off this stage and to a chair.” He put his arm around her and she opened her eyes, catching a view of Wes in all black, a stiff chef’s hat on his head. He leaned close to the microphone while keeping hold of her. “I’m sorry, folks. Ms. Lindt is recovering from the flu and isn’t feeling well this morning. Please enjoy your breakfast. The next speaker will be out shortly.”
The crowd rumbled with restless noises—low voices, scraping chairs, clinking silverware—but Rebecca was still fighting the fog in her head and the fact that Wes was somehow here and leading her offstage.
He guided her down a few steps at the side of the stage, and she managed to look over at him, finding his pretty hazel eyes heavy with concern. “What are you doing here?”
“Making omelets for a catering gig.”
She frowned, the words not making any sense. “Did I pass out? Am I dreaming?”
He smirked. “So I show up in your dreams? Good to know. But this can’t be a dream. Look, I’m fully clothed.”
His teasing pushed through the haze in her brain like a strong beam of light, clearing her head a little. “I think I forgot to eat.”
“On it. I will feed you whatever you want. Just don’t faint on me, okay?”
“Okay.” She leaned in to him, letting him take some of her weight as the tremors that had been going through her body softened. He brought her into a hallway that seemed to lead to the kitchen, based on the passing waitstaff, and barked for someone to grab him a chair, a cold towel, and some orange juice.
A waiter hurried to bring a chair over, and Wes eased her down into it. Her thoughts were coming back online, but her stomach rolled and her heart felt like it’d permanently wedged itself in her throat. When another of the waitstaff brought what Wes had requested, he handed Rebecca a glass of juice and draped the cool rag around her neck. He crouched down in front of her, tugging off his chef’s hat and putting his hand on her good knee. “Drink, Bec. Your blood sugar might be low. You’re white as a sheet.”
She took a sip of the juice, the tart liquid cool on her dry throat, and tried to wash away the remnants of the anxiety attack. “I’m always white as a sheet. It’s called being a redhead.”
He smiled and reached out to tuck a damp lock of her hair behind her ear. “And she jokes. Does that mean you’re not going to pass out on me?”
“I think—”
“What in God’s name?” a booming voice said, echoing off the walls in the narrow space.
Rebecca winced, and Wesley’s hand dropped away from her face.
“Excuse me, get away from my daughter,” her father said as he strode down the hallway.
Wes’s brows lowered, and he glanced in her father’s direction but got to his feet.
“Rebecca, what is going on?” her father said, stopping a few steps from her, his voice clipped and demanding. “You don’t have the flu. You were just fine when we got here.”
Rebecca’s fingers curled tightly around her glass of juice, and she forced herself to sit taller in the chair. She didn’t need her dad suspecting that she’d freaked out onstage. Lindts didn’t run away like that. They powered through. They soldiered on. “I didn’t get a chance to eat anything this morning, and I think I must’ve…locked my knees. I got light-headed and felt like I was going to faint.”
Her father frowned deeply, making the wrinkles in his forehead stand out in relief. “Well”—he motioned at Wes—“this man can get you some food, and you can go up and finish after the current speaker.”
She glanced at Wes and then back at her father. Her instinct was to say, Yes. Of course. That was what her dad was expecting. Rebecca could always be counted on. But the thought of getting back up there and inviting those flashbacks to return had acid rising in the back of her throat. “I can’t do the speech today, Dad. I’m sorry. I feel sick to my stomach, and I just… I’ll do whatever you need to help with your campaign, but I don’t want to do talks about Long Acre. I don’t want to keep rehashing it. People already know the story. The documentary will be out soon, and they can get every ugly detail if they want. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“You can’t…” His cheeks turned ruddy. “But that’s the reason people book you for these events. They don’t want to hear about being a lawyer. They want to hear about what you’ve overcome. They’re inspired by that.”
“Then maybe they need to find inspiration somewhere else,” she snapped.
He stiffened.
She rarely talked back to her father, but she wasn’t in the mood to apologize. He was the one person who should know exactly why this topic was so hard for her. When she’d fallen into a dangerous depression after Long Acre, she’d eventually admitted the truth to him, had told him why she was drowning in guilt, why she couldn’t imagine going on with her life. He’d dismissed the very idea back then, telling her she was blaming herself for something that wasn’t her fault. He’d taken her to a doctor, had gotten her on an antidepressant, and had encouraged her to keep her mind busy and to throw herself into her studies. The doctor had agreed. Forward motion.
The constant go-go-go of college and law school h
ad kept her head above water with the depression until she’d been able to climb to shore and stop taking the meds. But her father had to know that the guilt had never left her. She’d just locked it away in a dark closet in her mind. But ever since the documentary, the demons had been slipping out. She felt as if she had her back against the door, arms splayed out, doing everything she could to keep them inside, but they were winning. She’d never had flashbacks before this. Depression, yes. Anger, sure. But she’d never had the memories assault her with such visceral force. This was different. She could not keep inviting those demons in by doing these kinds of speeches.
“Rebecca…” her dad said, his eyes holding warning. “I think you’re overreacting. If you just take a few minutes to get your head back together and—”
“Sir, excuse me,” Wes said, stepping a little closer to Rebecca, “but I think Rebecca needs to get some food and some distance from the crowd. I can take her back to the kitchen and make sure that happens.”
Her dad’s gaze swept over Wes, taking in his tattooed arms, disheveled hair, and cook’s uniform. His lip curled. “I would say that’s above and beyond your job description, young man. Just please bring her a plate to our table.”
Rebecca pushed herself up from the chair, and Wes automatically put an arm out to her. She felt steadier than she had a minute ago, but that internal shakiness was still there. She braced a hand on Wesley’s forearm. “Dad, this is Wes Garrett. He’s…a friend. We’re working together on a charity project. And I’d rather go eat something in the kitchen. I’m not in the place to socialize right now or get back on that stage. I’m going to be more of a liability to you this morning than an asset.”
Her father looked back and forth between the two of them.
