The One You Can’t Forget

by Loren, Roni

  “That look you used to get when you were talking about opening this restaurant,” he said without humor. “It’s not a good look.”

  Wes scowled and set his fork down. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “All I’m saying is don’t replace an old addiction with a new one, Wes,” Marco said, voice tired. “You know you have a tendency to do that.”

  The words landed like bricks between them, smashing the former easy mood into dust. Irritation flared in Wes. “Are you kidding me right now?”

  “Don’t get your hackles up, little brother. I’m just calling it like I see it. You’ve finally stepped out of the dark place you were in, and now you want to try all the shiny things at once. I get the desire, but it’s dangerous. Get a new restaurant, one. Have an exciting project, two.” He counted off on his fingers. “Fall in love with a woman when it’s only supposed to be casual, three.”

  Wes’s patience snapped at that. “What the fuck universe are you living in? I’m saying I like her. I didn’t say I was proposing and naming our firstborn.”

  “Good,” Marco said. “Don’t. The last thing you need is a serious relationship. You’re not ready for that. It’s like that first day after one of my patients recovers from an illness or injury and feels better. They think they can go at full speed again, but their body isn’t one hundred percent yet and they make things worse. Overconfidence is dangerous. You’re still recovering.”

  Wes’s teeth ground together.

  “I know it may feel like everything is fixed now and in the past, but it doesn’t happen that easily,” Marco went on. “One bad blow, one thing that leads you to pick up a drink, and you could be back to square one. You could undo it all. Focus on the food truck and your students,” he said, going back to his meal. “Baby steps. Don’t put yourself in a position to get the rug yanked out from under you again.”

  Wes took a deep breath, trying to rein in his anger. He’d put his family through hell. He’d made them worry he’d die. He’d laid traumatic worries at their doorsteps. Marco had earned his concerns. It didn’t make the lecture easy to accept, though. “I hear what you’re saying, but how would I be doing that? Wanting to date someone should be a good sign. A step forward.”

  “Seeing people, yes, but getting serious about it, no. I’ve gotten to know Rebecca a little. I’ve talked with her over these last few weeks when she visits Knight, and I know you. You’re both great. But you’re from different worlds,” he said plainly. “You saved her that night, and there was an attraction. That’s it. You need more in common than that.”

  That’s it. Was that how Rebecca thought of it? Wes’s mind went to the way she’d clammed up about the freak-out at the brunch. About how she called him a fun distraction. About the way her father had looked at him like he was some rodent sniffing around his daughter. Would the man have reacted that way if he’d walked in on her with some suit from the law firm? Nothing in common. Different worlds.

  “This has ‘fling’ written all over it,” Marco said, breaking Wes from his looping thoughts. “Which is fine. Enjoy yourself. But don’t open yourself up to a gut punch, because she’ll walk away at some point and get back to her normal life.”

  Wes pushed his plate aside, his appetite suddenly gone. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, bro.”

  “I’m not trying to be a dick. But last time I didn’t do enough, didn’t pay close enough attention, and when I finally realized you were in trouble, it was too late. I promised myself I’d say something if I was ever worried again. So this is me saying it. You have an addictive personality and an impulsive streak. It’s part of who you are. Managing that is learning how to recognize when you’re getting too deep into something. And I can see it on your face and hear it in your voice when you talk about Rebecca. It’s starting. I don’t want to be bailing you out of the drunk tank when she ends things.”

  Wes stared at his brother, wanting to tell him to fuck off, to throw a punch, but he dug his clenched fist into the ridiculous western-style booth instead, breathing through the urge. Marco didn’t understand. Wes knew he had a tendency to get hyperfocused on things. It was what had ruined his marriage in the first place, being obsessed with the restaurant. But Rebecca wasn’t a restaurant or booze. He wasn’t obsessed with her. He just liked her…a lot.

  That was all.

  A heavy weight settled on his chest.

  He lifted his hand. “Check, please.”

  chapter

  TWENTY-TWO

  Rebecca walked into the after-school program Thursday afternoon, her cell phone buzzing in her pocket. Email. Buzz. Message. Buzz. More email. Buzz. She pulled it out and turned it off. Enough.

  After her father’s unexpected visit to her house, she’d been pissed but also had heard the wake-up call. Her partnership was going to slip through her fingers if she let the food-truck project and her relationship with Wes distract her too much. She’d worked all her adult life to get that spot. She couldn’t stumble and lose it now. So she had taken the week to buckle down and get refocused. In the free time she’d had, she’d squeezed in a few therapy sessions with Taryn’s friend. They were still in the opening sessions and Rebecca hadn’t shared about the flashbacks yet, but Frieda, the therapist, thought Rebecca’s new bout of panic attacks was due to the documentary and her taking on too many things, putting herself under undue stress.

  High-pressure job. Campaign assistant. Charity project. New guy.

  Frieda had suggested whittling down the list. She wanted Rebecca to pick two areas to focus on and to let go of the others. Rebecca obviously couldn’t let go of her job, but she was struggling with the other three. She didn’t want to end things with Wes. She felt he eased the stress more than added to it, but she’d accepted that she had to check out of the charity project. Wes had told her she could take a more distant role, but the thought still made her stomach hurt. She’d been looking forward to being hands-on with it, feeling like she was making more of a difference than writing the check.

  But she was only one person, and she was tired of feeling on the edge of losing it.

  So today, she was going to get dirty and hands-on with the project, get a piece of the experience she’d been looking forward to, but then she was going to have to tell Wes that it was her last day to do that. She needed to be fully present at work.

  When she walked into Wes’s class and saw him hunched over the table at the front with two of the students, laughing and pointing at something on a list, Rebecca’s heart squeezed in her chest. She hadn’t seen Wes since the Saturday before, and even though it’d only been a few days, she couldn’t help but feel the unmistakable sense that she’d missed him.

  That was a dangerous feeling, but she was too mentally exhausted to fight it at the moment.

  Wes glanced up from what he was doing, and when he saw her standing there, a wide grin broke out. “Well, if it isn’t the one and only Ms. Rebecca Lindt. It’s our lucky day.”

  Some of the students turned her way and smiled, too. Lola called out, “Woo!”

  Rebecca curtsied.

  Wes left what he was doing up front and strode over, his gait easy, his eyes smiling. He still made her belly flip every time she saw him. Working on this project looked good on him. He’d always been gorgeous, but it was almost as if the project had turned on a light inside him and that energy poured out of him now. He reached her and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “This is a nice surprise. I thought you couldn’t get out here this week.”

  She hiked her purse higher on her shoulder and returned his smile. “I’m sort of playing hooky, but I had a hell of a day in court this morning and needed a break from the office.”

  “So you figured hard labor in the heat would fit the bill?” he asked skeptically. “You have an interesting way of relaxing, Ms. Lindt.”

  She laughed. “I know, but the company’s good and I finally get to pick up Knight on the way home today. I thought maybe you knew someone who could help me
with that.”

  “I am great with dogs,” he said solemnly. “And I own a cool truck that has a lot of room.”

  “You’re hired!”

  “Excellent.” He took her hand. “So, are you ready to work on the food truck that my evil class is trying to name The Burnt Cheeseball?”

  She blinked. “The burnt what?”

  “It’s exactly what the bus looks like…a burnt cheeseball,” Steven said from his spot at the front table. “Plus, it has a certain ring to it. Very Austin.”

  “People would remember it,” Lola added.

  Rebecca shook her head and grinned. “Well, there’s that. And it’s probably not taken.”

  “Do not agree with them!” Wes protested dramatically. “Adults are supposed to unite. I need someone on my team.”

  Xavier walked over and hooked his long arm in Rebecca’s. “Nope, we’ve stolen her. Team Burnt Cheeseball for the win!”

  Rebecca looked over her shoulder as Xavier dragged her toward the side door. “Sorry, Chef G.”

  He narrowed his eyes playfully. “No respect. I get no respect.”

  An hour and a half later, Rebecca had sweat rolling down her spine as she scrubbed the interior of the bus with a coarse-bristled brush. Pop music drifted in from outside, and Rebecca mindlessly hummed along. Lola and Keisha had created an “Adele Remodeling” soundtrack, which ironically had no Adele songs on it, but the upbeat music had helped the time go by. However, now the late-afternoon sun was beaming through the windows, and even though they’d left two of the windows open—the ones that weren’t stuck—the humidity was filling the interior of the bus like swamp fog, making Rebecca’s muscles feel sapped.

  Most of the class had drifted to projects outside and some were grouped up, brainstorming concepts and business plans. Wes was tinkering with the engine, Keisha playing co-mechanic. Only Steven and Xavier were left with Rebecca inside the bus. At first, that had made her feel a little awkward.

  She had eventually shown the police photos to Wes, but he hadn’t been able to determine anything. So even though Rebecca had tried to rule out Steven as the potential mugger, that initial suspicion hadn’t been totally alleviated. But after a while, the atmosphere inside the bus had relaxed, and the boys had made conversation. Xavier was the chattier of the two. Rebecca had learned a lot about the merits and deficits of the local high school’s basketball team. Xavier had been kicked off of it for poor grades, and he thought he could save the team if only he could get his history scores up.

  Steven had been quieter, focusing on unscrewing the bench seats one by one, the rusty hardware fighting him. But he’d given Xavier the title of a book that helped break down history into short stories that were easier to remember. Steven had also bounced around ideas with both Xavier and Rebecca about possible menu items for the food truck. Steven played his cards close to the vest, but he lit up when talking about food. Rebecca had seen that look when Wes talked about owning a restaurant. The two were kindred spirits in that way.

  “Hey, Ms. Lindt, I think we’ve earned some snacks.” Xavier said. “I’m going to get cleaned up and grab some stuff from the kitchen that I can pass around to everybody.”

  “Sounds good,” she said, swiping her arm across her forehead, trying to keep the sweat from stinging her eyes.

  Xavier set his tools down and rumbled down the steps that led outside, rocking the bus as he went. Once he was gone, Steven glanced her way, his expression shifting into an unreadable mask and sweat dripping over the yellowing spot near his temple where the bruise had been last week. But before she could think of anything to say, he went back to focusing on the screws. She frowned, letting her gaze linger on the fading bruise for a moment, the ugly mark only half peeking out from beneath the bandanna he’d tied around his head. But she didn’t want to stare, so she returned to her scrubbing.

  She figured she should probably be worried being in such close quarters with him because there was a chance he could be the one who had attacked her, but her gut wasn’t sending off danger signals. Instead, she had a deep yearning to ask him all the questions hovering on her tongue. What happened to your head? Are you in trouble? Is someone hurting you? Do you need help?

  She kept the interrogation to herself, though, because she was still a stranger to the kid. He had no reason to trust or confide in her, and she would be leaving the project after today, so no bond was going to develop. There was nothing she could do. Instead, she went for the safe bet of small talk. “I think we’re pretty close to wrapping up for the day, if you want to find a stopping point.”

  “I can stay late if Chef G needs me to. I don’t mind,” he said, voice gruff.

  She glanced over at him. “He’d probably appreciate that on days he can stay late. But I have to go pick up a dog in a little while, and he’s going to help me out, so we’ll be leaving soon, too.”

  Steven looked up, a line between his brows. “A dog?”

  She watched him carefully, something in his tone making the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “Yes. I’m going to foster a dog that was shot in a robbery. I need some help transporting him, though, because he’s big and still recovering.”

  Steven’s face turned ghostly pale, and his gaze darted away. His hands fumbled with the wrench as if it were suddenly covered in oil. “Right.”

  Oh shit. Alarm bells went off in her head at Steven’s flustered movements, his change in expression. She could see the puzzle pieces falling together in his head, reality dawning.

  “You okay?” she asked, her tone careful.

  “What?” He stood abruptly, dropping the wrench and almost toppling over the bench he’d been working on. He wiped his hands on his shorts and wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I think I need some water. I’m feeling… I’ll be right back.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Steven,” she said firmly but not too loudly, the voice she used on people who were nervous on the stand in court. “Wait.”

  His hands gripped the back of the battered leather seat, his knuckles going bloodless. “Ms. Lindt, I—”

  “You know who I am,” she said, her tone calm despite her pounding heart.

  He looked away. “Well, yeah. Chef G introduced you weeks ago.”

  “No, you met me on a dark Friday night before then.”

  Steven sucked in a breath, and what little facade he’d been clinging to dissolved, his face tightening into something pained, frightened. His fingers flexed against the seat. “You know.”

  Her shoulders sagged with resignation. “I do now.”

  His head snapped up at that, his eyes widening. “Wait, I—”

  She lifted a hand, cutting him off. “Don’t.”

  He deflated, tears springing into his eyes. “Shit. I can’t… I’m sorry, Ms. Lindt. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t realize…”

  She swallowed hard, keeping her eyes on the boy. “What you did was extremely serious, Steven.”

  “I know it was. God.” He grabbed the top of his skull, squeezing as if trying to block out the thoughts. “Please tell me the dog’s going to be okay. I’ve been… I haven’t been able to sleep thinking about it.”

  She stepped closer to him, trying to create a sense of safety so he’d keep talking, but also making note of the emergency exit door behind her. If he freaked out, she was still far enough away to escape. “The dog is going to be fine. He’s been recovering at the vet’s office.”

  Steven’s head sagged, and his fingers continued to flex against his skull. “I never meant to shoot the gun. I swear to you. It wasn’t supposed to happen like… I needed money, and my friend said it was the easiest way. Use the gun to scare someone and then grab a purse. I didn’t even know there was a bullet in the chamber. I never meant… God. I never saw the dog coming. I didn’t mean…”

  “Steven.”

  His attention snapped up, his frantic gaze jumping to hers. “Please don’t tell anyone,” he pleaded, his words rapid and panicked. “I’ll give you back
whatever I took. I never meant to hurt anyone, I swear. I just…I needed money, and I got desperate. I have to get out of my house. If I can save enough to move in with my friend…”

  “Get out of your house?” she asked, nodding toward his head injury. “If you’re in trouble at home, there are services in place to help you. People who can intervene.”

  That jolted him out of his panic for a moment. His lip curled. “Yeah, right. Services. Not when your old man’s a cop.”

  “Cops aren’t above the law.”

  “Sure they aren’t. You know what happened last year when I told the nurse my dad broke my rib? Some nice lady came over, and he sweet-talked her right out the door, telling her about his troubled son who’d stolen his motorcycle and had gotten himself hurt driving under the influence. He even showed her pills he said he’d found in my room. Pills, by the way, that were his. He told her he was handling it.” Steven’s face twisted in angry disgust. “And he did.

  “As payment for reporting him, a few days later, he raided my room while I was at school and took everything but a drawer of my clothes and dumped it off at Goodwill. Things I’d bought with my own money. Photos of my mom and other things I’d kept to remember her. My laptop. Even the blankets on my bed. Told me that the only reason I had food to eat and clothes on my back was because of him, and I better keep my mouth shut or I could live on the streets.”

  All the air left Rebecca’s lungs.

  Steven’s jaw flexed, his eyes shiny even though he was obviously trying to be tough. “The only good thing to come out of that whole situation was that they put me here in this program.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “If you tell, that goes away, too. I don’t get another shot. They’ll throw me in juvenile detention.”

  Her stomach knotted, the sweat on her skin going clammy. “Steven, I…”

  “Please,” he begged. “Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do. I’ll work off the debt. I can do yard work, cut your grass, wash your car, cook your meals. I’m pretty good at fixing things if you need that. Whatever you want. Just please, please give me one more chance. I promise I’m not the guy you saw that night. That night scared the shit out of me. I could’ve killed someone.” He wet his lips. “You. I could’ve killed you. And you’re this nice person who gave us this bus and who Chef G likes, and I could’ve messed that all up.” Tears escaped now, tracking lines over his dirt-streaked cheeks. “Please tell me there’s something I can do.”