Give a Little

by Lee Kilraine

  “She wants me to recommend our competition to her?” The woman was unbelievable.

  Beck nodded. “That seems to be the case, yes.”

  “Why didn’t she just call me if she had a question for me?”

  “She said, and I quote, you were rather ‘pissy’ the other day.” Beck tried to stifle a grin. He failed.

  Ash laughed.

  Wyatt snickered.

  “Told you so,” Eli said.

  Chapter 12

  Gray

  Thank God for kids, that was all I had to say. Because I’d been able to lock Tessa Madigan and the many ways she frustrated me away while we’d taken our group of foster kids to the Museum of Natural History for a few hours in the afternoon. The kids fucking loved it. Almost as much as we did.

  Poor Bethany got scared at the 3-D Prehistoric Planet movie, so the two of us slipped out. We jumped into the Journey to Space movie instead. Also majorly cool, just not scary. It was reptile and amphibian day at the museum, so the kids got to see and hold some really cool creatures. Eli got a dirty look from the presenter for asking too many questions, which had the kids giggling.

  The kids had just as much fun in the museum snack shop where we fed them hot dogs and astronaut ice cream. The best part of the day was always seeing their faces as they got to see and experience new things. And hear them laugh like kids should laugh—like they were innocent and hadn’t a care in the world. That wasn’t the case for most kids in the foster system, but we tried to give them a few hours of exactly that twice a month.

  We weren’t heroes for doing this. We weren’t saints or volunteers of the year. The truth was, we did it for us as much as the kids. We could emotionally right some of the wrongs from our own childhood, in some vicarious thrill way.

  That night, Ash stopped by on his way home after his game. The Roughnecks had won, and Ash had made some stellar plays. They were sure to make the nightly sports report highlight reel, which was always fun to watch.

  When he arrived at my place, he was still full of adrenaline from intense competition. It usually took him thirty minutes of sitting on my couch with a beer until he relaxed.

  Ash reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out a button, holding it in the air. “This damn thing pisses me off.”

  Yep. I knew exactly what he meant. I had an identical button I carried with me. It was with me all the time. So did Wyatt, Beck, and Eli. I remember the day we handed them out. The reason why. Mostly I remember thinking it would only be for a short while. Only until we tracked Ryker down, which we thought would only take a few months—a year at the most, right?

  “Ry’s lucky shirt. God, he could tell a story, couldn’t he?” Ryker had been born an eternal optimist, always telling us how things would get better one day. Always had a story he’d pull out of his head to help us hang on one more day…one more week. “According to Ryker, that was the shirt he was wearing when Sue Ellen Wade let him get to second base.”

  “Fuck, I didn’t have the heart to tell him Sue Ellen let every boy get to second base.” Ash laughed at the memory.

  “She never let me get to second base, and I have a vivid memory of trying under the bleachers on the last Friday night home game freshman year. She let you get to second?”

  Ash shook his head. “Didn’t try. I’d already figured out girls weren’t my thing.”

  “Right. Did I ever tell you I thought that was the fucking bravest thing I’ve seen, you coming out to dad?” I watched him absently turn the button end over end in his fingers. I knew it couldn’t have been easy. We each lived in fear of his beatings, so standing up to his truth, knowing how the small-minded fucker would react, made him a hero in my eyes. “Followed by Beck standing by your side while you did it.”

  “Not sure I’d have made it without Beck there to deflect half the blows. If I remember correctly, you all made it a scrum and piled on until the old man passed out.” Ash arched a single eyebrow at me. “It was always all of us together. That’s how we made it.”

  Which was why it hurt so much that Ryker wasn’t here.

  “Swear to God, his lucky shirt worked magic. Every time he wore it we’d find money on the sidewalk, or see a rainbow, or remember that time we found the bike in the creek?” I could still see the sheer joy on Ryker’s face after he’d dragged the rusty thing up the muddy bank. “We got to ride it for two weeks before dad found where we’d hidden it under the porch and sold it for drinking money.”

  “It was a little too lucky. The way it would magically appear when he thought we needed it. My theory is somehow he had two or three of those shirts stashed places so he could throw it on quick when something good happened. Not complaining. Ry’s lucky shirt gave us hope.” Ash’s smile flattened out. Disappeared. “One of the saddest days was the last time I saw him. He’d changed. Turns out you can beat eternal optimism out of someone.”

  That was the fucking truth.

  Ry and I had been in the same foster home together for the last three years. It was not a good situation. God bless the foster parents who took in lost wandering souls for the right reasons. I’d been in one like that for two years. Fucking amazing foster parents who had entered our lives at just the right time.

  But then dad got sober long enough to find work and get us all back. Fucked it all up. I guess it was a pride thing for the asshole, because he sure as hell didn’t love us. By the time he went back to his drinking and smacking us around again, and social services stepped back in, those foster parents had a full house.

  Like always, we got split up. Beck, Ash, and Eli went with one family. Wyatt, the baby, got stuck by himself with a nice elderly couple. Ryker and I were paired up into a foster home not much better than living with our old man. But by that point, Ry and I were both fifteen. Irish twins just ten months apart. And we figured better the devil we knew than complain and end up in a worse situation. We thought we could hang on until Beck turned twenty-one and applied for custody of us. Or we aged out at eighteen. We figured wrong.

  Crap, did we ever. I tried not to think about it too much. Other than owning the blame, I had to shut it out in order to do what I needed to do. Graduate high school. Then college. And now keep my shit together so I could be a productive part of our company. My brothers meant everything to me. I may have let Ryker down, but I refused to let that happen again.

  Even with all we’d lived through growing up—a drunk, mean old son of a bitch of a father, a mother who left when she finally couldn’t take his abuse anymore, shuffling in and out of various foster homes and being split apart from each other—yes, even after all that, apparently not every drop of optimism had been sucked from our pitiful chests. Because we really thought we’d be reunited with Ryker soon after Beck tracked the rest of us down.

  The thing was, we didn’t carry the buttons to remind us of him. Hell no, we didn’t need a button for that. He was always in our thoughts. No, the button was a symbol of Ryker’s perpetually optimistic soul and the good luck he always had us believing in. Something tangible for us to hang on to until we saw him again.

  The last time we’d been split up into separate foster homes, it was Ryker who’d given us the dream that kept us going. His optimistic plans that gave us a goal. Gave us the vision to hang on to. That one day, we’d all be together—could run a business together. He painted a picture—a dream—of all of us living normal lives far away and far different from the way we’d been raised. Lives we would choose. Lives where no one could split us up again.

  Ten years later and there was still this gaping hole in our lives where Ryker belonged. It hurt like a flayed open nerve. Not just missing him, but not knowing where he was and if he was okay. So it hurt that Ryker was the one we hadn’t found. Yet.

  And my own personal guilt—that I kept locked up tight. The single thing I didn’t share with my brothers. The fact that it was my fault he’d run. I’d fa
iled him. And it wasn’t something I was willing to let myself off the hook for. Not until we found him. Not until I apologized. I owed him that.

  * * * *

  Ash had left over two hours ago. I stared at the clock on my nightstand for the third time in less than an hour. It was two A.M. and I was wide awake. Fuck me. Only don’t, or I’d lose the damn bet. Which was ironic because I didn’t care about the bet. I cared about getting some damn sleep. But nope, not happening. Nothing new. I’d been having trouble sleeping for a few weeks now.

  I could list off a lot of crap that was keeping me awake. My man flu, which my doc was in denial about. Worrying about Ash, since he was ailing just like me. Tessa had added stress to my life. And weirdly, even though I hadn’t heard from her in almost three weeks, out of sight out of mind was pretty much bullshit. And finally, Ryker. He was never far from my thoughts, but the fresh memories were bittersweet and left me feeling even more unsettled.

  Of course my brothers had all kinds of fucking great advice. Ash and Eli recommended, well, fucking. But then they had one thousand dollars riding on it. I chose not to take that advice. Besides, my heart wasn’t in it. Or should that be dick?

  Sam suggested changing up the paint in my bedroom. She was all about the Feng Shui lately. I liked the paint in my room. In fact, it had taken me a month to arrive at the exact shade of paint I’d pictured in my head. It was a cross between a deep peacock blue and a dark aqua. So dark it looked almost black depending on where the sun was. I wasn’t changing the paint in my room.

  What else had been suggested? Drink warm milk. Give up caffeine. Give up alcohol. Stop looking at electronics an hour before I want to sleep. Take a bath. Howl at the moon. I’d tried them all. Okay, not all of them. There was one I wouldn’t do. I was not going to drink warm milk. Nope. I didn’t even drink cold milk, so, no. Thirty minutes passed and I was still staring at my ceiling.

  Hell. Fucking fine. I’d go try the warm milk deal. I threw my comforter off and got up, grabbing my sweats from the bench at the end of the bed and pulling them on. I didn’t care about walking around naked, it was just that I kept my apartment cool at night. Supposed to help you sleep. Anyway, I didn’t need to freeze my dick while I choked down warm milk. Crap. I didn’t like milk.

  I only had it in my fridge for when Eli or Ash came over. They were the milk drinkers. I had orange juice for me and Wyatt. And Beck pretty much drank coffee round the clock.

  Grabbing out the milk, I poured some in a pot and set it on the stove on low heat. I leaned up against my concrete counter top while I waited. I guess I could have just nuked it, but I’d already got the pot dirty, so whatever. I glanced around my kitchen while I waited, looking at my well-planned and laid out working triangle.

  Lots of counter space. Tessa needed counter space like this. I remembered her juggling where to put her cookie sheets from the oven. She barely had enough space for her stand mixer either. Then I remembered she’d gotten pissy and basically told me to shove it on the proposal.

  But I still couldn’t stop thinking about it. I could picture the excitement on her face when she stood in the van and talked about what she wanted to provide for her customers. Her kitchen wasn’t going to cut it.

  I grabbed my laptop from my bag, set it up at my kitchen island, turned off my now-scalded pot of milk, and settled in. If I couldn’t sleep, I might as well be productive. I had the photos of her kitchen from the walk through. Using AutoCAD I set up the dimensions of her kitchen and got to work. I’d noticed a few things while I watched her bake in her kitchen.

  She’d already mentioned double ovens. But if her business took off, she’d also need a bigger refrigerator and freezer. Restaurant-grade columns. One freezer and one refrigerator. A deep sink made out of fiberglass. And why use up good counter space for cooling the cooking trays? If I placed a cabinet next to the oven that her trays could slide into, say a stack of four or even six, she’d still have her counters free for her mixer and rolling out dough.

  Fitting a dog bed built into the base on the far end of the new island was ideal for Sully, along with one of those hidden kick-drawers to house food bowls. In two hours I had a complete kitchen remodel plan for Tessa. I’d even put together a schematic with colors and finishes.

  Was I being an idiot? Probably. Hell, Tessa had sent me away three weeks ago. I hadn’t heard from her since. Maybe she’d already hired on another remodeling company. But what if she hadn’t and she was trying to get her treat company off the ground in that god-awful kitchen? It was very possible she’d shove the plans right in my face. I had a big enough ego. I could take the rejection.

  I gave the plans one last look before heading to bed. I actually felt ready to sleep. I was sure it had nothing to do with the fact that I planned to see Tessa again when I dropped over to give her the plans. Nothing at all.

  Chapter 13

  Tessa

  “Okay, Tessa. It’s time. You cannot put this off any longer,” I said to myself. Sternly. Sometimes I talked to myself thinking I would hold myself more accountable. Sometimes it worked. Although I’d just told myself a fib, because I knew very well I could put this off longer, but how would that be helpful? Heck, the van had been sitting in the exact same spot in my driveway since Gray delivered it three weeks ago. The thing about moving forward and creating a new life was one actually had to move forward.

  I’d already loaded my freshly baked dog treats into the van. I’d even promised some friends that I’d show up at their dog’s birthday party with the treat truck. (Yes, dog parties were an actual thing.) I had to light a fire under my behind somehow.

  “I can do this. Right, Sully? Yes, yes I can.” I reached out, grabbing my set of van keys from the key holder on the wall, my hand shaking only a little, and marched outside before I lost my nerve. Sully, faithful companion that he was, trotted at my side looking every bit confident that I could handle this. “Thank you, Sully.”

  I opened the van door, stepping back to let Sully jump in. He went right to his position next to the driver’s seat and waited expectantly. Here I go... I slid onto the driver’s seat, shut the door, attached my seatbelt, and held my breath. So far, so good.

  Taking my time, I looked in each mirror, readjusting them for my height since Gray had been the last one to drive. Okay. Driver side mirror, check. Passenger side mirror, check. Rearview mirror, check. I adjusted the seat, scooting it forward a few inches. And then I was ready.

  Wait! Keys! Where were the keys? Ha! Found them. They were clutched in my right hand. I inserted the key into the ignition, cranked the engine, and it started right up. That was all on account of dad; he’d been coming over once a week to start the engine, just maintaining the battery. My dad had faith in me. He was ready to move on. And, oh my goodness, if he was ready, then I needed to be.

  “I think I’m ready, Sully boy.” My palms were sweating, my hands shook, and a slim spike of pain stabbed at my left temple. Life down-shifted to a slow-motion freeze-frame except for my heart. My heart raced double time and sounded like it was playing over a pair of speakers in my head.

  Three years had passed, but the idea of driving, the feel of my hands on the steering wheel threw me into a panic. My breath sped up. I felt the pressure build in my lungs as my breath caught. I could look over to the passenger seat and see my mom next to me, laughing at me rapping to a song on the radio. If you knew what a nerd I was, you’d know why my mom had laughed so hard.

  We were on our way home from a mother-daughter weekend in Asheville for a quilt show. Mom had picked up some new fabrics for her many quilt projects. We were two miles from our exit when it happened. Two miles. Mom and I were heading east. The truck driver west. Two miles from our exit, the driver of the eighteen-wheeler fell asleep, crossed the center line into our car. And changed our lives forever.

  I could hear the windshield wipers. Hear the rain on the roof. Hear the blare of a car hor
n. Hear the truck’s tires lock up as the driver tried to change the direction of his truck. I could feel the steering wheel tight—so tight—in my hands. I remember jerking the wheel, trying to get out of the way. I heard my mom’s scream. I heard glass shatter and metal crumple. I felt excruciating pain.

  I felt my mom hovering over me. I felt her arms wrap around me. Her hand soft on my face. She told me everything would be okay. She told me to hang on. Hang on because Daddy would need me. Hang on, baby girl. I need you to hang on. She whispered she loved me. And then there was nothing for a long, long time. Silence. Numbness.

  “I’m hanging on, Mom.”

  But I wasn’t going to make it out of the driveway today. So much for thinking a commitment would force my hand. I was wrong. I felt horrible about not showing up as promised. Angry at myself for being absolutely ridiculous about this. I sat in the van, my throat tight and on the verge of tears, and called my friend to let her know I wouldn’t make it today. Of course she was super sweet about it, offering up support and encouragement. Don’t worry, Tessa. It’ll happen. You’ll get there.

  I hoped so. I tried to think about how far I’d come. After the crash, I’d spent a week in a coma, then on to ICU for more weeks until bits and pieces of memory came back. The next few months involved more surgeries than I wanted to remember and too many hours of running more “what if” scenarios through my head. Each one making another dent in my already broken heart.

  What if I’d taken the exit when mom said she was hungry? What if we hadn’t decided to wait until we saw a sign for our favorite burger chain? What if I hadn’t been driving for four hours? Would my reactions have been quicker? Could I have avoided the truck? Turned the steering wheel just a bit more to change the impact and saved my mother’s life? What if I had died instead of Mom?