Come Home to Me

by Liz Talley

  It would have been a shame for history to repeat itself.

  “Nice job out there on the field, David. You, too, Hunt,” Rhett said, noticing Hunt had gone with sweet tea rather than alcohol. He wondered if that was because of rehab. Hunt had been addicted to painkillers, but maybe he stayed away from booze, too. Or maybe he didn’t want to drink in front of his kid.

  “Yeah, you remember how that was. My dad is a force,” Hunt said with a wry grin.

  There were many times Rhett envied Hunt his involved parents, but he’d learned quickly to be relieved he had a grandfather who stayed out of his business. Grampy Pete believed in keeping his mouth shut about things he knew nothing about, which meant Rhett never got tips about his swing or his sliding technique. Mitchell had tried to step in and “help” Rhett, but Rhett had shrugged him off and stopped going to Hunt’s house to hang out. Mitchell seemed to get the hint, but that never stopped him from riding Hunt’s ass.

  All. The. Time.

  “Some people never change and some do,” Rhett said.

  “I think we know which category Mitchell McCroy’s in,” Hunt joked, glancing at his son. In David’s face Rhett could see the hunger for more time with his father.

  “Um, my grandfather was just trying to help, I think,” David said with a shrug.

  “Your grandfather likes to have control over everything, Dave,” Hunt said, shooting Rhett a look. He knew Rhett knew exactly what he meant. “Don’s the person teaching you how to pitch. If your grandfather tries to undo things you’ve learned or run roughshod over you, let me know. He means well, but he can be hard to say no to. I know. I lived with him for half my life.”

  David’s forehead creased. “It’s okay, Dad. I’m good.”

  “I’m just saying,” Hunt said. “Rhett can attest to your grandfather’s overinterest. He tried to get Rhett to pitch, too. And go to Florida with me. Didn’t work, though. Rhett’s whole happy-go-lucky bullshit hides a stubborn SOB. He doesn’t get backed into many corners.”

  Hunt saw beneath his shtick to the calculating, intent man he was . . . or used to be. Maybe that was his issue. Rhett Bryan had been backed into a corner and he couldn’t figure out how to fight his way out. How did a person fight sadness, guilt, accepting he couldn’t control the things he wanted to control?

  David looked tired of the contemplative things. “Tell me about more things y’all did growing up here. That monkey story was crazy.”

  So they’d talked and fallen back into old times. Over brisket, ribs, and cherry pie, time had fallen away, and Rhett remembered why he’d liked Hunt. Hunt listened to others, didn’t hog conversation, told a good joke, and tipped the waitress too much when he paid for dinner. Rhett had tried to pay, but Hunt wouldn’t let him. He sensed his old friend wanted to prove that he was successful enough to handle the check. On second thought, maybe that tip was about more than good service.

  Summer’s headlight beams swiped over him as he moved off her front stoop.

  He needed a reason for skulking around her house, so he suggested a moonlit walk, which sounded kind of strange if not slightly romantic. He’d felt even more stupid when she’d remarked about the gators. The island was home to deer, osprey, aforementioned alligators, and several poisonous snakes, but the moon was full and invited contemplation. Creepy crawlies be damned.

  Summer wore a cardigan that should have made her look dowdy, but didn’t. Her brown hair had been confined in a low ponytail, and she wore tight pants that tucked into brown boots. Not practical for walking down a gravel road, but she’d come with him anyway. For a few minutes, they didn’t speak. The South Carolina island closed in on them, winnowing the road such that it resembled a tunnel. Big oaks dripped moss onto the moonlit path.

  “How was the barbecue?” Summer asked, interrupting the chirrup of insects.

  “Better than sex,” he joked.

  “You’re probably having the wrong kind, then,” she said.

  “Sex?”

  “Barbecue,” she said with a smile in her voice. “David okay?”

  “He’s a cool kid. He liked the old stories about baseball tournaments, the time Hunt and I sabotaged the town Christmas lights display—”

  “That was you?” Summer asked.

  “Yeah. We stole a bulb from a new display every night. Poor old Danny Laborde. About went crazy trying to figure out why the lights wouldn’t stay on. I feel bad about that now,” Rhett said, shoving his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t reach for her hand. For some reason, he wanted to hold her hand.

  “But it makes for a good story,” she remarked.

  “That it does. Just so you know, I overheard Hunt giving his father hell about trying to ramrod pitching lessons. Surprised me to hear him being so vocal. Mitchell didn’t take it too well.”

  “I’m relieved to hear Hunt was protective of David,” Summer murmured, her hands jammed in the pockets of her sweater as they crunched down the road. “I’ve been worried that Hunt might put too much pressure on David. I wasn’t sure David was ready to climb onto a pitching mound with his father.”

  “It actually surprised me because Mitchell always ran roughshod over Hunt when we were growing up. Like father, like son. But maybe not. Maybe Hunt will break that chain of whatever that is. Abuse? Or just impossibly high standards.”

  “Hunt didn’t have a choice. Mitchell held all the power.” Summer sounded like she’d surprised herself with that observation. “I used to envy people like Hunt. Like you and Graysen.”

  “Graysen. I wonder how she is,” Rhett said. “She was pretty peeved when we broke up. She wanted a long-distance relationship. I knew that couldn’t work. She never spoke to me again. Just cut me off.”

  “Actually, she’s doing good. She’s married with three children. She married Chip Henry. He was three or four years older than us, I think. They live outside of Columbia, where she owns a salon where I’m sure she turns the plain into fabulous.” Self-deprecation with a touch of humor lay in Summer’s voice.

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Facebook. It’s pretty much how anyone keeps up with people these days.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Mostly I try to stay off social media these days.” Rhett didn’t want the conversation to tilt into his reasons for avoiding tweets. “Good for Graysen. And why would you envy me . . . or Graysen . . . or Hunt?”

  “You seemed to have had everything at your fingertips. You were the Golden Boy, she was the beauty queen, and Hunt had more money than sense. Still, I’ve come to understand that beneath the glitter can lay darkness.”

  Her arrow found its mark.

  She continued. “The good thing is that Hunt’s trying to do the right thing by David. That’s why I agreed to move back here and let him spend time with David. David needed a father, and Hunt wanted to be part of his life. It’s taken some time, but he’s getting there.”

  “You don’t like Hunt much.” It was a statement.

  “I don’t know him. Not really. We were never together. We just happened to make a kid.” Her words were like stones dropped on cold tile, making Rhett wonder if he should stick to lighter topics. Talk about puppies or baking apple pies or her favorite new country artist.

  “But you were together. At least for a night,” he said.

  Summer’s glance toward him was cryptic as the shadows clustered around them. Frogs sang, an owl flapped in the near distance. “We weren’t together. You know what happened. I was his date. Things happened. I got pregnant.”

  He should have stuck to puppies. The displeasure in her voice wasn’t unexpected. He’d known things weren’t good between her and Hunt the day after prom. He’d felt bad enough about it to stop by her house and check on her, to try to issue some sort of apology for the role he’d played in getting her tangled up with Hunt. Even back then he knew why she’d slept with Hunt. And he knew why Hunt had slept with Summer. None of the reasons had been good ones. David had been conceived out of two hurting teenagers lo
oking for some kind of comfort.

  “After I found out I was pregnant, and not just overly stressed about starting college, things were hard between Hunt and me. He didn’t want to take responsibility. What nineteen-year-old does? I get it, and even then, I understood, to a degree. He was in college and didn’t want to think about a girl he never truly liked carrying his baby back home. Then he got drafted by the majors and went on the road. Got married. Got divorced. Lived his life.”

  “But denied David?”

  “He didn’t deny him. He ignored him. For too many years.”

  “How does David feel about that?”

  “Curious. Hurt. Resigned but glad to have him in his life for more than an occasional visit.”

  “When did he come back into the picture?” Rhett asked, not sure if he should be prying into her life, but he wanted to understand her better.

  “I’ve had full custody of David from birth, but I never stopped Hunt from seeing his son. About five years ago, Hunt left baseball behind and came back here. He e-mailed me, told me he’d screwed up by not being more present in David’s life. He said he’d been scared and now he wanted to rectify his mistakes. Hunt asked if he could come to Nashville to see David, and he asked me to consider letting him build a relationship with his son.”

  “And you said yes? I mean, obviously you did.”

  “I didn’t want to. Not really. David was nine at the time and starting to need some male guidance in his life. Honestly, I wasn’t sure Hunt was the right person for that. But he is his father,” she said with a harsh laugh.

  Bitterness was hard to hide, and Summer didn’t seem to be good at hiding much. She never had been. Back in high school he knew she had a thing for him. And he knew he should have stomped on her crush, but hadn’t. Selfishly, he liked the way she looked at him. She never asked anything from him. Instead she’d given him something almost pure, almost spiritual in nature. Sounded hokey and stupid, but he’d been drawn to her even then. So he hadn’t squashed her interest. He’d reveled in it, content to have no obligation to her other than being the guy she tutored.

  The moonlight through the trees dappled her face, making her suddenly not the Summer he’d always known. He recalled Hunt’s words—that Summer was like the ocean. Would she push and pull, giving him little reprieve before sucking him back into her depths? Or would she be a gentle wave washing over him, cleansing him of all the bad? He’d only know if he waded in. Common sense said he should stay his ass on the beach. She was a single mom . . . and he’d be going back to who he used to be. As soon as he figured out just how to do that.

  He shouldn’t have asked her on a moonlit walk like some moron. He should keep his distance. Yet, here he was. Walking beside her. Uncovering the rawness in her life.

  They’d continued their walk in silence, each wrapped in thoughts too heavy to express. Still, it wasn’t uncomfortable. Perhaps because each of them knew the intentions of the other. Or thought they knew. Or were afraid to uncover them.

  When they got back to her front porch, he stood in the yellow porch light and studied her. “Thank you for the walk. Sometimes a walk helps me sleep better.”

  “Sure,” she said, her hand on the front door handle. “I don’t take enough walks. I usually have wine to help me sleep.”

  “I’d need probably two bottles for that,” he joked, realizing he revealed more than he wanted.

  Her eyes softened. “Maybe you’ll be able to sleep tonight. Something about going back and sleeping in your childhood room feels so safe. My mom kept my purple walls and the poster of 98° on my wall. I sleep like a baby every time I stay there.”

  “Grampy still has all my trophies and team pics on the wall. Plaid wallpaper. Even found a pair of cleats in the closet.”

  “I know. I sometimes vacuum your room. It’s like going back in time and meeting the boy I never really knew.” She opened the door and fanned moths away. “Gotta go. See you later, Rhett.”

  Then she slipped inside.

  The boy she never really knew . . .

  Rhett wished like hell he could find that boy again.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  November, present day

  Thursday afternoon, Rhett had a conference call with Townsend Public Relations, the firm his agent had hired to handle the civil suit the Tavares family had filed against him.

  “We have three witnesses who will testify the Hispanic girl was unsupervised most of the time. One said her brother nearly got hit last year. The boy sustained some scrapes and was taken to a clinic. We can get those records, and I have some friends in social media who can get this information in circulation. Maybe even an article on the family, casting them in a greedy light,” Jane Townsend said, excitement in her voice.

  “What boy? The one who witnessed the accident?” Rhett asked, remembering the child’s face. He saw that face in his dreams. Sometimes the boy took off his own head and kicked it like a ball. Last time Rhett had dreamed that, he’d not been able to sleep for two days.

  “No, the Tavares family has a boy younger than the girl. He’s five years old, I think. This proves neglect pretty easily. Pair that with the fact that they don’t have much money and you’re a celebrity, and they’ll look like they’re opportunists. We’ll make it look like they’re trying to capitalize on their daughter’s death. People hate that shit. Oh, and the father has a bad temper and a record. Aggravated assault and some bad checks.”

  “I’m not sure I want to go that low. This feels low,” he said.

  “Do you want to lose? Pay them three million dollars? You hired me to do a job,” she said, her voice growing stern.

  “Bruce?” Rhett asked.

  “I’m here,” his agent said, clearing his throat. “Look, Jane. We hired you to help manage the talk around this suit, but Rhett’s not the kind of guy to destroy a family.”

  “We’re not destroying anyone, Bruce. We’re casting doubt on this family. They’re playing hardball and have the edge. They lost their kid. They’re dragging out the traumatized friend who saw it happen, neighbors who swear Rhett refused to help the child. They’re using big guns. At present, public opinion is that Rhett is a callous, entitled white millionaire who killed an underprivileged minority child. We have to cast aspersions on the character of the family. We have to make them look like desperate opportunists.”

  “Or we can settle,” Rhett said.

  “And look guilty,” Jane said.

  They’d ended the discussion at an impasse, with Jane continuing to gather more for her campaign to smear the Tavares family. Bruce seemed certain this was the way to handle everything, and Rhett felt like a pile of dog shit.

  So, after hanging up, Rhett went out in the boat and tried to forget the stupid lawsuit.

  But being alone didn’t work.

  He needed distraction, and luckily there was one to be found on the outskirts of Moonlight—the infamous Sundown Tavern, home of the shrimp buster and coldest beer in town.

  Rhett pushed through the door of the Sundown Tavern, already berating himself for going out in public where people would recognize him, want to take pics with him, and beg for stories about what Beyoncé is really like. All he wanted was a drink and a place to brood. His efforts to get his production company off the ground were stalled. Seemed running over a kid and getting sued for it made investors nervous.

  Goddamn it. Why had he taken that shortcut that morning? Why had he looked down at that stupid smoothie? Maybe if he hadn’t, he would have had enough time to swerve or something. If he’d just been patient or satisfied for once in his life, Josefina would still be kicking the soccer ball and painting her fingernails with sparkle polish.

  His chest clenched and his gut churned. No thinking about the girl. No thinking about that day. No thinking period. The need for a whiskey on the rocks clawed inside him. He’d have one drink. Maybe two. He’d still be fine to drive, and it would blur the edges enough for him to sleep . . . if he could sleep.

  Rhet
t wore a pair of jeans and an old flannel shirt he’d found in his grandfather’s hunting closet. Haute couture jeans and two-hundred-dollar T-shirts didn’t work in Moonlight. He needed to blend in and look normal.

  A few people turned to look at him when he emerged from the foyer pasted with band posters from years past. The country band playing commanded everyone’s attention, so he was able to slip into a table tucked at the back of the bar. He hadn’t adjusted himself on the stool before a buxom waitress with hair too red to be natural pulled up next to him.

  “Whoa, hey, I know who you are. What are ya doing here?” Her question implied he was slumming. It wasn’t like he always wore a tux and swilled champagne 24/7. Even in LA he liked to find dives and soak up local culture.

  The redhead tucked the round serving tray under her arm and waited.

  “Just looking for a good bourbon on the rocks. What do you have?”

  “The usual. Maker’s, Wild Turkey, um, maybe some Booker’s.” She lifted a shoulder.

  “Double of the former.” He wasn’t even going to ask about the batch or year. Whatever she brought him would be warm, wet, and give him reprieve. Good enough.

  “Um, can I . . . maybe get your autograph or something? I’m Jenn, by the way.”

  “Sure, but can it wait until I’m ready to pay the tab?”

  She wrinkled her nose like she was slightly offended, but then her dark eyes registered what he’d not said. If he gave her one now, everyone would want one. Normally he didn’t mind taking selfies with fans or signing grocery receipts, but tonight he needed some solitude.

  Then why did you come to a bar, dumb ass?

  Because you really don’t want to be alone. You just want to be alone in a room of strangers.

  “Gotcha. And don’t worry. I won’t let folks pester you.” With a smart salute, Jenn disappeared.