Just as Meredith was about to complain that it was too cold to sit in the bed of a truck, Brooke lifted a CC’s to-go cup in greeting.
“Is that a King Cake Latte?” Meredith asked, breathless.
Her best friend nodded. “You know it.”
Meredith grabbed the cup with both hands and inhaled the warm, sugary promise with its hints of cinnamon. “You’re a saint. If I ever have another kid, I’m naming her — or him — after you.”
Brooke glared at her cock-eyed. “And who will be fathering this kid? Because I like the naming idea, but I don’t want to encourage this line of thinking.”
Taking a sip of the liquid heaven, Meredith pushed the question aside. It was too depressing to consider, and she didn’t like to talk about Jamie’s favorite pastime. Brooke was right. Even though she wanted more kids at some point in her life, she did not want them with Jamie McCormick.
Which should have been excellent motivation to stand firm each time she tried to shut him down. But Jamie McCormick was not a big fan of “no.”
“Boys!” Oscar yelled again, pointing to the cricket players and kicking his chubby legs against the stroller. “Boys playing.”
“That’s right, baby,” Meredith said, reaching down and tugging the knit beanie over his ears. Tufts of his golden curls flattened against his forehead. “The boys are playing cricket.”
“Boys playing cweaket.” Oscar watched starry-eyed as the bowler let the ball go, bouncing it down the pitch where it connected with the batsman’s paddle. “Ya-a-ay!”
Meredith and Brooke laughed as Oscar cheered. He tracked the ball as it cleared the boundary, earning the team six runs. “Cweaket!”
“Wow, he’s good,” Brooke murmured, her eyes on the tall batsman with café au lait skin. Oscar wasn’t the only one who liked watching the boys play cricket.
Meredith’s butt was cold against the tailgate; she didn’t have a job, and Jamie would be back in a few weeks. But she also had a best friend who had brought her a King Cake latte, a son who would be happy watching a cricket match for another hour, and a plan to build a better life for herself.
So, eventually, life would get better. It had to.
Chapter Two
“You have to take them.”
“I take them. I told you that.”
“Gray, you have to take them every day.”
Grayson Blakewood glared at his brother. His kitchen island separated them, and Baxter glared back, holding the bottle of those goddamned pills.
“I can’t.” His simple shrug drew Bax’s scowl.
“You mean you won’t.”
Gray blinked in concession. “You’re right. I won’t.”
A frustrated breath left Bax’s lungs. “Do I have to move in and become your nursemaid? You may be my big brother, but I’ve got twenty pounds on you. I bet I could pin you and shove one of these down your throat every morning.”
Gray let himself grin. He ran his thumb over the faint scar Bax had given him just below his lip when Bax was seven and Gray was nine. He’d give almost anything to have his brother tackle him to the ground like he’d done when they were boys. Pound him with his fists. Go for a choke hold.
Anything was better than being treated like an invalid.
Because he wasn’t an invalid. Not technically. Not yet.
If Gray thought his brother would fight back, he’d actually throw the first punch just so he could feel normal again — even for a little while. But Baxter wouldn’t hit back. He’d just let Gray whale on him, afraid one touch would break him.
Like a fucking egg.
“You know, finishing your latest novel won’t matter very much if you’re dead,” Bax said, trying to sound scary but instead sounding scared.
Gray bit his tongue. Nothing mattered more than finishing his fourth novel. The latest installment in his Alex Booth detective series had sold more than 4,000 copies in the first week, landing him a spot on the New York Times bestseller list for the third time. The fourth book would be his best yet. Gray could feel it. And if he were lucky, he might have time to knock out a fifth. After that, there were few guarantees.
But his little brother didn’t like to be reminded of that.
“If I can take them every third or fourth day, I can keep things under control.”
Bax rolled his eyes. “That bruise on your forehead? Is that a sign of you keeping things ‘under control?’” He mocked him with air quotes, and Gray turned toward the fridge and lingered over the business of pouring a glass of orange juice so Bax couldn’t study the mark. It had faded since his last seizure and subsequent fall, but it clearly hadn’t faded enough.
“Please tell me you’re not driving.” Baxter’s voice had gone soft with real worry, the sound making Gray turn.
His brother gripped the edge of the counter, the pills still in his hold. Tension sharpened the lines of his shoulders, the veins in his hands. His posture spoke of anger, but his brown eyes held only sadness.
Gray found himself telling the truth. “Just on days when I take my meds.”
“Jesus Christ,” Bax swore, going pale. “Do you realize what could happen—”
“On the days I take my meds, I’m g—”
“You could kill yourself. My God, you could kill someone else.”
Gray cringed. “It’s not like that. The medicine works when—”
“Do you have any idea what that would do to Mom and Dad? To me?”
Gray’s head snapped back. He’d expected a lecture. Bax was always good for a lecture, but he wasn’t ready for a guilt trip.
“Low blow, Bax,” he muttered. The Blakewood family had already suffered enough.
His brother shook his head, bitterness crimping his lips. “No. It’s not. Take the fucking meds. Every day.”
“I can’t.” Gray pressed his fingers against the granite countertop between them. “I can’t write when I take them.”
Baxter eyed him with doubt. “Yes, you can. I’ve seen you write with them.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You’ve seen me type words and string sentences together, but there’s no story, no imagination. I’m writing shit. And when I’m off the pills, the ideas are pouring in.”
“So talk to Dr. Cates and switch to something else,” Bax said, shrugging.
Gray gritted his teeth and spoke through them. “I don’t have time for that.”
“What do you mean?” The worry in Bax’s voice spiked. “Do you think it’s growing? Are your symptoms changing? When’s your next scan—”
“Bax.” Gray raised a brow at his brother. “You’re a twenty-six-year-old man, not a fifty-nine-year-old woman. Please don’t turn into Mom.”
“Answer my questions.”
Gray studied his brother. Bax used to be the fun one. Growing up, they’d all had their roles. Gray, the wunderkind, shutting himself in his room and writing plays and poems and short stories as early as third grade. He’d needed to be the observer, not the entertainer at the dinner table. That had been Bax’s job, telling stories, doing impersonations, and charming their parents and the occasional guests — anything to amuse Cecilia while still shielding her from the attention of others. Their little sister — the painfully shy baby of the family — could forget her self-consciousness when she watched Bax command the spotlight.
But that was so long ago.
Bax belonged in a space that rippled with laughter. Half the people Gray considered friends had really been Baxter’s friends first. They flocked to him, drawn and held by his warmth and humor. The playful mischief in his eyes had dimmed when they’d lost Cecilia, but it hadn’t died. Looking at his brother across his kitchen, Gray realized he hadn’t seen him laugh in weeks.
And this was his fault.
“I don’t think it’s growing,” he lied. “Everything’s the same as it was two months ago. The headaches. The vision. And if I take my medication, the seizures—”
“When’s your next scan?” Bax asked again.
&n
bsp; He didn’t have time for this. He needed Bax to leave. He needed quiet so he could make the most of the hours before he took the seizure pills. No distractions. No disruptions. No people. Gray sighed. “Next month.”
His brother stared at him, wheels turning.
And Gray suspected he wouldn’t like whatever Baxter would say next. He braced himself. He’d likely urge Gray to go back to Dr. Cates sooner. Run more tests. Waste more time.
It wasn’t going to happen. He had to write.
“You need to hire someone to look after you.”
“What?!”
Baxter’s face brightened as the idea gained appeal. “Like a home-health aide or an adult sitter.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Even though this earned him a smile — the first since Baxter had walked through his door and seen the bruise — Gray wasn’t joking. He’d die before he let an adult sitter into his home.
The indignity, he thought with a shudder. The annoyance.
“Of the two of us, I’m not the one with a broken brain,” Bax jabbed.
“It’s a meningioma,” Gray leveled. “It might give me seizures and headaches and one day stop my breath, but it’s not ever going make me agree to a…a… babysitter.”
“An adult sitter,” Baxter corrected, his smile growing. “And you forgot the part about memory loss.”
“I wish some of that would kick in right now.” Gray glared at his brother. “I’d like to forget this whole conversation.”
“You need to hire someone. To help out — if nothing else,” Bax said again. “If you’re not going to take your seizure medication as prescribed, someone needs to take care of you.”
Gray pointed to the door. “Go. Go back to New Orleans. Aren’t you Vice President of Sales? Shouldn’t you be at Blakewood Imports right now?”
“Vice President of Sales and Marketing.” Bax gave him an evil grin. “See, you’re forgetting already.”
Gray shook his head. “That’s not funny.” Ten minutes ago, he would have welcomed Bax’s jabs and gallows humor, but the threat of a caregiver was worse than the prospect of death at twenty-eight. He needed to get Bax off this bent before he started thinking about doing real damage. Blakewood Imports was a huge corporation with the best law firm in New Orleans on retainer. Would his family get to a point where they thought they knew what was best for him? When they and their lawyers could take away his control? Gray wondered if it was time to call André Washington, his old friend and attorney.
Gray sighed. His parents and Baxter weren’t monsters. They loved him, and they were good people. But they worried about him. Too much. And he knew that kind of worry could make people take drastic measures.
Gray reached across the counter for the stupid bottle, cracked open the lid, and popped a pill in his mouth.
He swallowed. “There. Happy?”
Baxter leaned back against Gray’s fridge and tucked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, smirking. “For now.”
Chapter Three
“So, nothing yet?” Brooke asked as they raced across St. Mary to the chirp of the crosswalk alarm.
“Nothing.” Meredith sighed. She had six minutes before her Human Anatomy Physiology lecture started, and she wanted to claim a decent spot in the auditorium, but she also wanted to commiserate with her friend. “I filled out applications in three stores yesterday. Whole Foods wants me to be able to close at eleven. Drug Emporium — which is the closest — said they’re looking for someone to open the store at six in the morning, and Albertson’s told me they just filled the position, but they’d keep my application on file.”
Brooke gave her a sympathetic look as they approached the entrance to Wharton Hall. “You’ll find something,” she said.
“As long that happens before Jamie gets back.” Meredith hugged her friend, said goodbye, and dashed inside Wharton. She found a seat in the second row surrounded by other nursing students who’d been in her organic chem class last semester. She told a few of them hello and got out her notebook and pen.
It wasn’t just that she wanted to be too busy for Jamie to harass when he came home — restless and horny after three weeks offshore. She also didn’t want him to think she was relying on him to take care of her. Of course, she relied on him to put a roof over her head — for now — but Meredith paid for her own clothes, her own birth control pills, her own gas and insurance, and all of the school expenses that Louisiana’s TOPS program didn’t cover. Jamie’s insurance took care of Oscar, but Meredith insisted on meeting all the co-pays for his check-ups and shots.
After putting what she could in savings, she didn’t have much else, but her small income let Jamie know she had her independence. And her independence — her autonomy — was a shield. The more desperate Jamie thought she was, the more often he’d want to talk about getting married. That wasn’t going to happen whether she was unemployed or not, but Jamie didn’t see it the same way. Her vulnerability was his opportunity.
So Meredith needed a job — and fast. But it had to be the right job. Waiting tables could earn her more money in tips, but with her school schedule, she’d be expected to close. Depending on where she worked, that might put her home at midnight, and Meredith didn’t want that. Even though Oscar went down at eight, and she almost always missed his bedtime, their special time was right at dawn.
Her baby would wake up just as the sun came through the blinds, and he’d crawl to Meredith and draw her from sleep by snuggling close. Smiling with his golden curls sticking up like a halo, Oscar was almost always happy in the morning. They’d read picture books — Good Dog, Carl was his current favorite — and sing songs in bed for a few minutes, but they’d be up and about by six-thirty. Meredith would change Oscar’s diaper, get them both dressed, make him a sippy cup of warm milk, and they’d head out with the stroller for an early walk.
Every morning, Oscar pointed to birds and talked to the dogs they passed along the way. Meredith would greet their neighbors, who always smiled and told Oscar hello. It was peaceful. It was joyful. And it was totally theirs.
It wasn’t much, but their mornings were the best part of her day, and if she took a job that made her work late, she’d be too exhausted to enjoy them.
Her anatomy professor walked in and saved Meredith from these depressing thoughts when she projected the course syllabus on the auditorium screen before launching into “Topic I: The Human Body — An Orientation.”
An hour and a half later, Meredith made her way to the lobby of Wharton. She had less than fifteen minutes to get across campus to Mouton Hall for her General Psychology class, but before she pushed through Wharton’s double doors, her eye caught on an orange flyer tacked to the lobby bulletin board.
Personal Assistant Needed
Hours Flexible
Must Have Own Transportation
$20 per hour plus mileage
The bottom of the flyer had been fringed into tabs bearing a phone number, and Meredith ripped the first for herself. She frowned at the 504 area code. Why would someone in New Orleans post a job position at the University of Louisiana in Lafayette?
It might be a scam, but the job she’d had at Champagne’s only paid $9.25, two bucks above minimum wage. Twice the money and flexible hours? Maybe it was too good to be true, but Meredith would go in with skepticism. Any hint of a scam, and she’d pull back.
She stuffed the scrap of paper into her bag and headed to class.
Thursdays were her short days. Two classes. No labs. So after psych, she hopped on her bike — with the child seat over the back tire — and headed home. She crossed Johnston Street and passed Bisbano’s. When she pedaled past Studio Ink, her eye fell on a turquoise Mustang coupe in the parking lot. It wasn’t the car that caught her attention, but the couple in the front seat — arms inked up and down and locked in a searing kiss.
Meredith pulled her gaze away and tried to ignore the sudden pounding in her chest. It had been a long, long time since anyone had kissed her like that. She
didn’t want to remember the fool she’d been then, and it would be years before she could meet someone new, so it was best not to think about kissing at all.
It was just after 12:30 when she walked through the kitchen door to find a sleepy Oscar finishing his lunch.
He drooped in his booster seat until he saw her. “Mama!” Oscar sat up straight and pointed a finger at her — a finger that was coated in peanut butter. “Sit down.”
Meredith let her book bag slip to the floor as she took a seat beside him, smiling widely. “Yes, Mama will sit. I don’t need to leave.”
“Mama sit?” Oscar questioned, smiling now, too, but still unsure. Her son was used to Meredith rushing in from school only to change into her Champagne’s uniform before setting off again. The fact that he was so accustomed to her leaving made her heart ache.
“Yes, Mama’s sitting with Oscar. I want to sit with you.”
Leona emerged from the utility room, shaking her head and giving a tsk. “Of course, you had to come back right before his nap,” she complained. “Now he’ll never settle down.”
Meredith ignored the woman’s tone and turned back to her son. “I’ll get some lunch and then take him back to my room. He’ll get sleepy again in a little while.”
Leona cocked a brow at her. “Oh? You mean you aren’t gonna run out and look for another job this instant? You’re actually gonna spend time with your baby?”
The stab of guilt was well aimed. Leona knew exactly how to make her feel awful, and, because Meredith sensed this, she tried to push the hurt aside. But instead of firing back, she rose to her feet and headed toward the fridge.
“Mama sit,” Oscar echoed, a whine creeping into his voice.
She turned and locked eyes with him. “Mama’s going to make a sandwich and sit with Oscar. Okay, baby? Mama’s hungry.”
“He needs his nap, Meredith. He’s just gonna get cranky.”
It was better to say nothing. If she said nothing, Leona would take her silence as surrender, and, in her victory, she’d consider the subject closed. Most of the time, Meredith could allow this. Bite her tongue and bow her head.
Two-Step Page 38
