“He’s too young to start that kind of thing. He needs guidance,” father of the century Trent Schott educated me.
I sought patience (not my strong suit) and returned, “I’m not sayin’ he doesn’t need guidance. I’m just sayin’ he needs some freedom and space.”
“He can have all the freedom and space he wants when he’s thirty. Now, bein’ a kid, he needs his old man helpin’ him learn to be a man.”
And more Peggy.
But it would be Peggy teaching him to be a man.
The thought turned my stomach and I clenched my teeth to beat back my response to that.
This, unfortunately, allowed Trent to carry on.
“You need to tell him he’s gotta come and stay with Peg and me. This weekend. We’ll pick him up from your place at five thirty on Friday.”
“That’s not gonna happen, Trent.”
“Then I’ll tell him, and if he’s not there, just sayin’, Cheryl, that’s a mistake you don’t wanna make.”
“Okay,” I snapped, having had enough. “This is the deal—you got no rights in this situation, Trent. Not until a judge says what rights you got. You wanna drag my son through that, I can guaran-damn-tee you that you’re gonna drive him further away from you than you already are, pushin’ me with this shit. Now, we can avoid that and do right by Ethan if we calm down, sit down, talk somethin’ through that’ll work for all of us, and by ‘all of us,’ I mean it works for Ethan. But he’s tellin’ you right now he needs a break. That gives us a golden opportunity to sort shit out so when he’s ready for more, we got it set up with an understanding between us how that’s gonna go.”
“Pushin’ you with this?” he asked. “You tell him we pushed?”
We.
She wasn’t even there when he pushed.
God, there was no Trent.
It was only Trent and Peggy.
Which meant there was only Peggy.
“I don’t lie to my kid,” I shared. “So yeah, I told him the good news that his dad likes hangin’ with him, but that came with the bad news that his dad did not respect me by communicatin’ that right. That is not my issue. You fucked that up.”
“You’re tryin’ to turn my son from me. From me and Peg.”
Me and Peg.
Barf.
“No, Trent, you don’t see what’s happenin’ here. I’m tryin’ to tell you that you are fuckin’ this up, and I’m also givin’ you advice on how not to do that. You decide not to take it, you bear the consequences.”
“Peg and me show at your place Friday, Cheryl, my son isn’t there, you’ll hear from our attorney,” he warned.
Like he had an attorney.
“Whatever, Trent. It isn’t like you haven’t put me through the wringer before. Not like he’s a stupid kid and doesn’t know the life he’s led, I led, part of that bein’ because of the choices you made. Do it again. You’re such a dumb fuck you don’t see I’m a scrapper, especially when it comes to my kid, and I always come out standing, your mistake. But to save you some time and gas money, my kid is not gonna be at my house on Friday at five thirty for you to pick him up. Ethan’ll let you know when he’s ready. Until then, last advice I give, wait for him to come around. You do, you’ll be golden. You don’t, you risk losin’ him forever.”
I disconnected, threw my phone in my purse, and hauled my ass out to go to work.
I did this hoping we’d have a busy night. I needed a ton of tips.
Because I had a feeling I might be facing attorney’s fees.
* * * * *
Two hours later, I stared down at the end of the bar where Colt and Sully were bent over their beers, looking at each other, smiling and chuckling.
Feb was on. Jackie was looking after Colt and Feb’s little Jack.
This happened. Colt liked to hang with his woman when she was on.
Then again, Colt just liked to be with his woman and they both liked to give their son’s gramma time to be with her grandson.
Drew Mangold, another detective, had been in. He’d left fifteen minutes ago.
Mike had been there too. When I got there, he’d been sitting with Colt and Sully, shooting the shit, an after-work drink that led to two with cop bonding. But he’d left less than half an hour after I hit the bar for my shift.
No Merry.
He didn’t come into J&J’s every day.
But he was a regular. Once a week, more often two or three times, sometimes more.
It had nearly been a week since I blew things up.
He was avoiding me.
This scared me. He didn’t seem the kind to hold a grudge. He was a straight shooter. He had a problem with you, he told you to your face and didn’t delay (not that he’d ever had a problem with me, but I’d seen him have problems with other people and that was what he did).
He was not doing this with me.
He also wasn’t living his life as he had so there was an opening for us to gloss over it and move on.
So it was safe to say I was worried. I’d not apologized. I’d not reached out in any way. There was no door open he could slide through so we could start the work to get back to the him and me that used to be.
My attention was called, a customer wanting a draft.
I pulled it, all the ugly shit that had come out of my mouth that I’d aimed at Merry slamming through my brain as I did.
I served the draft. The guy paid. I got a good tip that would probably pay for half a second of an attorney’s time. I moved down the bar after a scan showed me some drinks needed refills.
I made drinks, notes on tabs, pocketing tips on those who paid outright and didn’t open a tab.
Done with that, I glanced down at Colt and Sully. Feb was standing with them but twisted, her eyes on me.
She smiled a soft smile.
She’d noted Merry hadn’t come in too.
I returned a cocky grin.
She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t act on that.
At that moment, Ruthie bellied up to the bar with an order.
I moved her way.
* * * * *
Early Tuesday Morning
It was four o’clock in the morning. Mom was snoring on the couch. Ethan was sleeping in his bed. I was in my bed, the room dark, my phone illuminated.
I fucked us up, I typed into Merry’s text string.
I deleted it.
I fucked us up, I typed again, my eyes beginning to burn.
I deleted it again.
I miss you¸ I didn’t tell him, typing it with no intention of sending it.
I backspaced through it.
I fucked us up, baby, and I’m so fucking sorry.
I didn’t hit send, but I also didn’t erase it.
Like it could just exist and he’d somehow get it without me giving it to him, I left it there, closed down my phone, tossed it on the nightstand, turned to my side, closed my blazing eyes, and did not sleep.
* * * * *
Garrett
Tuesday Night
Getting home after work, Garrett sifted through his mail at the kitchen bar, wondering how the fuck he got so many catalogs when he’d never bought a thing from a catalog in his life, and in the same time, he’d never made an online purchase.
Bills. Credit card applications. Life insurance offers.
And there it was.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, staring at the handwriting.
Solely out of curiosity, he opened the envelope.
Upending it, an eight-by-ten color glossy slid out on his bar, face up. Stuck on it was a bright pink Post-it note in the shape of a heart.
It read, I messed this up. I didn’t work for it. I’m going to work for it, baby.
He read the note and looked at the picture.
In it, he was sitting on a barstool in Vegas. Mia was in a clingy dress he’d liked a fuckuva lot, standing next to him, hanging on him. She didn’t have to hang; he had his arm around her, holding her close.
On the b
ar was a three hundred dollar bottle of champagne. They were both holding filled flutes. They’d splurged because he’d just won seven thousand dollars at the craps table.
They’d taken a few sips before Mia had asked someone passing by to take that picture.
Then they took the champagne to the reception desk and did what they did. Not planning for a future, living in the now, doing it wild to pack in as much as they could, they blew almost all his winnings, got upgraded to a suite, and made short work of moving rooms.
The rest of the time they were in Vegas, three days, they didn’t leave that suite. They got room service if they needed to eat. But if they weren’t eating or sleeping, they were fucking, whispering, or laughing.
He’d never been happier.
And that was when it began. He felt it. He felt it their last night in Vegas when he laid on his back in the bed in that suite with his naked wife curled sleeping at his side.
He’d felt the fear.
They’d been three years in their marriage—three good, strong, solid years—and the minute they stepped foot off that plane onto Indiana soil, he’d started pulling away.
She’d let him. She hadn’t fought it once. She’d been confused. Scared. Hurt. She’d let that show. It had killed him, seeing that, seeing what he was doing to her, but he didn’t quit doing it. He didn’t once cease in his efforts at driving her away.
And in those three years she hadn’t once asked him what was in his head. What was making him drive a wedge between them. What was pushing him to kill their happy.
She hadn’t even begun to put up a fight.
Eight years later, she decided to put up a fight.
Staring at that picture, all they had, all they were, all he’d wanted, all that had fucked with his head, all the harm he’d done to her, all the pain he’d caused surfaced and he gave it a second of his time.
Eight years.
Then Cher’s bravery, smashing through that fortress she had every reason to build around herself to wake up that morning and look at him the way she did, touch him the way she did, brush her lips against his throat, take his mouth, moved all thought of Mia aside.
Cher’d had it tough in a way that even in twenty years on the force he hadn’t seen anyone fucked by life as much as her.
But it hadn’t even taken her a week to break through the walls she’d built to guard her heart to start letting him in. It got fucked up, but she’d still done it.
Not eight years.
Not even a week.
That was all Merry needed.
He picked up the picture, tore it in half, in quarters, in eighths, then toed his trash bin and tossed it inside.
After that, he went to his fridge to get a beer before he went to his couch and turned on the TV.
It was Tuesday.
Tomorrow was Wednesday.
Which meant it had been a week.
Cher’s time was up.
* * * * *
Ethan
Wednesday Morning
His mom’s phone beeped.
He went to it and saw the text from his gramma telling them they needed to figure out a time to have a family dinner.
He opened his mouth to yell at his mom as he engaged her phone, punching in her password, going to her texts.
He closed his mouth when his mom’s texts came up.
There was a line that said Merry.
Merry, a cool guy, a cop, a badass—not an in-your-face badass like Cal, but still a badass who would be able to stop anything bad from ever happening to his mom. A cool guy, cop badass who looked all natural holding his mom’s hand.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself.
He touched the line with Merry’s name.
He read the string, scrolling with his finger, his eyes screwing up, not understanding.
Talked to Ryker. He’s been briefed by Tanner. He’s all over the church lady.
That means you broke your promise to me. Right to my face, you promised. You lied.
You know what that means, Merry. You shared my shit. That means we’re over in every way we can be over.
DONE.
They were over?
There was something between his mom and Merry to be over?
She’d told him there wasn’t.
But she hadn’t told him the truth.
She was protecting him.
Again.
Ethan felt his heart beating real hard.
There were words in the message line that hadn’t been sent.
I fucked us up, baby, and I’m so fucking sorry.
She called Merry “baby.” She didn’t call anyone “baby” unless she liked them a whole heckuva lot.
It said I fucked us up.
His mom and Merry were an us!
And they were fighting.
“Kid! You want hash browns for breakfast or what?” his mom called.
She was coming his way.
Ethan bit his lip.
Then he hit send.
Real quick, he typed in, Don’t text. If you forgive me, come see me.
He sent that too.
Then, super quick, he moved to his gramma’s text string just as his mom hit the kitchen.
Screen out, he waved her phone at her. “Gramma wants us to plan a family dinner.”
“I’ll get right on that after we get back from DC for the dinner the president and first lady are putting on in our honor.”
Ethan burst out laughing.
His mom was totally funny.
And because of that and all the other cool that was his mom, Merry would come. Ethan knew it.
No texting. Merry was like Colt. He was a real dude. Ethan was sure he didn’t play games. Ethan knew this because Merry hadn’t messed around when he was worried about that guy who was running around with a gun in their neighborhood. Even if his mom was trying to play things cool for Ethan’s sake, Merry kept close to look out for Ethan and his mom. So Ethan knew Merry wouldn’t mess around with stuff like that. Not stuff that was important.
Stuff like his mom.
They’d talk. They’d make up. His mom could be stubborn, but Merry would break through.
They thought he was a kid. They thought he didn’t see. They thought he didn’t hear.
But he saw. He heard. He watched, because he sensed what he was seeing was how it should be and it felt good, being around the way they were.
That being that sometimes Feb could be stubborn too, and Colt broke through. So could Vi, and Cal always broke through too. Rocky was full of attitude—she was Merry’s sister so he knew all about that—and Tanner always just thought it was funny, and when he laughed at her, Rocky didn’t get ticked. Her face got all soft like she loved him even more because the way she was made him laugh.
Ethan’s mom was super funny. She’d make Merry laugh all the time.
So they’d make up. Merry would see to that. Merry was in no way a stupid dude, and any guy would want a lady who’d make him laugh all the time. Ethan knew that for certain. He knew it because Colt did, so did Cal, Mike, Tanner. And when Ethan found his babe, that was what he would want too.
And after they made up, they’d stop hiding things from him so his mom could protect him like she did when that bad guy effed her over so bad.
Then…
Then…
Then Merry would be around all the time.
And she’d finally be happy.
Chapter Nine
Hangin’ in There
Cher
Wednesday Morning
I was in my living room, vacuuming, an activity that for some reason in a house with only a thirty-four-year-old woman and a ten-almost-eleven-year-old kid living in it, had to happen more than once a week.
As was my way, to take my mind off something that was not my favorite activity, not to mention it was right then officially a week (and a couple of hours) since I’d let loose on Merry, fucked up everything between us, and I hadn’t seen or heard from him at a
ll, I had my music up loud.
I liked rock ‘n’ roll.
There was some guitar-twanging country that didn’t drive me up the wall.
But my personal little secret was that I was a diva queen.
I certainly had a gift with banging my head to some Quiet Riot.
But with my vacuum in my living room, I was a goddess ready for the Vegas stage, belting it out with the likes of Aretha, Tina, Whitney, Donna, Linda, Janet, and Cher (the other one, who could actually sing).
And at that precise moment, I was killing it, accompanying the fabulous Celine in her version of “River Deep Mountain High.”
The music was too loud with a dual purpose. First, I loved that song, and it needed to be loud so I could hear it over the vacuum. And second, it drowned out my voice so I could kid myself about the fact that I could accompany Celine without sounding like a howling cat who would make the real Celine take off running on her two-thousand-dollar Valentinos.
I was preparing to let go of the vacuum in order to have both my hands free to do the air bongos (something that any living being should do when Celine’s bongo guy lets loose on that track) when, suddenly, the sound cut out completely.
I looked to the receiver in my media center. Then my senses, no longer being interfered with by the brilliance of Celine, refocused and I whipped around.
Merry was standing by my coffee table, my remote in his hand, looking at me, mouth curled up in a smile, his tall, lean body shaking with silent laughter.
Fuck, I hadn’t locked the door after I came home from taking Ethan to school.
Fuck! How had I forgotten to lock the damned door when I came home from taking Ethan to school?
Fuck! He knew my diva secret!
Fuck, fuck, fuck! He’d heard me singing!
I turned off the vacuum.
“Celine?” Merry choked out.
I stared at him.
“You, my brown-eyed girl, who’d see Tommy Lee lookin’ at her rack and smack him across his face for bein’ forward, causin’ him to write a song that’d have millions of women throwin’ their panties at him, listens to Celine fuckin’ Dion?” he asked.
His brown-eyed girl?
Garrett Merrick’s brown-eyed girl?
Me?