Chasing Kane (28 page)

So, no texts from Georgia, but I had a couple from some of the guys who saw the fight earlier in the morning just checking in, and two more from other tour members asking if the
rumors
that I’d left the tour were true. Just after those texts was one from Yardley saying she’d filled everyone in on the new game plan to finish out the Minneapolis stint, and they all seemed on board. The Brewers apparently had a few numbers from an old playlist that included
two
drum sets, so she tucked CJ in there and said a bunch of the drummers got together and devised a several minute drumline number to perform on their own.

Part of me wished I could see that, since I’d always been fond of drumlines, but I was just relieved CJ wasn’t left high and dry for the next few shows. We didn’t need any more conflict or resentment between us right now. But, I’d have to deal with that later, too.

There were
lots
of laters because, even though I’d get to San Diego with plenty of daylight left, I planned to use every minute to my advantage. To salvage my character for the only person that mattered.

“You should go up to bed, honey.” Mom tried to act like it was a modest suggestion as she sifted flour, but there was telltale tension in her shoulders.

“It’s three in the afternoon,” I blurted out. “And, what I have … sleep won’t fix.”

Rage, depression, confusion, giving-up-ness …

“You’d be surprised. You didn’t go to bed last night. In fact, you didn’t even leave the bakery.”

Sometimes, having my mom as a houseguest was like having Big Brother around. She’s a light sleeper—always has been. So, when I was younger, sneaking in or out was out of the question. As for last night, she didn’t hear me come into the apartment because I didn’t. I couldn’t.

I’d been wrapping up a relatively late night filling orders for a baptismal brunch
and
a bar mitzvah when I got the text from CJ. All he prefaced it with was,
I’m in the hotel, but someone sent this to me. I don’t know anything more than this.

Of course I called CJ right away, in a rage that I didn’t want to dump on Regan without more information. CJ was pretty tight-lipped, and I sensed he was holding back something. At that point, though, it hardly mattered. Pictures don’t lie, and videos are even more truthful.

It was Regan, dancing with Nessa on a crowded dance floor. By all accounts, he appeared drunk, but that wasn’t even what bothered me the most. He was dancing with her like he always did with me. Hands in the same position, and I almost threw up when he leaned forward and touched his forehead to hers. It was only for a second, but for that second I hated both of them. I hated that she didn’t have to wear heels to make that move a remote possibility—she had to be nearly five foot eleven. Vanity may have been my knee-jerk reaction; jealous of her height, her beauty, and the way she moved so easily with my husband, but that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Regan had been working extra hours on this tour, beyond his normally insane practice regimen. His texts were shorter and shorter as the weeks went on, and we hadn’t sent dirty texts to each other for nearly two weeks before I showed up in Minneapolis. He’d been slipping away slowly, and I realized it too late. It wasn’t until he rejected me in that bed in Minnesota that I knew something had gone horribly wrong. I wasn’t naïve enough anymore to put this all on Nessa—I was sure she had little to do with Regan’s initial pulling away—but she sure as shit didn’t fuckin’ help things.

“
Georgia,
” Mom snipped as if she’d called my name several times already.

I took a quick breath, blinking myself back to the present. “Yeah?”

She nodded to the stand mixer whipping in front of me. “You’ve got enough volume there, I think.”

Readjusting my attention, I saw that the egg whites I’d been beating for a meringue were nearly overflowing the bowl with their pillowy foam. I shut off the mixer and hung my head, taking a deep breath.

“Maybe I should shower.” I conceded that I needed to change
something
about my appearance from yesterday morning, but I wasn’t ready for sleep, or the dreams it would bring. “Put this in the fridge for me?”

Mom’s smile was considerate and concerned, a sadness in her eyes as she reached for the bowl and stuck it in the fridge while I untied my apron. I studied her petite frame while her back was to me. Narrow shoulders and tiny hips. I got my va-va-voom, as Regan called it, from my grandmother. She was all butt by the time she was sixty. I tried to eat a little better than she did to hold off the butt-takeover but, honestly, I owned a bakery. It was only a matter of time. Mom’s hair had shifted from salt-and-pepper to a soft grey over the last couple of years. She insisted she had more important things to worry about than her appearance and I assured her she had
nothing
to worry about. She was one of those women who looked as natural and beautiful with grey hair as she did when she was younger with jet-black locks.

“How easy was it for you to walk away from Dad and me?” I blurted out, too tired to dress it up in social niceties.

She froze for a second, closing the door slowly, turning around with a cautious look on her face.

“Sorry,” I added, when I saw the startled look in her eyes. “I didn’t mean—”

She held up her hand. “It’s the truth,” she admitted. “Harsh, but honest. Are you thinking of leaving Regan?”

Her question was like a punch in the gut. I felt like dry heaving, since there wasn’t any food in my stomach to actually throw up. “No.”

Well that was good news.

“So you think he wants to leave you.”

I swallowed hard, my cheeks heating as I fought tears. “It sure seems that way, doesn’t it?”

She sighed, approaching me with outstretched arms as her hands touched my shoulders. She was my height, but for some reason whenever she talked to me like a
mom
, she seemed several inches taller. “I think you need to get some sleep.”

“You think he wants to leave me?” I choked out, taking a step back.

She shook her head. “I didn’t say that. But if you really want to have that conversation, you need to be as clearheaded as possible, which is hard to do when you’ve been awake for, what, thirty-six hours?”

I spoke, but the brewing breakdown forced my voice out in a whisper. “Tell me what happened with you and Dad,” I asked again.

“Before I got sick we were like any other married couple. There were ups and downs. Even before
he
got sick.” It took her a few years to acknowledge his alcoholism as an illness, now it was just part of the oral history of their life together.

“I remember you guys fighting a lot.”

She nodded. “We did. When you were
real
little, though, and even before we had you, we were a lot like you and Regan.”

“That’s … hardly reassuring.” My eyes grew wide as panic swam through my chest.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” she replied flatly. “It’s the truth.
Most
couples start out like that—normal, young, carefree, dreams, hard-working …”

“When did things change?”

“When we stopped talking to each other.” She nodded firmly, eyeing me with careful intention. “It was slow, like how freezing rain builds up on roads. Slick at first, but eventually it’s a free-for-all of chaos. I don’t think couples need to be up each others asses all the time, but marriage is the most important business anyone ever oversees.” She arched an eyebrow, casting a quick glance around the physical business I’d owned and nurtured for years.

“And with the changes you guys are talking about bringing into the marriage, like a
baby
… that’s … that’s not a passive fly-by-night decision, Georgia. How much talking about this have you two done?”

I shrugged. “I mean, we’re both family-oriented, and have been married for a few years … I guess we just figured this was the next step. Isn’t it?”

Mom poured two cups of coffee. “Here. Go sit. If you’re not going to sleep, you might as well focus for this conversation.”

As I slid into a booth in the front corner of the bakery, Mom flipped the “Open” sign to “Closed” and sat across from me.

“Um, what are you doing? These are hours of operation.” I pointed to the bakery’s hours stuck on the window next to us.

She took a deep breath. “What are the hours of operation for your marriage?”

I opened my mouth, but she cut me off.

“That was a trick question. It’s twenty-four-seven.”

“Whatever.” I sighed. “I knew what you meant.”

“I never remarried after your father for a reason. It wasn’t just the schizophrenia. Sure, that was a huge part of it—I didn’t want to burden anyone with that, not even
you
,” she said sternly. She was growing fussy around my constant checking-in with her. We both knew, underneath, that’s how it had to be, but she didn’t have to like it.

“Why didn’t you remarry, then?”

She shrugged. “Marriage just isn’t for me. Sure, I’ve dated and will continue to date, and I enjoy relationships, but I also enjoy my space, and I really don’t have the mental or emotional space to take on caring for another human being for the long haul right now. I’ve got you and I’ve got me, and that’s where I’m at. Could that change? Maybe, but I’ve learned that my life works better when I force less of what I think I
should
be doing, and focus on what works and brings me peace.”

I curled my lip and rolled my eyes. “You’re sounding like Ember. All new-agey and
surrender
and
peace
.”

“Georgia,” Mom said in with a frustrated sigh, “how many things that you beat into the ground have turned out the way you wanted to?”

I stared at her, feeling my attitude morph into that of pre-adolescence. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t in the mood for a character analysis from a woman who abandoned her family, but I
wasn’t
a pre-teen and knew there was far more to the story than that. There always is.

“None,” I answered honestly.

“You took your time opening this place.” She gestured to our surroundings. My realized dream. “Yes, you worked hard, but you didn’t
force
it. You searched for the right place, saved money for
years
working
hard
jobs, and you’ve carefully and thoughtfully built your brand. If something doesn’t work, you try a different angle …”

I pressed two fingers against my temple, squinting at her. “How … what does this have to do with me and Regan?”

I felt like I was losing my mind. Exhaustion is a slow brain death.

Mom reached across the table and gently patted my wrist with a sweetly condescending smile. “You need some sleep. But I’ll spoon-feed you this: organize your business priorities, and always communicate with the board regarding big changes. Make sure everyone is on the same page. And that you’re being honest.”

My chin quivered as the unspoken weaseled its way through my throat.

“I’m afraid being honest will push him away. If he’s not gone already.” I was a desperate mess of emotions. Fear and sadness about the things I’d been pushing deep down, and rage over his behavior, mixed with more sadness. “We’re a mess right now, Mom.” Finally, a tear forced its way from my eye down my cheek.

She sighed. “I know. It happens sometimes. You either work through it or walk away from it, but don’t sit in it. And don’t do the second until you’ve exhausted the first. Trust me.”

“I have to go shower,” I whispered in an effort to avoid a full-on breakdown.

“I’ll make the meringues,” she replied as if we were in the most casual conversation in the world.

I dragged my sorry butt out of the bakery and trudged up the stairs to our apartment. I used to enter the door on the left, back when the place was two apartments. Back before Regan, before Sweet Forty-Two, and before I gave a damn what anyone thought. But that door was sealed shut now. The contractor put a wall in front of it on the inside. You couldn’t even tell a door had been there.

I blinked, pulling myself back slightly from rambling door metaphors as I entered the one on the right. The one where I was an adult in a struggling marriage, needing to know if it was worth fighting for.

Moving more sloth-like with each step I took, I kicked off my shoes and discarded my clothes piece by piece on my labored march to the bathroom. I thought about how nice a bath would feel for my throbbing lower body after being on my feet for most of the last thirty-six hours, but that would be too quiet, too Zen-like for how I was feeling now. Instead, I reached for the shower lever, turning the temperature knob to as hot as I knew I could stand it. I needed the roaring noise, and the pain of the scalding water pelting my skin.

Once my skin was drenched and red, I started feeling other things again. I saw Regan again on the dance floor with Nessa. I felt the abandonment of him turning his back to me in bed after I’d flown to Minnesota wanting to make love to him. I wailed above the static noise of the shower, sinking to my knees when I admitted to myself for the first time that I didn’t know if I wanted children—and how above everything else, that was likely to be the final blow to a marriage that was already on life support.

How could I possibly look Regan in the eyes, bullshit from the last few weeks aside, and break his heart with the news that I didn’t think I was cut out for motherhood? How could I do that to the best man I’d ever known—one who’d make a better father than I could ever imagine?

I’d stood at the door of Sweet Forty-Two, peeking in as Amanda worked in the kitchen and a couple with toddler twins binged on cupcakes in the front window. After a couple of minutes it was obvious Georgia wasn’t there. It was just as well, since I didn’t want to do any of this in her place of business.

I ascended the stairs and heard water rushing through the pipes. She was in the shower. Unlocking our door, I planned to set my bags in the bedroom, and use the rest of the time to think about what I was going to say to her—and figure out how not to scare the shit out of her when she got out of the shower. She hated being startled almost more than anything.