Take Me Home Tonight (32 page)

But as she stood there, she realized she had nothing to lose. “Dad.” Confidence spread through her. “I have an idea for you.”

*   *   *

Her
almond croissant sat untouched on her plate, and her latte had cooled.

Hands in motion, Mimi described her concept. “Small spaces—large enough to hold a galley-style kitchen, a display case, and maybe two or three café tables. Low-cost start-up, small commitment, and fast turnaround. But each bakery would look like a fairyland—it would catch the attention of anyone passing by.”

It was not lost on her that her dad's phone had been lighting up constantly since they'd taken a table near the refrigerator of soft drinks. But he hadn't answered once. He'd given her his full, rapt attention.

So, she continued. “Do you remember Pedro and his grilled cheese truck from the first episode?”

“I do.”

“Same idea. A grilled cheese franchise. Like the bakery, it would just be a storefront. Customers on their way to or from work could order a grilled cheese and take it to go. He should offer breakfast sandwiches, too, so people could grab one on their way to work. But they'd be everywhere. Right outside subway stations. Right in the heart of office plazas. What do you think?”

“I think it's got tremendous possibility.” Her father smiled broadly.

“What?”

He set his coffee down. “I want to capture this moment.”

“Because I'm thinking outside the box?” He liked her business plan.
Yay!

“No, because when you talk about this idea, you come alive.”

“It's a great idea, right? I mean, sure, the city's got bakeries everywhere, but these would be small, with low overhead. You could grab an espresso to go with your cupcake, but mostly you'd grab a box of cookies on your way home to bring to your kids. We'd start out with a supplier, but if this takes off, we could set up our own baking facility. And the grilled cheese shops? That's a no-brainer, right?”

“We will see. If you're serious about this, then put together a presentation. Cost analysis, real estate, everything, and then present it to us at the Monday meeting.”

The Monday meeting? “Does that mean—”

A shout of laughter came out of him. “Yes. It means you're hired.”

Petals unfurled in her chest. She'd done it. She'd earned her way into his business. “I'll work on it this week.”

But before the happiness could spread, reality cut it off cold. This good news—finally working for her dad—meant an end to anything with Calix. She wouldn't run into him on the farm or in the kitchen at Slater and Emmie's house.

And the only reason she could be so painfully disappointed
was because she'd held on to one tiny shard of hope that they'd get back together. That seeing each other every day would make him realize how much he missed her and had to have her.

And now that wouldn't happen.

It was truly over.

As Calix shoved the last bite of toast into his mouth, his dad entered the kitchen.

“What's your rush?”

He brought his plate to the sink. “I'm heading over now.”

His dad studied him a few moments. “Well, hang on. Let me grab something to eat first.”

“I'll meet you there. I want my own ride anyway.” Then, when they took a break for lunch, he could come home. Spend some time with his mom.

His dad pulled the orange juice out of the refrigerator. “You got somewhere to be?”

He did. The way he'd blown off Mimi . . . shitty thing to do. Figured he'd talk to her before work. Make it right. He turned on the faucet, rinsed his plate and knife. “Just want to get there early.”

“This about Mimi?”

His dad caught everything. First day back at work, first time seeing her since he'd blown her off on the patio, he guessed it wasn't too hard to figure out
.
“It's mostly about having my own wheels.” He'd handle it right this time. That
way he could go back to the way he used to do things—showing up in time to do his job, and then leaving right after.

Until the band hired someone new.

And then he'd be out of her life for good.

Fuck.
He grabbed the edge of the counter. Mimi. Out of his life.

“Good, because you know she's gone, right?”

Shock speared through him. “What do you mean,
gone
?”

“She took a job.”

He hit the faucet and faced his dad. “Where?” Had she gone to Miami?

“She's working for her dad in the city. Full time, starting today.”

The way his stomach plummeted, he may as well have dropped through a trapdoor in the floor.
Gone?

“She offered to stay on until they found a new chef, but the guys told her not to worry about it.”

He'd ended it with her, so why was it so hard to hear she wouldn't be around?
Isn't this what you wanted?

A hand clapped his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Of course.” He reached for a towel to dry his hands. “Good for her. She got what she wanted.” He moved too quickly around his dad, slamming into him. “Sorry.”

Where were his keys? He patted his pockets. Not there. He cut across the kitchen to find mail piled high on the built-in desk. He pushed around a few stacks, but they only toppled over, creating more of a mess.

Where the hell were his keys?

“She's just in the city,” his dad said. “You can see her anytime.”

“Have you seen my keys?”

His dad gestured to the island. Where he'd tossed them when he'd started making his breakfast.
Get your head out of your ass
. He grabbed them.

“Still need to go in early?”

“I'm just gonna ride.”
Gone.
He needed to get on his bike. Maybe ride to Montauk.
Dammit.
He felt like he'd downed a case of energy drinks.

“Don't know why you cut her loose. Not sure I've ever seen you that way around a girl.”

“We were dating, Dad. Now we're not.”

“I saw you at the wedding. The way you looked at her . . .” He unfolded his arms, took a few steps toward him. “She thinks we blame her. I told her we didn't, but I'm not sure she believed me.”

“It's not her I blame.”

His dad cocked his head. “What're you saying?” And then understanding lit his features. “Wait, you blame
yourself
?”

Heat flushed through him, and he had to look away.

But his dad stepped closer. Got right in his face. “You blame yourself for what happened to Hopper.” But he didn't wait for a response. Or more likely, Calix's expression was answer enough. His dad tipped his head back and scrubbed his jaw. And then he straightened with a look of astonishment. “Wait,
this
is why you're not joining the band?” He shook his head. “No, son. You got it wrong.”

Pulling on his scruff, his dad let out a slow breath. “You were such a sensitive kid. Took everything so deep.” He gave Calix's shoulder a squeeze. “You saw how hard it was for Hopper. How frustrated he got that his brothers were growing up and away from him. I think you internalized it. Yeah, Hopper had a hard time lettin' you go, but that's because he was developmentally disabled. Sucked, but you had to grow up and live your life. It hurt him, not denying it, but it had to happen. You couldn't give up your life to stay back with him. You were doing the right thing, living your life, becoming the man you're meant to be, and being the best big brother to him that you could.”

“I wasn't good to him.”

His dad gave him a shake, pulled him closer. “Yeah, son, you were.”

“That's bullshit.” Emotion broke through and shattered him. “I wanted him to leave me alone. I didn't want . . .” His mind spun so fast he got dizzy. “I was a selfish prick. He hung on me all the time, and I just wanted to be free. But . . . I loved him.” Oh, Jesus, a wave of regret knocked him
full-force in the chest. Tears blurred his vision, and he had a hard time taking in a full breath. “I loved him.”

“You sure as hell did. You loved him good, too. You were a damn good brother.”

“I was a shit brother. I treated him like shit.” Pain sliced him, ripping open the old wound. He turned away from his dad, not wanting to be seen like this. “I want him back, Dad. I want to do it better. Be better to him.” He couldn't stop them. The tears. They burned a path down his cheeks.

His dad grabbed him and pulled him against his big, burly chest. Brawny arms wrapped around him. “He loved you, son. Hopper loved you like nobody's business. You were his favorite, you know that, right?”

Of course he knew that. That's why he couldn't live with how badly he'd treated him.

His dad tightened his hold. “You're only remembering the times you pushed him away, but you did good by him.” Holding on to Calix's shoulders, his dad looked intently into his eyes. “I remember everything. You were good and kind. And Hopper could be a huge pain in the ass. Loved that boy with all my heart, but he tried my patience. He tried all of ours. But especially yours because he wanted you the most. And you did a great job balancing it. Giving him what he needed, while living your own life. You did better than I did. I can't tell you how many times I said that to myself. That I wished I'd had your patience with him.”

His dad wiped the back of his hand across his damp cheek. “Listen to me, kid. You were a great brother. You didn't do a damn thing wrong.” He gripped his chin, tipped it. “You get to have Mimi.” His dad's arms trembled. “You get to be in a band. Blue Fire or not, you get to live the life you want. Anything less and who wins? Does Hopper win?” He practically shook an answer out of him, but Calix gave nothing. “Do you win? Answer me, son. Does any good come out of you not living your life?”

“No. Nothing good comes out of it. Not for anyone.” It made sense. Everything his dad said made sense. The idea that he could have Mimi. It made him feel fierce.

“Take it, son. Take everything you can out of this life. And for God's sake, go get your woman.”

*   *   *

Before
heading inside the house, Calix leaned against his bike, sun hot on his head, and sent Mimi another text.

Coming into the city to see you. What's a good time?

She hadn't answered any of his others. But he knew she wouldn't check her phone at work. Not with the job she'd waited a hell of a long time to get.

And, of course, she hated him.

Hardest words he'd ever had to hear.

So instead of making inane comments, he needed to get to the point. Just like Mimi would do.

Keep remembering your expression in the ER. Killing me.

Worse, how I treated you when you came to see me.

Wind chimes pealed and clanged around him, and a breeze rustled through the trees. He scratched the whiskers on his chin. Had to go deeper to make it real.

Feel like shit.

Need to see you. Apologize in person.

He had only an hour left on this break from recording, so he needed to get inside, see how his mom was doing. He pocketed the phone and headed in.

The moment it vibrated against his ass, hope tore through him. He pulled it out.
Mimi.
Thank Christ.

I've gotten all your texts, and I accept your apology. No need to meet up. Best to you and your family.

He smiled. One of the things he loved about her—
wait,
loved?
Standing under the shade of the copper beech tree, he let it spread through him. For the first time in a hell of a long time, he could smell the rich earth, the freshly cut grass, and the hint of salty air. He noticed the bright blue of the sky and the deep copper leaves on the enormous sheltering tree. Same color as Mimi's hair.

He smiled wider. Because, yeah, he loved her.

And because her love had changed him.

And just as quickly as the feeling spread through him, it burned to a crisp when he realized how he'd treated her. She'd given him all her beauty, and he'd turned his back on it.

Need to see you, sweet pants.

He stopped himself before he hit Send. He didn't want to send attitude. He wanted to send a piece of his heart. He deleted the comment.

I miss you.

That wasn't even close.
Need to see you. Need to fix what I fucked up. Please?

Holding on to his phone, he stepped onto the porch. When his hand closed around the doorknob, his cell vibrated again.

Let me alleviate at least one of your sources of guilt: I forgive you. Now let's just make a clean break. No matter how sorry you are to have hurt my feelings, I'm going to guess nothing has really changed. You tried hard to give me as much of yourself as you were able, but the one thing you could never give me was a future. Not even a glimpse. So, there's really no reason for us to see each other because my time of living in the moment is over. Let's leave it as it is. A clean break.

A clean break? Sure as hell didn't feel like one. Not with edges sharp enough to cut.

He'd talk to her later.
This is not over.

At this hour he figured his mom would just be getting up, and since she didn't expect him to be around, he called out, “Ma? I'm home.”

The house was eerily quiet. As he made his way down the hallway, a sickly cold sensation crept over his skin. “Mom?”
Stop it
. Nothing was wrong. He'd likely find her in the kitchen having lunch. Or in the studio.

His mom was fine.

“Mom? Lee?” He hadn't seen his sister's pink MINI Cooper out front, so he didn't expect her to be home.

He checked one empty room after another, the absolute stillness kicking up his anxiety. The kitchen showed no signs anyone had used it since he'd left that morning.

She was probably in the studio. His pace picked up as he headed outside, jogging past the cooing chickens.

Throwing the door open, he found it empty. The emptiness sent a chill through him.

He ran back into the house, shouting, “Mom?” Dammit. Where the hell was she?

Calm your ass down.
She's probably in the shower. Or taking a walk.

He made his way down the hall, anxiety breaking out on his skin like a rash. Passing the master bedroom, he peered through the open door. It was a total mess, just as his dad would've left it. He continued on to the guest room, where she'd returned so she wouldn't keep her husband up with her insomnia. The one room he dreaded checking.

That image of his mom lying in bed unconscious took up the screen of his mind. What would it take for him to get rid of it once and for all?

He rapped on the closed door. “Ma?” No answer.
Jesus fuck, do not let her be in that bed
. With a damp palm, he turned the knob. “Mom?” Pushed it wide open.

Mother fucking hell
. In the race to her bedside, he took in the prescription bottle of pills, the glass of water, half full.

His mom lay on her back, features perfectly slack. More peaceful than he'd seen her in three years. Pale as the white sheets.

“Mom?
Mom
.” Ice-cold fear rushed through his veins.

As he whipped out his phone, hitting 911, he touched his fingers to her carotid artery. She had a pulse. Thank fuck. She was still alive.

“Nine-one-one. What's your emergency?”

“My mom's overdosed on pills.” He grabbed the bottle. “Ambien.” And then he lowered his ear to her nose. Felt the soft brush of warm breath. “She's breathing. But barely.” He gave his address and tossed the phone onto the bed. Vaguely, he was aware of the operator's voice.

Grabbing her shoulders, he shook her. “Mom? Mom.” Her limp body drooped like a rag doll. He patted her cheeks. “Mom.
Mom
.”

The operator's voice grew louder, more insistent.

“Jesus, Mom. What have you done? What the hell have you done?” Both hands on her shoulders, he lifted her. Her head flopped back.

And then her eyelids fluttered, and a look of confusion took hold of her features. “What . . .”

Calix grabbed his phone. “She's alive. She's waking up.”

“Sir,
stay with me
. Can you find out how many pills she took?”

“Calix? What's . . .” With effort, his mom dragged herself up to a sitting position. She blinked, looking around her, clearly disoriented. “What's going on?”

“Mom, listen to me. I need to know how many pills you took.” And then into the phone, he said, “Are the paramedics on their way? We've got to get her stomach pumped right now.”

“I don't need my damn stomach pumped. Are you crazy?” His mom pushed him away, her hand going to her forehead. She winced as if she had a headache.