The Hierarchy of Needs (The Portland Rebels #2) (12 page)

But if she didn’t say it now, she might never be able to.

“Because you’re so proud of them. And you’re not proud of me.”

“You think I’m not proud of you?” she asked. “Why would you think that?”

The shock in her mother’s voice took Jamie by surprise. As if her self-doubt was even crazier than anything else she’d said or done. But it was lip service. It had to be. Hearing her mother was proud of her was as strange as hearing she’d suddenly won Olympic Gold.

“I’m wild, silly Jamie, right?” She prepared herself for the quote. “The one who’s ‘never serious about anything’.”

Her mother’s lips scrunched to the side in a move Jamie often made herself. It was a nervous tendency she hadn’t realized they shared.

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

The apology soothed some of Jamie’s rattled nerves but she still felt raw, the mask of sarcasm and humor she so often wore peeled unceremoniously back and showing the mess she was inside.

“I’m a tough love kind of parent,” her mother added. “The boys always had such thick skins, and you acted a lot like them. I didn’t think you needed anything different.”

Jamie looked down and swirled her dinner around on her plate, blinking back the hot sting of tears.

“I wanted you to
see
me.”

Her voice broke. She tried to control her outburst, but the little-kid feeling was hard to combat. The one that said her brothers were always going to be better than her. That no matter what she’d done or how hard she’d tried, she’d ended up a failure.

Warm fingers brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I see you. The swimmer. The fashion diva. The artist.”

Her gaze snapped up. Her mother nodded at the napkin Jamie had drawn a pantsuit on and smiled. She crossed her arms on the table and leaned in closer.

“I knew you didn’t get into those art schools, you know. I saw the letters in the trash.”

The plunge in Jamie’s stomach was like jumping off the high board. She didn’t remember throwing the letters out. She’d been so upset by her rejection that she’d been careless with the evidence.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Jamie asked.

“I figured you’d talk about it when you were ready. Maybe I should’ve pushed more, but we did so much of that with your brothers. I didn’t want to push you too.”

Jamie could only blink. “Wait, what?”

Her mother laughed. “You think they all wanted to go to medical school? Sean was practically born with a stethoscope, but Brendan almost dropped out halfway through and Owen’s not sure emergency medicine is what he wants to do anymore.”

Her brothers, not perfect? Impossible.

“But Dad made them go?” she asked.

“He not-so-gently encouraged, maybe?”

“And he never did that with me.”

The pervasive feeling that she wasn’t good enough hovered again, a pin in a grenade.

“Not because we didn’t think you could, if it was what you wanted. Because you’ve always been different, and we wanted you to make your own choices.”

Another blink was all she could manage. What was happening here?

“So you really have been waiting for me to figure myself out.”

“Yes, but not for you to become like the boys or your father. I wanted
you
to decide what you want.”

Jamie studied the pasta growing cold on her plate. What the hell did she want?

She wasn’t sure, but she was sick and tired of wallowing in the feeling that she’d never accomplish anything. And the idea of trying for a career in fashion still made her heartbeat quicken.

She wanted to trust that emotion, despite the way Dean’s refusal had shaken her.

“I’ve been offered a promotion at the center,” she said. “But I don’t know if I want to take it.”

“Okay,” her mother said slowly. “If you don’t want to swim then don’t swim. But do
something
, Jamie. Because you’re not staying at home forever.”

It was a jibe, but a playful one. One said with a smile and her mother’s weird brand of love. A tactless style of encouragement Jamie had inherited. Wasn’t teasing the way she’d talked to Dean too?

The errant thought of happy times with him was another mine tripped over. The sudden moment of buoyancy deflated.

“Were people asking about me at the wedding?” she asked. “Why the last of the great Matthews clan was still living at home?”

Her mother snorted. “Please. Half the guests were too busy complaining about the band.”

“Complaining?” Jamie asked. “The music rocked at the wedding. Sean has good taste.”

A piqued eyebrow was followed by a teasing grin. “Did you just…
defend
your brother?”

Jamie sat back, astonished. “I guess I did.”

Her mother plucked Jamie’s fork from her fingers and stole a bite of pasta.

“The only thing people asked about you was whether or not anyone had broken your swim record yet,” she said as she chewed. “And complimenting you when I told them who’d chosen the bridesmaid dresses.”

A smile tugged at the edges of her lips. Jamie stared at her plate, confused. She’d been dwarfed by this image she was sure they had of her, internalizing their perceptions, when it wasn’t the truth.

And yet, it was.

She was different. A rebel in a family of well-behaved smart people. And she kind of liked it that way.

“I might want to do something in fashion. Maybe part-time, if I can swing it.” She didn’t look up, needing to get the words out before she lost her nerve. “The Maine College of Art offers a B.F.A., but there’s also a continuing education program I could try, if you guys could help out with the cost.”

A heavy pause followed. Jamie dragged her eyes up and was met with a knowing smile.

“I think we could swing that. Let’s talk it over with your father this weekend.”

She gave a gruff nod, thankful. A little weight had been lifted. They still had stuff to work through, but it was a step in the right direction.

“Eat,” her mother said. “Your dinner’s getting cold.”

She tucked into her food. Her mother reached to the far end of the table and picked up an envelope Jamie immediately recognized.

“We never got to thank your friend Dean for the photographs,” she said.

A ball of nerves wound themselves back into Jamie’s stomach.

“I thanked him for us,” she replied dryly. “No worries.”

“Did you look at them?”

She shook her head. It hadn’t been high on her priority list before their weekend, and it definitely wasn’t now.

“There are a lot of pictures of you,” her mother said. “Is there something to that?”

Meaning: was there something going on between her and Dean?

Easy answer. “No.”

“Okay. You might want to see them anyway. I’ll leave them here for you.” She stood and kissed the top of Jamie’s head. “I’m going to take a bath.”

She called out a thank you to her mother’s retreating form and finished her dinner, shooting wary glances at the packet in between bites. It stared silently back at her.

Curiosity took over. Jamie wiped her hands off and peeled the flap open.

The photos weren’t professional, but they were obviously good, some even strikingly so. Artful perspectives of the ceremony site. Beautiful moments caught of the bride and groom. It brought a reluctant smile to her lips, and a healthy dose of heartache.

So unfair, that he’d thrown this talent away.

She flipped past several pictures of her—with the bridal party, on the dance floor, but there were no more of her than there were of anyone else. Jamie thought her mother might have gone a little bit loopy until she came to the last photo.

It was of her, standing to the side during the cake cutting, Kim and Sean in the background. Her shoulders didn’t look abnormally large and her hair was actually behaving for once. Somehow, he’d made her look amazing, but it wasn’t her appearance that shocked her.

The bride and groom should’ve been the ones in the spotlight, and yet Dean had been focused on her.

She dropped the photo in disgust, her dinner forming a sickening weight in her stomach. He could see her like this, could find the right light and perspective when he was behind the lens, the right touch when they were under the sheets, but he couldn’t make an actual commitment. He couldn’t step up to the fucking plate, not when it came to something real. Everything he’d said about her being a bright spot of sunshine in his life, about her being his favorite—they were all lines he fed her. All part of the games they played. She’d waited for him for six years, and in the end, she was nothing more than a pretty picture to him.

She was done waiting.

Placing the photos back in the envelope, Jamie went up to her room and booted up her laptop. She had a future to start thinking about, a life to get on with, and she was ready to figure it out.

Chapter Twelve

Dean called in sick to work on Saturday, not wanting to deal with anything, the garage included. He’d spent the day home instead, holed up on his couch in front of the TV.

He hadn’t spoken to Jamie all week. It was killing him, but he knew he’d done the right thing. She’d given up on the exciting life she’d always wanted because it would’ve meant not being near him, and that was unacceptable.

She didn’t actually want him, anyway. Not the real him, not in the light of day, in a life where medical school and country clubs were the norm. She wanted Dean Trescott, Player Extraordinaire. And even if she thought he was what she wanted right now? Ten, twenty years down the line, she’d realize the mistake she’d made. She’d end up hating him, just like his old man and his mom.

She’d be fine. She said as much on Sunday, when she told him they were good. He could tell she was pissed—there was a definite bite to her voice when she’d said it—but he knew she’d get over it. Jamie bounced back, like those springy curls of hers, returning to their original shape after they’d been pulled too tight.

He was bouncing back to his old ways too. Or at least he was trying.

He’d hit the bar circuit several times this week. He’d met some women, exchanged numbers with a few and promised to call, but he wasn’t feeling the scene. He came home and worked out instead, pounding out as many pull-ups as he could handle, then hit the floor for push-ups until he was about to pass out. It didn’t take the edge off the way a good hard fucking would have, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, the idea of taking someone new to bed felt like too much energy.

He didn’t want to have to put on the charm. He wanted to be around someone who knew him.

He wanted Jamie. And he didn’t have a fucking clue what to do with that.

Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to go away in the first place, but he’d wanted one chance to be with her, to bask in the brightness of her smile. He’d lunged for it knowing the clock was ticking, needing to memorize what she felt like. Tasted like. One chance to pretend at the life he could’ve had if things were different.

That he could be more than he was.

But things weren’t different, and wanting more wasn’t in the cards for him, with work or with Jamie. He’d branded that reminder onto his chest years ago.

He shut the TV off and sighed. Too restless to sit around any longer, he reached for his phone. Mikey had been oddly MIA for once, so he shot Connor a text to meet him at their old haunt by the river.

Throwing on some clothes, he trekked out to his truck and drove to the Stroudwater neighborhood, parking by the stretch of land where Congress Street overlooked the Fore River. Back in their early days of misbehaving, he and Connor used to sneak down here, underage and hiding a six-pack between them in the darkened shadows of the marshland.

Padding beneath the overpass, Dean sought out a dry stretch of grass and plunked down ass-first onto the ground. The sky was cloudy, as somber as his mood. On the opposite side of the water, more leaves had scattered on the ground than remained behind on the tree limbs, peak foliage time having come and gone. Squirrels were scurrying through the brush, collecting supplies for the impending winter.

Maslow’s Hierarchy was everywhere, even right there in nature. Trees and animals lived off what they needed, never aspiring for more, surviving each season, powering on through the next. He’d managed that way for years, taking each day as it came, and it had suited him just fine.

It really sucked that it wasn’t working right now.

He’d be able to shake it off. It would just take time.

The buzzing sound of a motorcycle ended in a low rumble. Dean heard the heavy thump of feet meeting land when Connor hopped over the guardrail.

“Somebody die, or did you run out of condoms?” he asked.

“Funny.”

Connor smiled like a guy who was getting it regularly, and with someone he really cared about. Dean always thought he was the comic relief in their group. The role reversal pissed him off.

“You look like shit, so I figured it had to be one or the other.” Connor dropped to the ground and stretched his Incredible Hulk-sized legs out toward the water. “So, what’s up?”

Dean shook his head. He wanted company, not a fucking shoulder to cry on. What was next if he did that? Braiding each other’s hair?

“Nothing. Just bored,” he said. “You?”

“I’m selling my bike.”

“What?” Dean sputtered. Connor loved that stupid thing. He’d rebuilt it with his own hands at the shop he used to work at before he’d gone all technophile and left that life behind him. “Why?”

“I’m saving up to buy Gabby a ring.”

Dean’s mouth fell open. “You can’t be serious.”

He didn’t mean to sound like a dick, but they’d only been together since July. How was the guy ready to make that kind of a commitment?

Connor didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed. “Dead serious. Why?”

Dean ripped a few ragged strands of grass and tossed them into the river.

“Seems kind of fast,” he said. “Not to mention that the bike is your only set of wheels. How are you planning on getting around?”

“I figure I’ll ask your sorry ass for rides.”

Dean snorted out a laugh. “Don’t count on it.”

Connor flipped him the bird and grinned.

“I can trade it in for a cheaper model if I want. My old boss is gonna work something out for me. And my grandparents might let me borrow their car for a while.” He shrugged and looked up at the sky. “I’ll work it out. It’s not important. Only Gabby is.”

Dean tore more shards of wasted grass from the ground. They landed in the water, causing a tiny ripple in the flat calm. It didn’t ebb or flow, no progress forward, like everything in his world had been for the last six years.

“How do you know?” he asked quietly.

“Know what?”

“That it’s right with her.”

Connor sat forward and balanced his elbows on his knees.

“The bike’s just a thing. Something I can save up for and buy again. Gabby is much more than that.” His buddy looked over at him, that same contented look on his face he’d had since the summer ended, the one that erased the angry grimace of the rebellious kid he’d once been. “So is Jamie.”

Dean tensed. He started to blow it off, but couldn’t come up with a damn thing.

“Look, it’s none of my business,” Connor said, “and you can go on pretending if you want, but you guys have been like two sides of the same coin since the tenth grade.”

It was true, but it didn’t matter. Dean shook his head. “I’m no good for her, man. I’ll ruin her life. She’s better off without me.”

“Right. Don’t try for anything at all, and you’ll be happy.”

“Fuck off.”

Connor laughed. “You know, I was listening that day in detention when we learned about the Hierarchy of Needs, and you got it all wrong. It’s not that we shouldn’t shoot for more. It’s the opposite. Everyone deserves to have what they want, Dean. Not scrape by on what they think they need.”

Everyone deserves to have what they want.

Sure. He’d just wave a magic wand and make that happen.

Connor clapped a hand on his shoulder, a silent communication. Dean nodded mutely, still staring out at the water as Connor gathered himself up, kicked his bike into gear and rode off into the distance.

Dean stayed until the sky grew dark and his ass was going numb from sitting on the cold ground. He started his truck, but found himself heading south instead of home, past the Jetport and to the old house he grew up in.

He parked in front of the cracked sidewalk, his jaw nearly soldered shut at the sight of peeling blue siding and faded brown shutters, leaves unceremoniously dumped into sagging brown bags by the curb. The front yard he’d once played in was overgrown, and the
S
in the family name had broken off the label on the mailbox. He had no idea what he was doing here—he’d avoided this place as much as possible since he moved out—but something kept him from driving away.

The TV flickered through the living room windows. The old man was home.

Dean cut the engine, made his way up the broken cement and let himself in. The interior hadn’t changed since his mother left: the same dilapidated cabinets in the kitchen, the same crusty stove. He’d bet his room in the attic had remained unchanged too, unless his father was using it to store more of the crap he could never throw out.

He didn’t want to go upstairs to check.

“Guess you’re feeling better.” His father’s gruff sarcasm carried over the sound of a Boston College football game on the living room TV. “There’s beer in the fridge, if you want it.”

“Thanks, I’m good.”

Dean trudged across the creaking floorboards and sank onto the couch. His father was still in work clothes, a rotation of dirty slacks and long-sleeved shirts that never varied, no matter what the season. Dean wasn’t so different, each day spent in his uniform of jeans, boots and a Henley tee.

He was turning into the old man already.

It never bothered him before, back when he’d first drunk the Kool-Aid of the family business. When he’d thought the name Trescott was something to be proud of. Things had changed, and he’d stepped forward to the chopping block regardless, accepting the fact that one day his father’s daily existence would become his own. That eventuality had seemed years off, but Dean had spent the whole day in the same position as the one Chuck was in right now.

Was this the only life he could ever hope to have? To spend his Saturday nights sitting in a broken-down house, drinking beers and watching a game alone?

The idea made him genuinely feel sick.

His father hadn’t been concerned over why Dean had called in today, either. He was just annoyed that his assistant manager hadn’t put in his time. It didn’t matter if a cog in the wheel wasn’t feeling well, only that it worked right.

What the hell was he doing this for?

Dean looked at his father. “Why do you want me to take over the shop?”

The old man’s gaze never strayed from the television. “Because people trust businesses that are family-owned, especially ones run by a second or third generation.”

All the emotion Dean had kept under wraps pushed up against a dam inside him. Overflow was imminent.

“Customer trust gets built up over years,” his father continued. “It’ll do even better with you.”

Dean’s stomach churned. The anger rolling through him was like spitfire, his father’s reply a shot of gasoline. The legacy Dean was being handed was never about
him
. It was what
he
could do for the business. A business he wouldn’t be allowed to make any changes in until his father had gotten them so deep in the red that Dean would never be able to pull them out of it.

He was through with being tied to that future, dragged toward it by a freight train he couldn’t direct.

He didn’t want that life anymore.

“I quit.”

His father’s gaze slid slowly over and landed on him. “What the hell do you mean, you quit?”

“I mean exactly what it sounds like. I quit.”

“You can’t
quit
. This is what we do. The shop is for you.”

“It’s not for me!” Dean shot up off the couch, his rage hitting a boiling point. “It’s so I can fix the mess you’ve made. You expect me to sit here and take orders, to watch you run the place into the ground, and I won’t do it anymore. The business is falling apart, and I’m not sticking around just to inherit an albatross.”

His words stung. Dean could see it in the way his father’s eyes burned.

“I kept the business alive to give to you,” the old man growled.

“It’s not alive. It’s barely breathing. You think you built it up to give to me, but there won’t be anything left if it goes down the tubes.”

Dean had the advantage in height, but his father’s glare still held the power to level him. He held his ground.

“You can’t walk away from your heritage,” he said. “It’s in your blood. Running this shop is what you’ve always wanted.”

“It’s not what I want,” Dean spat back. “Since when have you given a damn about what I want? You never even asked.”

They stayed silent and stared at each other across the bare floorboards, battleships poised on edge, each waiting for the other to strike. The sharp whistles and cheers of the game was the only sound until his father swallowed, a small move of resignation.

“All right,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”

Dean couldn’t reply at first. The ability to fill in that blank was a liberty he didn’t know what to do with.

“I don’t want to quit,” he said quietly. “But I won’t stay on if you don’t start letting me make real changes.”

Another beat of silence. “What kind of changes?”

Dean sat back down on the couch. It was strange, to have his father’s complete attention. To feel like a grown-up around him, for once.

“First, we’ve got to start working with the insurance companies. It doesn’t matter how low we make our prices. If we’re not on the adjusters’ lists, people won’t find us.”

He didn’t hit the usual resistance with that idea, so he kept going.

“I know it means negotiating lower labor and material rates to get repair contracts, but we can still be the good guys. If a rep tells us to put an aftermarket part on a car that’s barely a year old, we tell the customer. Yeah, we run the risk of being taken off that company’s list, but we’ll have made a connection with the client. We’ll still be building trust.”

His father looked at the wall. Looked back. “All right,” he said. “What else?”

Energy started pulsing through him. “We’ve got to get computerized. Either paying for QuickBooks or hiring that virtual bookkeeper,” Dean said. “Also, I want you to look at this workflow software I found. It puts the production schedule in one place, and even updates the customers through email or text message every time we finish a task.”

His father ran his fingers over the bristles on his chin. The slant of his eyebrows suggested he actually seemed interested.

“Anything else?”

He took a deep breath. Jamie’s suggestion had idled in the back of his brain all week. He’d poked through the
Want-Ad Digest
and found at least a dozen classic cars for sale, ones that could be fixed up without too much cost.