“When isn’t she?” Richard asks. “Who at, this time?”
“Courtney. Apparently she was all over a guy at a club last night.”
“Are there pictures?”
“Of course there are pictures. Simone wants to issue a statement.”
I shake my head. “Why does she have to say anything?” This whole business of having a publicist and making statements about stupid details . . . I don’t know that I’ll ever get my head around it.
“Because it’s better that Simone controls the message than Courtney’s people. Simone knows I don’t want any of this blowing back to you.”
“Would it?” I can’t help the wariness in my voice.
Brett’s face is lined with concern. “Probably not, but . . .”
But he’s so worried about it getting to be too much for me again, and me deciding it’s not worth it.
That he’s not worth it.
I reach out to rest a soothing hand on his knee. “If it does, then we’ll deal with it. We can’t avoid it forever, right?”
A slow smile curls his lips. “Right.”
“So . . . what is Simone going to say in her statement?” I ask, savoring the last chunk of waffle.
“That I’m too busy trying to keep my hands off you to care who Courtney screws,” Brett murmurs, punching in a response.
I nearly choke on my mouthful, my face burning at the cavalier way he said that, especially in front of his dad.
“That reminds me, your mom is supposed to call and I left my phone in my room.” Richard presses his lips together but it doesn’t quite hide the smile as he strolls past us, cuffing Brett on the back of the head on his way by.
“Hey, I’m crippled!”
“And yet still obnoxious,” Richard says, as he disappears down the hall.
Chapter 25
The familiar mix of vinegar and lemons fills my nostrils when I step inside my parents’ house, a fifty-year-old, three-bedroom backsplit that was updated when they bought it thirty years ago and hasn’t seen much besides a fresh coat of paint since. They skipped a formal wedding in order to put all of their savings toward the mortgage, choosing a small and practical civil ceremony in Philadelphia instead. Neither had much family anyway, each being only children whose parents had died before I was born.
The house is old, but it’s well maintained, the lawn always manicured, the floors barely scratched.
Brenna’s heading for the kitchen in a flash. “Grandma!” I hear her exclaim. “Guess what! We slept over at Brett’s house in Philadelphia!”
I roll my eyes. Great.
A few moments later, my mom appears in the kitchen doorway, a dish towel in her hands.
“Thanks for taking her. It’s just for three hours, tops.” Two servers called in sick for the dinner shift, and Lou tried everyone else before calling me. I very reluctantly left Brett’s at two.
“It’s not a problem. I was just about to start dinner and your father is outside in the garden.” She pauses. “So you stayed in Philadelphia last night?”
Brenna just told her we did. “Yeah. The storm was too bad to drive home in.”
“Hmm.” I can see it in her face. She doesn’t approve. I sense the words on the tip of her tongue, the caution she’s desperate to share. She’s deciding how to deliver it, how to get her point across in the most succinct way. She opens her mouth—
“I’m well aware of all the risks, Mom.”
Her lips twist. “I can’t just sit back and not say something. I know you’re old enough now to make your mistakes. But there’s Brenna to think about, too.”
“I’m always thinking about Brenna.”
“She gets so attached to the men in her life. Have you noticed that?”
“Of course I’ve noticed. She’s my daughter.” Jack, Keith . . . They all fill a gap that she doesn’t even seem to be aware exists yet.
But there’s no use having this conversation with my mom. It’ll only end in an ugly fight. “I’ll be back by eight to pick her up.”
I’m out the door before she has the chance to respond.
“Banquet burger, no pickles!” Leroy hollers.
I grab the plate from the warmer and slide it across the counter to Mark, delivering it with a smile. I know it’s the trucker’s order even without looking. He has the same thing every week when he stops in here.
“How are you doin’ these days, Cath?” He nods toward my wrist. “Looks like you healed up all right?”
“As good as new.” I roll my right hand around to prove it.
Mark chuckles, showing off the wide gap in between his two front teeth as he whacks at the bottom of the ketchup bottle. A dollop slips out to land on his fries. “Things are finally back to normal around here.”
“Finally,” I agree.
Mark pauses. “You seem . . . different.”
“Do I?” I shrug, feigning indifference.
“You still hear from Madden?” he asks, stuffing a fry into his mouth.
“Here and there,” I avert my eyes to wipe up some crumbs. “He’s tied up with charity stuff and other appearances, and getting ready for physical therapy . . .” Richard has been busy keeping Brett’s mind occupied again this week, signing photos and hockey sticks and jerseys, charity stuff. He even lined up a few appearances at schools and kids’ sports team events. Richard may not have an official job, but I’m starting to see that he works harder than any employed man I know.
But even with all that going on, I still get messages from Brett from the moment he wakes up until late into the night.
When I dare look up, Mark is chewing his burger slowly, watching me try to control my expression, the look in his eyes saying he sees right through my bullshit.
I duck my head before the stupid love-struck grin can escape.
“Cath, how many tables do you have?” Lou calls out, her arms loaded with a tray of clean glasses from the kitchen.
“Just three. Two are ready to cash out.” The lunch rush passed by swiftly, leaving me with an aching back and a growling stomach.
She drops the glasses on the counter with a loud clatter. “Why don’t you go and grab some food, then. I’ll close ’em out for you.”
“The order for Table Eighteen will be up any minute.”
Eighteen.
Brett’s number.
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes at myself. What am I, a teenager?
“I’ll bring it out to them. And do me a favor . . . check out the paper while you’re at it.”
“Why?” My eyes are immediately scanning the counter, searching for a copy of the Tribune. They’re all with customers, though.
“Because there’s somethin’ in there I think you need to see.” She gives me a knowing look. “I left a copy for you on my— What on earth?” Lou’s gaze lands somewhere behind me, and she’s scowling. “Is that who I think it is?”
I turn.
And watch DJ Harvey stroll into Diamonds, the chain that dangles from his belt loop swinging with each leisurely step. He’s gained weight and tattoos, and the golden blond hair he used to wear long and somewhat scraggly has been buzzed off, but there’s no mistaking those narrow eyes, that thin-lipped smile, or that swagger.