Three years in, she bailed for some half-ass wannabe musician. So for seven years, I was alone, barely scraping by with tips I earned as a bartender and my multiple side jobs. I made more shitty decisions than I care to admit to, from too much alcohol to losing myself in pain meds I’d bought off my roommate.
I have worked nearly every service job imaginable, but nothing compares to that last job I took. It led to me tucking my tail and running back here.
I’d been hired to remodel the kitchen of an upscale beach house. A married couple who wanted final touches on their retirement home before the husband sent in his paperwork and left a numbers job.
Everything had been perfect. The wife made it clear what she wanted out of the remodel, and I worked my ass off to give it to them. Only, when it was all said and done, I discovered it wasn’t just my work she was interested in.
She bought me lavish gifts—an expensive watch, an iPad, a fucking bottle of hundred-year-old scotch—and I finally gave in. We’d been nearly naked when her husband came home, and she crammed me into the closet.
I can still remember my shame as I overheard their conversation, him telling her how much he loved her, how excited he was to spend more time with her, and there I was, dick out, in their closet. Horrible memories of leaving the hospital after visiting with my mom, walking in on my dad—the realization that I’d become the man I despise most in this world was enough of a shock to send my ass back home where I belong.
Coming home is my way of proving to myself that I’m not a pill popper, an alcoholic, and most of all, I’m not him. I’m not a man who sleeps with married women. It’s my attempt at recovering the pieces of myself I lost. Because I recognized that that’s what I was: lost.
Hell, maybe I’ve been lost since the day we buried my mom. The death of the woman who’d grounded me sent me spiraling long before I told my best friend she was nothing to me and walked away without a backward glance.
I push open the door at the top of the stairs and walk into what will be my apartment. The studio room will be large enough for a queen-sized bed I already have on order, as well as a small kitchenette where I am determined to teach myself how to cook.
Plastic sheets cover the original hardwood floors I’d uncovered when I’d ripped up the linoleum—a crime, if you ask me. The borrowed paint sprayer sits in the corner, three gallons of muted gray beside it.
If all goes well, my apartment will be ready within the next week, and honestly, I’m tempted to move that up.
Anything to get me away from Macey because each moment I’m around her, more pain from my past surfaces, and I’m not sure how much I can take before I slip back into old habits I’d rather avoid.
I’m just not that fucking strong.
Macey
I flop back onto the couch, my body aching from hours of scrubbing every nook and cranny of Gram’s.
Not that the place had been overly dirty, but if I’m planning on pouring days of my life into turning the place into somewhere high-end enough to draw a large profit, I needed to see exactly what was surface and what was more serious.
First order of business is the two burners on the stove that are no longer operational. I’m not even entirely sure how Keith managed without them.
On top of those, the refrigerator is making a funny noise, and we could use new menus. Basically, I have a lot to do on a minimal budget. And by minimal, I mean non-existent. According to Gram’s books, her sales have been dwindling since Ramone’s opened a town over.
The door opens, and my dad rolls in. I smile before I see who’s walking in behind him. Lincoln.
“Hey, Macey bear. How’d things go at the restaurant?”
“Fine,” I lie. The last thing I want is Lincoln in my family’s personal business. Any more so than he already is.
“So you fixed those two broken burners?” Lincoln asks sweetly, and I glare at him.
“Not yet, but I’ll be hiring it out tomorrow.”
“No need. It’s on my to-do list.” He walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge, pulling out a soda for him and handing a beer to my dad.
“Lincoln’s been our Mr. Fix It,” my dad explains, and I roll my eyes.
“If that’s the case, then why aren’t they fixed already?”
“Your gram hasn’t let me touch the kitchen. She says I’m bad luck.”
My dad chuckles. “You know your gram. She said she had a system, and there was no need to mess with it.”
“Then why fix them now?” I ask. “If Gram didn’t think you could do it—”
“Macey,” my dad says, his tone a warning I’m more than used to by now. “You know your gram. She’s as stubborn as they come. You and I both know that café needs some work, and with her running it, well, let’s just say she’s old school.”
I know he’s right, my gram’s ‘don’t fix it if it ain’t fully broken’ logic having been ingrained in my brain ever since I was a kid. But the restaurant will go under if things aren’t running at tip-top shape. Especially when it has a restaurant like Ramone’s competing for customers.
Still, none of that means I want Lincoln around any more than he has to be. “I’ll get it taken care of,” I say. “I’ll be calling Emmit’s shop tomorrow and having someone come out to fix it.”
I don’t miss the look my dad gives Lincoln, nor do I care. I’m running things now, so that’s that. I don’t need Lincoln, and I’d rather take out a personal loan to pay someone else than have to stare at his smug face a moment more than is absolutely necessary.
“Whatever you think is best, Macey.” My dad sighs and rolls himself across the tile and into the dining room.
“I’m going to go grab a shower,” Lincoln announces as he downs the rest of his Coke.
I watch him retreat and try my hardest to not think about his muscled body—wet and soapy—in the same shower I am planning to use later.
“What do you want for dinner?” I ask my dad as soon as Lincoln is out of earshot.
“I have some frozen TV dinners,” he tells me, and I can’t hide the disgust on my face.
“Absolutely not.” I get to my feet and walk into the kitchen. Pulling open the refrigerator, I get a front-row seat to the crap the two most important people in my life have been eating.
A block of moldy cheese and two apples are all that’s inside, and I turn to gape at my dad. “Seriously? Gram is a chef, and this is what you have?”
My dad sighs, and I see the embarrassment in the way his cheeks flush. “Honey, neither of us is as young as we used to be. And with Gram working all day, she doesn’t have the energy to come home and cook.” He sighs and runs both hands over his face. “And honestly, the restaurant isn’t doing so well at the moment. She barely has the funds to keep the doors open. TV dinners are about the best we’ve got.”
After seeing her books, I know the truth behind his words. Still, I want to cry.
To scream.
To beat my fists on the wall.
They deserve better. When the accident took my dad’s legs and my mom bailed, I promised myself I would always look after him. That I would take on the role of caregiver and ensure he always had food to eat.