Home > Just Like Home (Bring Me Back #2)

Just Like Home (Bring Me Back #2)
Author: Diana Gardin


Prologue

 

 

Brantley

 

 

Thirteen Years Ago

 

 

Nerves swim in my belly, simultaneous with the kicks and nudges that have become my baseline. It’s when I don’t feel the baby moving that I get worried. But right now, she seems to be performing an entire ballet all by herself in there.

“It’s going to be okay, little bailarina. Mama’s dancing girl.” My words are a whispered coo, the tone I save only for the tiny life growing inside me.

I didn’t pick up much Spanish from the mother who was in and out of my life growing up, but what I lacked learning from her I made up for with classes in school. Maybe I didn’t learn enough about my Cuban culture from my mama, but I soaked up as much as I could from movies, music, and the internet. Just knowing I was half-Cuban made me so curious to know about my roots, but I feared I’d never get to learn much more than I already had.

The car I borrowed from my cousin chugs along a quiet, tree lined parkway. I follow the directions I was given, turning off into a neighborhood called Anchor Bluff. A neighborhood so picturesque and beautiful it takes my breath away.

I wind through vine like streets, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of astute, manor homes set back on manicured lawns. Curved paved driveways, bronze majestic mailboxes. Swaying palm trees for days and days. This neighborhood says more than “We Have Money.” It says, “We Have Pride.”

This Fort Lauderdale neighborhood is such a far cry from the Palm Beach County trailer I grew up in. My throat is suddenly thick with the possibilities this could mean for the little girl currently performing spins in my stomach.

She could have a life here. The kind of life I can’t give her.

Rubbing my belly, I steer the car into the driveway of an understated, Spanish-style home. Tall flocks of palm trees flank the walkways, the paved-stone drive, and dot the pristine front yard. I park my borrowed, beaten-up sedan behind a luxury SUV and stare up at the beautiful double front doors.

My hand grips the car door handle when my cell phone rings. Pulling it out of the canvas bag hoisted on my shoulder, I glance at the screen. My teeth clench together as my stomach bottoms out, and I debate ignoring the call.

But I’ve never been able to shut him out.

“Hello,” I whisper into the receiver.

“Where are you, Brantley?” The abrasive, demanding tone of Brick’s voice startles me in the peaceful ambiance of the neighborhood.

I close my eyes, gripping my phone tightly in my hand. “Brick, I told you. I’m out of town for the day.”

“This is bullshit, baby.” Brick, my boyfriend of over a year, tries to soften his tone. But on a six foot-one, two-hundred pound wall of muscle, it doesn’t thaw very much. “You didn’t tell me where you were going!”

I keep my voice level. It’s the best way to keep Brick calm. “Listen, Brick. I came to meet the adoptive parents of the baby.”

“What the fuck?”

Pulling the phone away from my ear, I wince at the roar that escapes from other end of the line. Then I continue talking, clearly and as quickly as the words will leave me.

“We talked about this, Brick. You and me, we can’t raise a baby. This is the best thing for her. You dropped out of high school. I’m only sixteen. My dad...he won’t even let me come home while I’m pregnant. How do you think I’m going to be able to raise a baby?”

“I swear to fucking God, Brantley, tell me where you are. We aren’t giving up our baby. No fucking way.” Brick’s breathing heavily, and the sound of muffled voices behind him gets fainter.

Then: the unmistakable sound of sirens. The voices around him grow louder again as they begin to shout.

“Brick? Is that the cops? Please tell me that isn’t the cops. What’s going on?”

Brick yells to someone beside him. “Yeah, I’m comin’, shit! Brantley—”

He’s cut off abruptly by the sound of someone yelling right in his ear. “Get in the fucking car, now! Or we’re leaving your ass! This ain’t a fucking game!”

The sirens wail in my ear now, and the unmistakable sound of the police shouting for someone to stop where they are reaches my ears.

“Brick? Brick?” My breath comes fast and hard as I wait for his reply. Instead, the line goes dead.

Not daring to call him back, I stare at the phone in my hand.

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. What do I do now?

Brick has been a lifeline for me. Since my dad kicked me out of his trailer and sent me to stay with my aunt an hour south for the duration of my pregnancy, Brick’s been the only tie to my old life. I’ve been missing everything about Palm Beach County. Not because my life there is so great, but because it’s my life. The only one I know. I’m especially heartsick for my best friend Arden.

Thinking about Arden makes my chest ache. She told me from the beginning that Brick would be no good for me. I fell for him because I can see more to him than the gang tattoos, baggy clothes, and the scowling face. That’s all everyone else sees.

Brick was jumped into one of the prominent Latino South Florida gangs at the age of thirteen, literally beaten to within an inch of his life to gain membership into a brotherhood he felt would protect him from the dangers of our community for the rest of his life. Before that, he had dreams of doing something with his future.

A single tear burns a trail down my cheek. I rub my belly again, this time looking down at where my stomach presses against the steering wheel.

“Listen to me, little bailarina,” I whisper fiercely. “A life as a gang member’s daughter is no life for you, do you hear me? You’re going to do amazing things here. I promise.”

Climbing out of the car, I walk with my belly jutting out and my head held high. Raising a trembling hand, I knock on one of the double front doors.

It opens almost immediately, and I know the woman standing before me must have been watching me sit in my car, waiting for me to approach.

“You must be Brantley,” she says breathlessly. “Thank you so much for coming. Please come inside.”

The statuesque redhead steps back from the door, and I walk self-consciously past her. Suddenly, I’m very aware of the fact that my five-foot-two stands in the shadow of what must be her five-foot eight height. When I’m not pregnant, I’m a size ten on a good day. My chestnut brown hair hangs in waves down my back, and my skin stays tan year round, thanks to my Cuban heritage. This woman looks like she avoids the sun due to delicate Irish skin, and she has deep green eyes that currently drink in my pregnant belly like she might be dying of thirst.

Suddenly, a tall African-American man with dreadlocks appears by her side, draping an arm around her waist. He smiles easily at me, holding out his free hand for me to shake. “Hi, you must be Brantley Hughes. I’m Ethan Hall, and this is my wife, Evelyn.”

Hitching my bag higher on my shoulder, I stick my hand out to shake his. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Turning to his wife, I note that she’s looking me in the eye now. She smiles, and I see the genuine warmth in her gaze. Her whole expression shines with it. There aren’t many people I warm to. It’s a personality trait I’ve learned to trust. But I’m immediately drawn to this woman.

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