Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(85)

“Oh, yeah.” I rub a hand over my stubble as I recall his daughter, a cute little blond who was way more curious than her daddy could have imagined at eleven years old. A swat of my mama’s dish towel against my ass has me dropping the memory quickly.

I watch her with fondness as she rinses the plates off and slides them into her dishwasher. I got away with a lot more than I probably should have growing up but when Mama put her foot down, I always listened. Hearing bits and pieces of Reese’s childhood and that sad excuse for a mother only solidifies how good I had it.

When Rob phoned to tell me that Mama had had a heart attack in the middle of his kitchen, I was in my car and driving nineteen hours straight to Chicago without stopping, my own chest ready to explode from fear the entire way. With it being Easter weekend, there weren’t any available flights until the following day and I wasn’t willing to wait. Thank God she was okay.

Minor as it was, she didn’t escape unscathed. I can see it now. She’s aged a lot since, moving slower, the lines on her face more prominent. “How are things going here, Mom? Honestly.” Between me being tied up with school, then the bar exam, and now the new job, she has refused to shed much light on the situation. She doesn’t like putting the stress of the place on me. The problem is, it’s already on me. Aside from her, I’m the only one here.

With a deep inhale, she starts scraping the scraps off the plates. “It’s a lot for just me, Ben. I’m only fifty-one but I’m feeling so much older lately. Too old to be worrying about money, wandering around out there checking trees for disease, and dealing with drought and pesticides.” There’s resignation in her voice that I’ve never heard before. I have to wonder how different it would be if she had a decent man to share the load with.

“Have you talked to Rob and the others? What do they say?”

Her mouth twists with sadness. “Same thing they always say: sell it and leave your father.”

“And?”

“What do you mean, ‘and’?” A hint of irritation spikes in her voice now. “This place is my life. The Bernard family’s life! I can’t sell it.”

“I know, Mama.” She’d be miserable anywhere but here. “But he . . .”

“You know what my answer is. It’s the same as it’s always been: for better or worse. That’s what I signed up for.”

“Yeah, but does better or worse—”

“Leave it be, Benjamin. It’s my decision. It’s my business.”

Something Reese said has stuck with me. “Are you happy with never having a Christmas under your roof with your kids? Your grandkids? We haven’t all been together here in eight years, Mama! And it’s all because of him!”

She sniffs, and I see the pain poorly veiled. “I’m trying my best. I still see them.”

“Yeah, you just have to go to Chicago to do it. No holidays, no birthdays.” I set the plates down on the table—the table that he made—and lean against it, my fists starting to hurt against the solid wood. I take a calming breath. “Your friends don’t even come around anymore. Walking into this house is plain depressing.” Her silence unnerves me. Though I don’t mean to, my voice begins to rise. “There’s like a thick f*cking cloud of—”

“Watch your language with me, Benjamin,” she cuts me off, her tone sharp.

“Sorry, Mama. I just . . .” I groan loudly. “I don’t get it! I’ve tried, but I don’t get it.”

“Marriage is forever, Ben.”

“Yeah. A death sentence, apparently.”

A throat clearing turns both of us toward the entryway where Reese stands, holding up a set of owl shakers. “Should these stay in the dining room or come in here?”

“In here, dear. Thank you.” My mom quickly collects them from her hand, slightly flustered. “Ben told me key lime is your favorite, so I made one this afternoon. I hope it’s up to par.”

Reese accepts the plate, leveling me with a wicked smile. “I’m sure it’ll be the best I’ve ever had.”

I’m either getting laid again or slaughtered tonight.

It’s definitely one of those two.





Chapter 27




REESE





I’m too smart for Ben.

He’s so easily distracted. When I handed him my empty plate after devouring the pie Wilma made—which was delicious; limes and I may have found a common ground—and slid my free hand into his pocket, he assumed it was a prelude to later, grinning down at me slyly. How he missed my true intention—taking the set of keys in his pocket that I saw him deposit there earlier—I’ll never know.

And now I’m out the front door and darting across the front lawn, intent on getting the engine started on that dune buggy before Ben catches up to me. I know it’s childish, but just picturing Ben laughing as he chases me down makes me feel better.

I’ve only ever seen one side of Ben—the playful, easygoing guy who’s unruffled by anything and confident as all get-out. I didn’t realize how much I’d come to appreciate that consistency until it was disrupted by an argument with Wilma. I don’t know what they were arguing about but when Ben’s voice started rise, I was desperate to interrupt it. Hence the lame owl salt shaker excuse.