Stay with Me (Wait for You, #3)(41)

“Yeah, I know, but I’ve been bartending and making money—”

“Bartending? I didn’t know you knew how to bartend.”

I winced. “Well . . .”

There was a scuffling over the phone and then “Hold on, Jase. Goodness, my lips will still be here in five seconds, as will the rest of my body.”

Oh dear. “Uh, I can let you go.”

“No.” Her response was immediate. “Jase can wait.” There was a husky chuckle, and my lips turned up at the corners. Then Teresa said, “I feel like my entire life has been a lie.”

“What?” I blinked as I’d peeked out the front window.

“You. Us. Our life together. There’s so much I don’t know about you.”

I laughed. “There’s not a lot to know.”

“You’re a bartender. I didn’t know that.” There was a pause. “When Jase and I get back from the beach, maybe we can come up and visit.”

My eyes widened. That hadn’t been a question, more like a statement, and I was sure that would be a bad idea, but it wasn’t like I could say no. That would’ve been rude, so I mumbled an okay and then we got off the phone since Jase apparently needed access to her mouth or other parts of her body.

I want to f*ck you.

Oh man, I really needed to stop thinking about that.

I had five minutes to panic over the maybe visit from my friends at an undecided time in the future, before Uncle Clyde showed up randomly. I met him at the door.

“What’s on the list today, baby girl?” he asked, ambling into the house, wearing a Philadelphia Eagles jersey that even on his big frame seemed two sizes too big.

“Um . . .” I’d looked around. Hadn’t known there was a list.

Clyde gave me a toothy grin. “First things first, baby girl. We got to check this house out, top to bottom, and make sure there ain’t any more junk in here.”

Oh.

That was an incredibly good idea. Clyde and I moseyed around the house most of Sunday. Moseying as in searching for more cubbyholes filled with drugs. It was a weird thing to do, but I loved having Clyde around and it was kind of a bonding moment. Like we were repeating history, in this together when it came to dealing with Mom. And Clyde and I had been the ones to deal with her most of my life. It was kind of sad, but it was familiar, and right now, familiar felt good.

We hadn’t found any more drugs, thank the Good Lord for that, and he’d ended up running to the store before it got dark and coming back with the goods to make tacos.

Tacos.

As Clyde had put the hamburger meat on the counter and found a frying pan in the cabinets, I stared at him from the doorway to the kitchen, my lips trembling and my hands pressed together against my chest.

Clyde had been married once. I barely remembered Nettie, his wife, because she had passed away unexpectedly from a brain aneurism when I was six years old and that had been many years ago. At least fifteen years and Clyde had never remarried. I wasn’t even sure if he dated. He’d loved Nettie and some nights, when I’d lived here before, he’d talk about her.

I didn’t think he’d ever gotten over her loss.

But one of the things I remembered him talking about was his and Nettie’s Sunday night ritual—making tacos from scratch. Good tacos. Red and green peppers, sautéed with onions, and smothered in melted cheese and shredded lettuce.

It had also become a Sunday night ritual for Clyde and me, and sometimes when Mom was around and had her head on straight, she’d take part.

I smiled as I watched him unload the bags. This was so familiar, and I had missed this. Missed having someone who felt like family even though they weren’t blood.

In that moment, something came unhinged in my chest. I didn’t get it, but suddenly I was uncomfortable. Not with what was happening now, but what had been happening the last couple of years.

Tears burned the back of my eyes. I didn’t know why. It was dumb. I was back to everything being dumb.

Clyde pulled out a head of lettuce. “You know what to do, baby girl, so get your ass over here and start chopping.”

I dragged myself over to the counter, swallowing back tears. I will not cry. I will not lose control. My cheeks were damp.

“I didn’t pick up that Mexican cheese blend. We are gonna do this from . . . Aw, baby girl.” Clyde put down the block of cheese and twisted his big body toward me. “What are those tears for?” he asked.

Lifting my shoulder, I wiped at my cheeks as I whispered, “I don’t know.”

“Is it your mother?” Those large hands were gentle against my face, his fingers calloused from years of work as they chased after the tears. “Or is it the boys? Kevin and Tommy?”

I sucked in a rattled breath. I never thought about them or that night when the entire world burned in bright oranges and red. Not to be cold or uncaring, but it was too hard to think about them, because I could barely remember what they looked like, but I remembered their coffins, especially Tommy’s. So I refused to even think their names, but their names were cycling over and over again.

“Or is it everything?” he prodded gently.

God, Clyde knew me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I nodded. “Everything.”

“Baby girl,” he’d murmured against the top of my head after he pulled me to him, enveloping me in one of his big bear hugs. “Everything might seem like it’s too big, but it ain’t. You’ve seen and been through worse, baby girl.”