Sweet Forty-Two(50)

And hated it. Because it wouldn’t last long. Late night freak-outs and phone calls, middle of the night trips to talk her off the ledge ... that was all around the corner since my mother was checking herself out of Breezy Pointe this morning.

CJ was right. I needed to confide this to someone, and Regan was the best candidate. I’d have a lot of talking to do to get him caught up, but I was willing to forge through that discomfort in order to get to a place of peace about the situation. I needed someone.

Taking a deep breath as I frosted the last of my let’s talk about my problems cupcakes, I heard a tentative knock on the kitchen door. I don’t know when Regan got in, but I recalled seeing his car in the driveway sometime after dawn. Maybe the smell woke him. Given the last time we were together I told him to get over his dead girlfriend, I understood his hesitance in approaching me. I needed to apologize for that, too.

“Come in,” I chirped, trying to sound a lot more awake than I felt.

Just as I suspected, Regan opened the door and slid through, leaving it cracked. He looked a little grey, and I chalked it up to exhaustion.

“Morning. Sorry if I woke you. Look, I’m sorry if I upset you last week when we talked, so,” I held up a plate of chocolate and vanilla frosted cupcakes, “here. A peace offering. And, I was hoping we could—”

Regan put up his hand. “Wait.”

I swallowed hard, his quietly harsh voice drying out my throat. “What?”

“Someone was looking for you upstairs. I told them I’d check to see if you were down here.”

It wasn’t what he said, but how he said it that sent my heart on the erratic flight pattern of a bat.

“Just send them—”

He opened the door the rest of the way, and there she was. My mom. Checked out of Breezy Pointe and standing next to one of the most decent guys I knew. One who knew nothing about her, most notably her alive status. My eyes flicked back and forth between hers and his, both sets filled with questions. Too many. I had answers for every one of them, but was running out of time as Regan folded his arms across his chest.

“Regan, I can—”

He pulled his head back. “Explain? No need. This is your mom, right? It’s all good. I was going to your place to ask if I could have that envelope you were holding for me.” His tone was flat. Cold.

“Just give me a minute. Um ... Mom, can you give us a sec?”

My mom’s eyes had been busy scanning the dining part of the bakery. She hadn’t been by since I completed it. Her face was red with impending tears as she faced me. “Sure. Um...”

“Just, here, take this plate of muffins and go to a table, all right?”

As if choreographed by the biggest * in history, my mother and Regan moved at once, and in almost slow motion. She walked cautiously into the seating area, still taking in the decor, and he turned and made his way up the stairs without a word.

I took a deep breath before going after Regan, not sure what I was going to say since I’d never chased after anyone in my entire life. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I realized what a chase it really would be, as he was taking the stairs two at a time in a slow, forceful motion with his hands in his pockets.

“Regan,” I called, out of breath as I raced up the stairs.

He stood far enough away from my door that I could unlock it. “Just give me the letter, Georgia.”

“I’m sorry. I need to explain about my mom. It’s complicated.”

“No, no. It’s fine. You never actually told me your mother was dead. You just said she was gone. And never talked about her. And looked depressed every time I saw you, leading me to believe that you had a string of horrible luck, like Bo.”

My cheeks heated in anger and guilt. “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I was going to tell you. I called CJ and he said—”

“Yeah. You were going to tell me. You know what, Georgia? I was going to tell someone a lot of things. Now I can’t ever again. Can I have my goddamn mail please?”

My chin shook as I nodded, tears clouding my vision. He was hurt, and thought he could trust me, and I screwed it up. I was too late to help.

Story of my life.

Regan didn’t enter the apartment, choosing instead to stand in the doorway with his arms at his sides. I rummaged through the backpack on my couch, and pulled out the large manila envelope, feeling around to make sure the square card was still inside.

I cleared my throat in hopes that it would stop the tears. It sort of worked, but I had to walk half-blind back to the door, refusing to blink.

“Here,” I whispered. “Just please don’t do anything stupid with it, okay? I can tell how much it means to you.”

Regan huffed as he took the envelope from me. “Honesty means a lot to me, Georgia. I trusted you. Even when you were harsh in telling me that I needed to get over Rae, and sew myself up, and all that shit? I heard you. I was processing it. I trusted that you knew what you were talking about—that you’d been all the way through something.”

“I have,” I cut in.

He held his hands out, never raising his voice. “How can I believe that? You tell me you’re not hooking up with all of those guys from the bar, but you’re never home after your shift. You tell me you don’t have time for the bakery, but as far as I know, the bar is your only job and, come on, we both know this place could make you a hell of a lot more money than selling glimpses of your skin for tips.”