Sweet Forty-Two (20 page)

“You know I wouldn’t.”

“I know. See you the day after tomorrow. Hooray for a day off, huh?”

I agreed. The schedule had been taxing on all of us, it seemed.

I barely remember the drive back to my place, because I was so focused on just keeping my eyes opened. I needed sleep. Badly. Also, I needed some time to think about what to do about that letter.

When I pulled into the driveway at my place, it was a little after five in the morning, and I saw a light on in the bakery kitchen. The door was locked, of course, but I could see Georgia dancing along to music coming from her earbuds.

Her hair was tied up in the same bright red bandana that she’d worn the day we first met. She had on black yoga pants, an item I became familiar with during my time with people who actually practiced yoga, and a black and white plaid shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

She looked happy. I couldn’t see her face, but the airy movements of her hands as she poured ingredients into the large stand mixer suggested peace over angst. And, since I was doused in personal torment, I decided to leave her alone. She didn’t use the bakery that much, for reasons that were still unclear, but what
was
clear was that it seemed to be a happy place for her. An escape. From what, I had no idea. Maybe from her dead parents? I knew her dad died recently, but had no idea what happened to her mom. The only time I tried to bring it up, her muscles froze before she told me she was just ... gone.

My eyes lingered on the slow motion of her hips for a few minutes more, until I felt my eyelids getting heavy. I wanted to knock on the door until she heard me, to wrap my arms around her body and, moreover, have her wrap hers around mine.

I needed to be hugged. Held. Told it was all going to be okay.

I needed to be loved again.

Sew yourself up if it
’
s gone, Regan. That
’
s the only way you
’
ll move on. If you want to move on.

Georgia’s words from the week before echoed in through my ears as I trudged up the stairs and heaved myself onto my bed.

I wanted to move on, but was unsure if I’d be able to do that without reading that card. I fell slowly asleep, dreaming of Rae’s laughter, Georgia’s eyes, and the smell of cupcakes.

I slept through sunrise, my eyes peeling open around ten. In my sleep, it seemed I’d decided I’d get Rae’s card back from Georgia, because the second my feet hit the floor, I slogged through my apartment, destined for hers.

I had to move on. It turned out that saying goodbye to Rae wasn’t reserved for just the funeral. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye then. But, I was getting there now.

Opening my door, I was startled by a petite woman with shoulder length brown hair who was knocking on Georgia’s door. She turned around when she heard me, and the startle didn’t stop there. She had a smile so similar to Georgia’s, it made me almost uncomfortable to stare at it. I looked around, feeling out of sorts.

“Do you live here?” she asked in a soft voice.

I nodded.

“Do you know where Georgia is, by any chance?”

I took a deep breath, not sure how to answer that since I never knew where she was unless she was at E’s. As I inhaled, though, I smelled freshly baked goodness. I was briefly concerned, adding up that she’d been in the kitchen for more than six hours.

“Smells like she’s in the bakery.” I smiled, and the woman’s eyes widened as she smiled even bigger. I continued, “I can take you down there. She usually locks the door. But ... can I ask who you are?”

The smile left her face as she looked to the ground, almost confused. When she looked back up, there was a vacant sadness in her eyes.

“I’m her mother.”

So, there I stood. Six inches away from Georgia’s dead mother.

Six hours later, and surrounded by more gluten-free muffins, brownies, and cupcakes than I knew what to rationally do with, I finally felt tired. Twice in a week being in this kitchen was a lot lately, and I loved how good I felt after several hours of work.

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 asshole 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.”

I ground my back teeth together, reminding myself he was speaking from a place of anger and pain, but it still pissed me off.

“You never give me a clear answer. There’s not one complete story I can remember about you. And, CJ’s no help. He just tells me to watch out for you. Who the hell am I watching out for? It’s all like mismatched puzzle pieces I’m expected to just put together without any questions.”

The frustration on his face highlighted every person I’d ever pushed away in my life. In order to protect them, I thought. Regan’s eyes, though, looked anything but protected.

“Can you just ... hear me out for a second?” I grabbed the fabric of my apron, twisting it around my hands.

Regan shook his head and lifted the envelope. “I’ve got some wounds to go sew up. Right after they’re torn the fuck open.”

With that he vacated my doorframe and left out the back door. His footsteps clomped angrily down the stairs, and I didn’t move until I heard his car start and the sound of the engine fade into the distance.

“Georgia?”

I jumped, her voice still out of place here. Turning around, I found my mom halfway up the stairs.

“How much did you hear?” I asked, crossing my arms over my stomach to prevent my guts from spilling out in front of her.

She closed her eyes, clearing her throat before ascending the rest of the way. “It wasn’t what I heard, Georgia. It’s what I saw.”

“I don’t have time for riddles today, Mom.” I sighed, fighting tears with what little fight I had left in my body.

She shook her head, a small, faraway smile on her face. “It’s what I saw when I told him I was your mother. He was confused, and, honestly, looked hurt. It was the perverse, horrified shock on your face when you saw the two of us standing in the doorway together. Did you tell him I was dead, like you told all of your high school friends?”

I pursed my lips, the last line of defense against my tears. “Mom...”

“Sweetie.” She tentatively reached up and tucked some hair behind my ear. I let her.

“I didn’t tell him you were dead. But—”

“You didn’t exactly tell him I was alive and kicking.”

“I hadn’t gotten there yet. He’s CJ’s cousin. Remember my friend CJ from the Cape?”

“Ah yes,” my mother smiled, scanning her memory by looking at the ceiling, “the underage boy who your father let play the drums at
Dunes
?”

I chuckled. “That’s the one, though we’re well past underage now.”

“And he lives next door?”

I nodded.

She took a breath. “Go.”

“What?”

“Go, Georgia. Go be honest with him.”