Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Silas
Deuce: You look like the King. Not in his glory days. Toward the end.
I grimace, but that makes my head pound harder, so I smooth out my facial muscles.
Me: You haven’t even seen me, dumbass.
Deuce: I saw how much bubbly you drank last night. You have to be looking rough this morning. I’ll stop by with a Bloody Mary.
I catch a glance of myself in the various mirrors hanging in the boutique, the bright lighting overhead spotlighting just how terrible I feel.
The sight of my bloodshot eyes and sallow skin has me turning away in horror.
For a second, I wish I didn’t own this boutique and could call in sick like Betsy did.
That was a fun message to wake up to.
Me: I hate you.
Obviously, that was to Deuce. Not Betsy. I don’t hate her at all, not even after she ran out of the restaurant crying because I told her I loved her. I should have known that wouldn’t go over well. Should have listened to my instincts about her behavior the last week.
But no, I had to barrel ahead, pushing for what I wanted to have happen instead of reading her better. I told myself I was giving her what her ex never did, but really, I wasn’t much better than her ex. I told her what I needed to hear, which doesn’t really serve her at all, now does it?
Now she can’t stand to see me, and I’ve lost not only the woman I love, but the best damn employee that I’ve ever had. One that’s been integral to our recent success.
I shove my phone under the register and rest my elbows on the counter, face in my hands. “Fuck.”
I could probably fall asleep standing up. Probably would be better than the pounding headache and the twisting stomach I have right now. I get exactly three seconds of peace before there’s a knock at the door. Lifting my fuzzy head, I see a woman waving through the glass with a smile on her face.
Shit.
I have a boutique to run.
I straighten up and plaster on a smile to match hers. My feet move and limbs swing in a coordinated manner until I’m at the door, unlocking it and flipping over the sign to open. The little bell over the door rings out, the sound piercing this morning.
“Good morning!” the woman trills. “I saw your shop on Instagram and wanted to check it out. Do you still have those cute cuffed wide-leg jeans?”
I nod, but vow to not do that again when my brain sloshes around my skull. Probably swimming in leftover champagne. “We do,” I manage to croak. I show her the rack of jeans and leave her be to shop.
The bell rings over and over again. Women fill my shop, all rabid for clothing we weren’t sure would sell.
Fitting rooms are constantly full and go-backs aren’t happening.
The ladies are having to manage the fitting room themselves while I man the register.
Questions about sizing and colors and fabrics are thrown over the heads of the customers and I have to answer in a shout from behind the counter.
It’s mayhem. Chaos. Exhausting. Literally the worst day ever to be hung over and not have Betsy to help out at the boutique.
But I’m pretty sure I deserve it.
I don’t take a lunch. By two my stomach is growling and not in an I’m going to puke kind of way, thank God. I shove a protein bar in my mouth and keep going. Pretty sure my sweat smells a bit like champagne. I’m never drinking that vile stuff again.
Five o’clock hits and there’s a lull in the traffic.
I make a beeline for the door and flip the sign to closed, locking the deadbolt.
I know I’m closing an hour early, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
I look around at the half-empty racks, the stacks of go-backs waiting for me outside the fitting rooms, and I have a realization that Mama would be so proud of me.
No, not the hangover or the way I’ve run Betsy away.
But of this boutique. And the fact that I stood strong in the face of the hurricane called my father. I kept making the boutique work even as most people would have expected me to go to work for Dad.
Sadly, though, Mama’s pride in me is overshadowed by everything going on with Betsy. Great, I’ve got a successful boutique, but does that really matter if I don’t have the woman I love in my life any longer?
Because I’m not an idiot. Betsy didn’t just call in sick for today. How can she come back to work for me when I’ve gone and messed everything up? I don’t even blame her for dropping my ass. She asked for no-strings-attached sex and I went and fell in love with her.
There’s a bang on the door while I’m still elbows deep in hanging up go-backs. I crane my neck to see my father on the other side of the glass.
“Really, God?” I grumble toward the ceiling.
Dad sees me and knocks on the glass again, nodding toward the lock. I suck in a fortifying breath and head over there. I let him in, but don’t invite him back. My arms cross over my chest. I’m dead tired and not in the mood to deal with his shit.
“I can’t deal with you today, Dad.”
He’s got that line between his eyebrows, the one that says he’s upset about something I did. I remember growing up learning to watch for that line. If it was present, I knew to steer clear. He holds up both hands, shaking his head.
“I understand. I’m not here for anything other than saying I’m sorry.”
I blink. Surely I heard him wrong. Never in the history of ever have I heard my father apologize to me.
“Come again?”
His hands drop to his sides. His gaze skitters to the right, almost like he’s suddenly obsessed with the striped knit dress on the mannequin.
“I was wrong to put that pressure on you. About closing the boutique and working for me. I see that now.”
I scrub both hands over my face. “I’m a bit lost. You see that now?”
“I spent some time chatting with Rich after we spoke at the Battle of the Boutiques.” Dad’s gaze comes back to mine and I see something in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. Humility. Apology. “If this is what you want, I’ll try to back you on it.”
I’m suspicious, but too hopeful to throw his apology in his face. “I would appreciate that.”
Dad rubs his hand across his chin. Over and over. It’s a full minute before he speaks again, and when he does, his voice is the softest I’ve ever heard it.
“You know, I’ve always hated this boutique because of what it stands for.”
Now I’m even more lost.
He sighs. “Your mother opened this place as a way to have something to do after she found out I cheated on her.”
My head snaps back and the headache resurges. “What?”
Dad nods. “I cheated on your mother. I’m not proud of that, of course, and it was something that took awhile for us to work through.
” His gaze comes back to mine. “Your mama and I did work it out. We were good when she got sick. But she kept the boutique anyway. Said she’d never be beholden to any man again.
I messed up, son. I hurt my wife and I think about my failure every time I see this boutique. ”
I’m shocked. Appalled. And maybe just a little bit more understanding of where my father’s been coming from with wanting to shut this boutique down.
Not that I’ll ever let him do that now. Not when I know now what he did to my sweet mother.
How much this boutique meant to her. It was her lifeline and it’s become mine too.
“I see my beautiful mother every time I step inside this boutique.”
Dad slowly nods his head. “I’m glad you do.”
He holds his hand out between us. I glance at it, remembering how much I used to look up to this capable man. How big and strong and capable his hands were when I was just a little kid. I used to think there wasn’t anything my father couldn’t do. I know better now.
I slide my hand into his and we shake, sealing the past where it belongs.
I don’t shake his hand to excuse what he did to my mother or the vile things he’s said or done to me, but in hopes of a better relationship in the future.
An understanding that while I love my father, I don’t particularly like him.
And that’s okay. I didn’t get to choose my father, obviously, but I’m choosing to continue a relationship with him as long as he respects me in return.
On the way home, I stop to pick up the greasiest fast food Heaven, Mississippi, offers. Nothing better for a hangover and heartache than fried food and an ice-cold Coke to wash it down.
My brain is swirling with all kinds of things while I eat at my dining table all alone.
Betsy, my father, and how my mother must have felt finding out her husband of forty-some years had strayed.
I wish she would have talked to me about it when she was still alive.
I understand why she didn’t though. She was always the peacekeeper, constantly running interference to keep all of us happy.
An invisible job that we took for granted.
She had to die for the emotional patchwork to fall away.
Only then could we see how many cracks lined the container of our family unit.
“I see you, Mama.” It’s spoken way too late, but I hope somehow, some way, she can still hear me.
I also think about Harp and Hemline. The way it gave my mother a lifeline. Purpose. A sense of independence that had nothing to do with a man.
The fried food is now sitting in my gut like a brick. Combined with the champagne from last night, I feel disgusting. I used to be able to handle a night like that in my college years, but I swear things are different when you hit forty.
I throw on running gear and head outside. It’s hotter than blazes out here still, but I still have a bottle or two of champagne to sweat out. I get a mile in when an idea hits me. I slow to a walk and end up turning right around.
A woman needs something not tied to a man.
Just like Mama needed.
I bet Betsy needs that too.
Her ex broke up with her, kicked her out of the apartment they lived in together, and she had no one to turn to. She told me she slept in her car.
Jesus.
With renewed energy I pick up the pace and sprint home.
I bound up the porch stairs, whip open the door, and make a beeline for my checkbook.
A quick check of my business bank account balance on my phone and I know I can execute on my plan.
Thank God we’ve had incredible sales the last week.
I won’t be able to make my mortgage payment this month, but this is more important.
My hand is shaking as I write out the check.
I’m almost out the door when I catch a whiff of myself.
I double back and hit the shower first. Then I head for Betsy’s house, cobwebs in my brain cleared out.
I don’t know if she’s home, but that’s not my plan anyway.
This is about giving Betsy the freedom my mother was seeking.
Giving Betsy what she’s rightfully earned. Addressing her needs, not mine.
I take the envelope that contains the ten-thousand-dollar check written out in Betsy’s name and place it under the welcome mat.
Hopefully she’ll read the handwritten note inside, the one that has my apology for pushing her.
For not listening to what she said she was capable of.
And an offer to never see me again if that’s what she prefers.
I shoot her a text when I get back in the truck.
Me: Hey, storm cloud. Check your welcome mat.
I put my phone back in my pocket and drive home, hoping my gesture is what she needs.
I just want her to be happy.
Even if it’s not with me.