Chapter 20 – Leo
TWENTY
LEO
I’m having my morning coffee on the back patio, the pavers now weeded, and at least half of them moved, reset, and leveled with the help of Willa.
It’s been almost two weeks since she started coming to help me out with house projects, and even though she originally said it was because everyone else was out of town, both Adam and Wren and Hallie and Jesse have returned from their own summer trips, and she’s still here every day to help out.
For the most part, I’ve managed to keep us outside and keep my distance while she’s here.
After painting the walls inside for two days in a row, I realized being indoors was a terrible, terrible fucking idea.
I would consider myself to have pretty good willpower, but in close quarters where I couldn’t ignore her, where I could smell her sweet perfume lingering long after she left for the night, there are too many opportunities to brush an arm against her, and too many opportunities to envision her sharing this space with me in a very, very different way.
An inappropriate way.
A way that never, ever could happen, even if with each passing day, I find myself wondering why not?
For that reason, outside is safer. So much safer, especially when I can take intentional steps to be on the opposite side of the yard from her, or when I use loud power tools like the lawn mower or the weed whacker, making conversation impossible.
It helps that Willa seems to enjoy being outside, clearing out the garden beds and planting the dozens of plants she’s helped me pick out.
Two days ago, she moved on to one of the overgrown areas along the fence line, weeding and clearing what was once a garden, but looked like nothing of the sort.
She told me she had a vision for a flower wall, naming some flower that would creep up the fence, though the name went in one ear and out the other as soon as she said it.
I agreed instantly because when she spoke of white, fragrant flowers and green vines along the fence, her entire face lit up with excitement, and there was no way I was going to say no and wipe that look from her face.
Unfortunately, as I sit outside, I watch a dark cloud roll in from the west and realize today might be the day the plan fails.
I’m lost in that thought and trying to think of what to do if we’re stuck inside, where I can stay as far from her as possible, when my phone rings.
My stomach tenses at the instant worry that it’s a call from Jefferson.
It’s been this way for weeks, and the mere fact that this is my instinct each time my phone rings—fearing it will lead to another conversation with Jefferson—is further confirmation that my exit plan is a necessary thing.
But more concerning, as of last week, every time I get any kind of communication from Jefferson, a brand-new worry sets in—worry that it will be the call confirming the start date for Willa’s next relationship.
At first, I convinced myself that the gnawing pit in my stomach was a signal that my peaceful retreat was ending.
But more and more, I realize it’s because it will also signal the end of Willa’s peaceful retreat, and with the way the color and joy that’s slowly been leaving her over the years has returned to her face, I want to draw it out as long as I can.
Relief racks through me when I see that it’s my mom.
“Hey, Mom,” I say when I answer, and an exaggerated gasp comes over the line.
“Is that Leo? Leo, is it really you? I thought you were lost at sea, gone forever!” she says. “My baby boy is alive! I should call the papers!” My mom has always had a flair for dramatics, something my dad was both annoyed by and deeply adored.
“Okay, okay, I get it,” I say with a shake of my head.
“I’m sorry, I just never thought I would ever actually hear your voice again.
I was preparing to send a carrier pigeon, but I wouldn’t even know where to send it since you haven’t given me your new address,” she says, accusation in the tone.
Despite that, I close my eyes, shaking my head and smiling.
This is my mom in all her chaos, and even though she drives me up a wall, I know she loves me more than anything, and there’s something familiar and nostalgic about her pestering.
For a moment, I wonder if maybe that’s why I’ve been enjoying someone else’s brand of pestering lately.
Maybe it’s a sick and twisted family trait.
“I haven’t given you my address because the place I bought is a dump. I knew if I gave you the address, there was a not-small chance you’d show up at my front door randomly one day, and I don’t even have anywhere for you to stay yet. I want you to see it when it’s done.”
“Or maybe you just hate your dear mom,” she says, but I ignore that, continuing on with my explanation, a smile on my lips.
“And even more, I am sure you do know where I live, since I guarantee you had Uncle Tino check the MLS when I bought the place, and he gave you the listing. I’m sure you and Aunt Kate were combing through the online listing, hemming and hawing about all of the problems.”
Silence fills the line before she sighs.
“I was just curious!”
I laugh and shake my head. Although I’ve been out of the house for years and years, some things never change, and my mom’s need to be in my business is one of them. Thankfully, these days she does it from afar. “So what you’re telling me is you’re never gonna let me see this place for yours?”
‘There’s no guest room yet, Mom. But I’m working on it. I’m thinking you could come here for the holidays.”
“The holidays? Like these holidays? The photos I saw looked like at least a year of work, if you were doing it alone.” And she would know, since she still works for my dad’s company, scheduling the jobs.
She never liked to get her hands dirty with the work, no matter how much my dad teased her about it, but she was always great with the business side.
I hesitate to answer, knowing that if I say what I want, it means she will never be off my ass.
For some reason, I find myself saying it anyway.
“I’ve had some help,” I say. “So I might be able to get things moving a bit faster. Some of the guys who live up here have been pitching in, and one of my clients is actually here for the summer, so she’s been helping a lot.”
“She?” Mom says, picking up on only one word, inevitably.
“Mom,” I say, though I know the warning falls on deaf ears.
“Please tell me it’s Willa,” she says.
“What? Why?”
“Because you two have been toeing around one another every single time I go to one of those events with you.”
I let out a loud laugh, shaking my head.
“No, we have not,” I say, though she’s been to enough events as my date, always so excited to see the glitz and glam, that she’s seen Willa and me in the same room more than enough times over the years.
“You have! Every time she’s there, you always have an eye on her, know what she’s doing, anticipating what she might need.”
“I do that for all of my clients,” I argue, something I’ve always argued internally, but something that, lately, I’m wondering if it was really some kind of justification, some excuse I didn’t want to look too closely at.
“You don’t do it for those boys of yours,” she says, and I know she means the members of Atlas Oaks. A classic suburban mom to her core, Mom treats anyone she deems a friend of mine as if they’re just a neighborhood kid, even if they’re multi-platinum rock stars.
“It’s not the same, and you know it. The media is harder and far less forgiving on her than they are on the band,” I say, though the excuse feels hollow. “Anyway, yes, it’s Willa, but don’t get your hopes up. We have a strictly professional relationship.”
“Sure, you do,” she says, and that single word tells me all I need to know.
I open my mouth to argue, to continue to tell her that it’s not the case, that she needs to nip whatever idea she’s stirred up in her mind, but before I can, she’s speaking again and throwing me back when she does.
“You sound happy,” she says. “You sound…at peace.”
I don’t miss the surprise or the relief in her voice.
I tip my head back to take in the trees of my yard, and I sink into the chair once more, bringing my coffee to my lips for a small sip. “I am.”
Time passes, though it’s not uncomfortable, before she speaks again.
“I worried, you know. About you. Heading down the path you were. I’d seen it once before, and I’ve been worried.
” She doesn’t know about my health scare, doesn’t know that for a moment, I also thought that I was headed down that path, and it’s what pulled me back, and right now, I’m glad she doesn’t.
I’m glad I didn’t add any more stress to her plate.
“But you seem better. Healthier. You sound like you’re balancing better. I hope you can hold onto that.”
“I’m…I’m trying,” I admit. “I’m well aware that dad worked like crazy when I was a kid, and we both know how that ended.”
“Stubborn man just like you, worked himself to the grave.” I smile at her familiar refrain, still annoyed by my dad in death, as was their way.
“He wouldn’t want you to make that same mistake.
He’d want you to choose happiness.” That knife twists in my chest, but before I can respond, she continues.
“I’m proud of you and all you’ve accomplished with your career, Leo, but it’s not all there is in life.
You can have all the success in the world, but what does it matter if you don’t have anyone to share it with?
” Her words echo the ones I thought that day in the ambulance, but again, I keep that to myself.