But he made me recognize that something had to change. I couldn’t keep going to work, pulling sixty-hour weeks, and using nannies and babysitters to deal with the fallout Catherine had left behind.
In order for us to heal, we had to do it together.
I was all they had left.
They were all I had left.
Well, them and the acidic anger eating me away from the inside out.
I’d become a shell of the man who’d once smiled because it felt natural and laughed because everything held humor if you looked close enough.
That had all died with Catherine.
She’d ruined me.
And, worse, she’d ruined our children too.
The pain I’d felt when my son had looked up at me the day of his mother’s funeral and asked, “Who’s going to take care of me now?” had shattered me.
Hate and despair fused within me, plunging me into the darkness. I lost my job after I’d punched my boss when he’d dared to insinuate that I needed to take a few days off. And then it was just me and the kids functioning without feeling.
After Catherine, the world wasn’t such a beautiful place anymore. It was sick and tainted, sucking the life out of me with every passing day.
Despite how isolating those first few months felt, I wasn’t struggling alone. I had an amazing family who rallied around me and the kids.
Tanner was a lot of things: arrogant, obnoxious, irresponsible.
But he was also my little brother.
As a world-renowned chef, complete with his own show on The Food Channel, he stayed busier than I could ever imagine. But, when I found myself on my knees at the mercy of the universe, he stepped up in a big way.
He proposed that I partner with him to start a restaurant. As the head of the business side of the house, I would be allowed the freedom to make my own schedule and, if need be, bring the kids to work with me.
While it sounded like an appealing offer, I laughed at him. I could barely scramble eggs. What the hell did I know about starting a restaurant? But he assured me he knew what he was doing.
It was a huge fucking lie.
He’d vastly underestimated all the things that happened outside the kitchen.
Payroll? Staffing? Marketing? Customer service?
We were in way over our heads, but we were the Reese brothers, so we buckled down and forged ahead—fighting with each other every step of the way.
Christ, Tanner and I didn’t agree on anything. That had been the case for most of our lives, and I had no clue why we’d thought working together would be any different.
And, trust me, it wasn’t.
During one of our early conversations, he’d specifically told me that he wanted something casual. To me, that meant burgers and fries he could spice up with some of his signature flares. So, one weekend, while he was gallivanting in New York, rubbing elbows with the likes of Bobby Flay and Wolfgang Puck, I did some preliminary planning. Hand on the Bible, I thought he was going to have a stroke when I showed him my Trapper Keeper (the only true way to organize). He balked at the location I’d picked, laughed at the proposed ambiance, and appeared downright offended by my suggested price point.
So we did what any two men in our early thirties would do to solve a disagreement. We built a Ninja Warrior course in the backyard and competed against each other, the victor earning the right to make the final decisions on everything from the menu to the table decor. I’d like to note that it was a hell of a lot safer than the bareknuckle cage match he’d first proposed.
Smiling, I was lost in fond memories of my come-from-behind victory the day we’d named the restaurant when my cell phone started ringing. Wedging the office phone between my shoulder and my ear, I began patting down the stacks of papers strewn haphazardly across my desk. A cup of pens fell off the side, scattering over the floor during my search, but I finally found my cell hiding between an empty to-go container and one of Hannah’s Barbie dolls.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Reese?”
“This is he.”
“This is Harvey from Total Electric—”
Just then, I heard the same question in my other ear. “Mr. Reese?”
I pivoted the cell away from my mouth and spoke into the office line. “Yes! I’m here.”
“Sorry about your wait. It’ll be just a minute longer,” she said.
My shoulders fell. I’d been on hold with the doctor’s office so often over the last week that I’d memorized the majority of their mind-numbing hold music. Trust me, no one had the space in their brains to store the jazz instrumental versions of the Jackson Five. But, if I could get Travis an appointment with Dr. Mills, it could have become the soundtrack of my life, for all I cared.
“No problem,” I replied with reluctance.
“Fantastic!” Harvey exclaimed. “We’ll get this scheduled for next week.”
I swung my cell back down to my mouth. “Wait. What the hell are you talking about?” I barked at Harvey.
“Excuse me?” the woman in my other ear said.
“Not you,” I snapped only to remember I was supposed to be in ass-kiss mode. “I mean…I’m sorry. I was talking to someone else.”
“Right,” she drawled, but a second later, a saxophone flared on the hook of “I Want You Back.”
I shifted the phones again so only Harvey could hear me (hopefully). “What the hell do you mean, next week?”
“As I said…we’ve had a slight delay—”
Clearly, the day could get shittier.
“Listen, pal, I don’t care if you have to drive to the factory and assemble the damn things yourself. We went with your bid even though your prices were astronomical because you promised you could deliver on schedule.”
“Yes. But things have changed.”
“Then un-fucking-change them!”
His voice became cautious. Wisely so. “I can get you six tomorrow and the rest by the first of next week.”
“Our soft opening is next week.” I rocked back in my chair, but I wasn’t calm in the least. Without those lights, we were fucked. “Listen, Harvey.” I stressed his name to be a dick. “This might be a stretch, but I’m thinking people are going to want to see their food before they eat it, and it’s my job to make sure that happens. So hear me when I say this: I want them all today or keep the damn things. Central Electric has what we need.” They didn’t. “In stock.” Seriously, I was so full of bullshit. “I’m done waiting.”
“But—”
“But nothing! You’re wasting my fucking time. Either get me the lights or get off my fucking line so I can call Central Electric.” Please, God, do not get off my line.
He went quiet, and I waited anxiously.
“What about tomorrow?” he asked.
I launched to my feet, quietly celebrating as much as I could with two phones held to my ears. When I got myself back together, I cleared my throat and said, “I’m not happy about this. But you come through tomorrow and we won’t completely write off doing future business with you again.”
“We’d appreciate that,” he said evenly, probably doing some silent celebrating of his own. (Or, at least, I pretended as much.)
“Hi, Mr. Reese. This is Rita Laughlin,” the woman on the other phone said.
Without saying goodbye to Harvey, I hung up.
“Riiiitttta,” I purred. “You are a hard woman to reach. Please, just call me Porter.”
“Sorry about that. I’ve been slammed this week. I’m planning this Spring Fling and…” She paused. “Sorry. I’m rambling. What can I do for you, Porter?”
First name. I was so in there.
“I need an appointment with Dr. Mills.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding surprised. “Our receptionist should have been able to handle that for you.”
I drew in a deep breath and finished with, “For my son.”
“Ohhhh,” she drawled in understanding. “I’m sorry. Dr. Mills doesn’t—”
“Treat children. Yes. So I’ve been told. But I’m asking you. To ask him—”
“Her,” she corrected.
“Right. Her. Sorry. All I’m asking is for you to ask her to make an exception. Just once.”