“Would it involve Shark Tank?”
She laughed, some of the tension leaving her muscles. “It would indeed.”
“I’m totally in,” he said and kissed her. “Let’s break in these clean sheets and heckle some entrepreneurs, lawyer girl.”
She headed to her bedroom with him, but no TV ended up being watched.
And when they curled up and fell asleep next to each other late that night, Rebecca forgot to freak out about crossing lines and blurring boundaries.
She’d worry about it all tomorrow.
chapter
TWENTY-ONE
Wes turned the corner onto the road that would get him and his brother to their destination while Marco rambled on about the animal welfare dinner, the changed dates, and the logistical nightmare the event had become. Wes was trying hard to pay attention, but as they rolled closer to where he was taking his brother to lunch, Wes started to sweat a little.
“So the whole thing has sucked up more time than I have to give, and organizing that kind of stuff is just not in my wheelhouse. All that talking, talking, talking. I spend my time dealing with ani
mals who can’t speak to me for a reason,” Marco said, scraping a hand through his thick hair and making it stand on end, a habit he’d had since he was a kid.
“The event will be fine. They’ll have my food to eat, so that will distract them from anything else that isn’t perfect.” Wes pulled into the small lot next to a redbrick building. “And flatten your hair. You look like you’ve been electrocuted.”
“Yeah but—” Marco’s words cut off, his hand stilling on his head. “Wes, what the hell are we doing?”
Wes turned off the engine. “Going to lunch.”
“This is Ruby Blue Barbecue.”
“I’m well aware,” Wes said. “I’ve heard it’s good.”
Marco looked his way, dark brows lowered. “What are you doing, man? Torturing yourself?”
Wes’s hands flexed on the steering wheel as he steeled himself for what he planned to do. A few steps away stood the restaurant he’d once owned. The building he’d spent nearly every hour in for a year of his life, paying attention to every detail, making big, bold plans. The dream he’d lost.
After the divorce, he couldn’t even stand to drive down this road. He’d taken the long way around to avoid it. Then when he’d started the hard drinking, he would find himself sitting on the bench across the street, staring at the restaurant. He’d watch the new owners come and go, hating them, wanting to set a match to the whole place because if he couldn’t have it, no one should.
But after a week of working on the food truck with the kids, Wes had woken up this morning with a thought that wouldn’t let him go. He’d already made lunch plans with his brother because he’d wanted to break the news of the food-truck project to him face-to-face, to explain to him why this wasn’t going to be a road to another downfall. Wes had realized that he needed to do it here.
“I’m okay,” Wes said finally. “I want to do this. Maybe to prove it to you. Maybe to prove it to myself. I don’t know. But we’re going to have lunch here today.”
Marco reached out and gripped Wes’s shoulder, his gaze serious, searching. “You sure about this, bro? You finally seem to be getting back on your feet. You’ve been happy lately. I don’t want…”
Wes could feel the barely banked fear in his brother’s voice, the genuine concern, and it made his ribs tighten. Sometimes Wes felt smothered by his parents’ and Marco’s constant fretting about him, but in that moment, he saw the truth there. All of it was from a place of love. They’d seen Wes spiral into hell. He’d terrified them, and they didn’t want to lose him again.
He patted his brother’s hand and smiled. “I’m good, man. Really good, actually. And I want to tell you all about it. In this place.”
Marco held his gaze for a moment longer and then nodded. “Then lead the way, brother.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were seated inside the high-ceilinged restaurant, a platter of barbecued meats and side dishes in the middle of the table on butcher paper. Wes had expected to feel like he was walking back in time, back into this space where he’d spent so many months, but the new owners had ripped out almost everything he’d put in. The only thing Wes recognized was the placement of the kitchen and a few light fixtures. They’d gone with the full Texas theme, trying for some combination of kitsch and cool, the bread and butter of the Austin market. We’re going to look down home but put enough twists on the standbys so that we can charge gourmet prices.
Wes tried not to roll his eyes. The food was passable, but the whole vibe was so unoriginal and overdone that it made him gag a little. These owners were clearly from out of town and were trying too hard to look local. Texas was more than barbecue, cowhides, and country music. But that wasn’t Wes’s problem.
Marco drizzled blueberry barbecue sauce onto a piece of quail. “Why the hell would they put blueberries in a sauce?”
“So they can charge eighteen bucks for a meal,” Wes said, slathering a piece of corn bread with honey butter. “It won’t last. They butchered this opportunity. There’s a better place doing this kind of thing two blocks over.”
“So why aren’t you freaking out?” Marco asked. “You seem almost too chill.”