Something in her tone made Jess’s heart beat out a warning. “Is it Bryce?” It made sense Tom would ask his brother to stand up with him.
There was a moment of silence in which Jess had a feeling she wasn’t going to like the answer.
“No, not Bryce. Rick.”
Something strange swirled in Jess’s stomach, a weird flutter of nerves that she credited to her recent aversion to Rick Sullivan. “Really? But what about Bryce? They’re brothers and…”
“He offered it to Bryce first, but you know Bryce. For such a burly, alpha male, he really hates being anywhere near the center of attention. It was all Tom could do to convince him to be emcee at the reception. I wonder how he even made it through his own wedding.”
Jess forced a chuckle. “I think Tom had to drug him.”
The two women shared a smile. “Jess, tell me honestly, will Rick being the best man be a problem? I know you don’t get along, but he’s Tom’s closest friend.”
Jess frowned. To say how she truly felt would sound awful and small-minded. And she of anyone should know that people deserved second chances; that challenges and trials could take a lot out of a person, and Rick had had his share of both. Still. Rick was unpredictable with a substance abuse problem. And he’d be paired up with her for the entirety of the wedding day.
“I don’t know, Abby. I mean it’s your day. It’s just…” Jess sighed. She remembered the boy he’d been before joining the Marines. Always good for a joke and laughing, getting into his share of trouble with the boys, but nothing serious. Once, when he was fourteen and she was twelve, he’d kissed her in the equipment room at school while they were putting the basketballs away after lunchtime intramurals. It had been her first kiss, and she’d looked at him with stars in her eyes until he’d pulled some prank with Josh and Tom that had her steaming at the ears.
But the truth of the matter was, their relationship had always been fraught with ups and downs that went beyond childish pranks. When she was eighteen, they’d almost started something at her graduation party. Instead he’d cooled his jets without any explanation, leaving her behind a dune wondering what on earth she’d done wrong. These days all he thought about was feeling sorry for himself.
With another sigh and a shrug, Jess conceded defeat.
“Rick and I can manage to be civil for a day, I’m sure,” she assured Abby. She would not cause wedding trouble. It was Abby and Tom’s day and they should have it the way they wanted without bridesmaid drama. She just hoped Rick would stay sober throughout the day and not make an ass of himself.
Abby reached over and took Jess’s hand. “I know you have worries. Rick’s a bit of a loose cannon. But he’s been so much better since his mom took sick. And now she’s gone. Tom and I thought it would give him something positive, you know? He needs that.”
Jess couldn’t argue. And at least Rick had finally gotten a job. Granted, he’d been working for one of the whale boat charters, and like her own business, that was slowing down for the season. What would Rick do with all the extra time on his hands?
Hand, she reminded herself, and immediately felt guilty for her negativity. He had lost his hand in combat, after all.
“He does need that. I haven’t been a very good friend. It’s just that…”
She hesitated. She never talked about her past. Never talked about Mike, or the year and a half they’d spent together. It was something she’d rather forget and knew she never would. Some scars ran too deep.
“Just that what?” Abby asked, her face wreathed in concern. “Jess, are you okay?”
No, she wasn’t okay. Rick’s drinking had shaken her more than she liked to admit, bringing up painful memories of a history she’d worked hard to move beyond.
“I’m fine,” she said, putting on a smile and reaching for a second muffin. “It’ll be great, Abby. Your wedding is going to be perfect.”
* * *
Rick put the key in the lock and let the door swing open with a long, lonely squeak. He stood on the threshold, not entering the cozy white-and-green Cape Cod he’d once called home. It seemed wrong. Wrong that his mother wouldn’t be there to say hello in her warm, welcoming voice. She wouldn’t give him shit for never coming over or having a decent meal. She’d never make his favorite clam chowder again, or the blueberry cake with the cinnamon crumb topping that he liked so well, or hang clothes out on the clothesline to dance in the breeze.
It felt … final. That once he stepped off the porch and into the kitchen, it would really be real. She was never coming back.
He swallowed, trying to screw up his courage. All his life his mom had been his lighthouse. Even when he’d been far away, she’d been there, a light in the darkness to bring him home safely again, especially after she and Rick’s father had divorced when he was eight and it had just
been the two of them. She’d driven him to Little League, gone to every parent-teacher conference, and once bailed him out of jail when he’d been picked up for underage drinking when he was seventeen.
The disappointment in her eyes was worse than being arrested. Worse than the punishment she’d doled out, which had been walking the highway ditches three Saturdays in a row picking up garbage wearing an orange jumpsuit just like inmates wore.
He stood, looking in at the empty kitchen, and felt his anger build. It was damned unfair. Unfair that she’d taken sick just when he’d come back for good. Unfair that she’d had to suffer, that she’d had to die. Unfair that she hadn’t said anything about the recurring pain until the truth couldn’t be ignored. Now he was left all alone. No family. Not one relative he knew of that cared if he lived or died.
He’d needed her. He’d pushed her away more than he ought to. And now he wouldn’t have a chance to make it right. One thing he knew for sure. He didn’t give a good damn whether he’d been adopted or not. Roberta Sullivan had given him far too much for him to push her memory aside just because she’d died. She was, and always would be, his mother. He’d loved her as a son and he mourned her the same way.
A hornet buzzed by his head, reminding him that he was standing with the door open. He stepped inside and closed it, the catch clicking loudly in the silence. He felt a grief so intense he hardly knew what to do with it.
He’d seen horrible things, gruesome things, some of the worst parts of humanity, and he’d come through all right. Well, mostly. So why couldn’t he handle this without feeling like he was going to fall apart?