The good parts of Blake’s Austin visit: his mom and sister, amazing barbecue, and a hot-as-hell phone sex session with Farrah.
The bad parts: everything else.
The trouble started at Joe Ryan’s fiftieth birthday party, which was standard fare for their small Austin suburb of Cedar Hills: burgers, chips, and sweaty glasses of lemonade piled on their rickety picnic table; guests milling around in short-sleeved polo shirts and shorts, their skin pinking beneath the scorching summer heat while they gossiped about the latest suburban scandal, and live music courtesy of the Ryans’ next-door neighbor’s son, who aspired to be a country-rock star.
After a mind-numbing conversation with the Harpers about the best lawnmower models, Blake escaped to the kitchen, where his mom and sister were whipping up a fresh batch of finger foods. Well, his mom was; Joy was scrolling through her phone and munching on nachos.
Blake arched an eyebrow. “Being useful, I see.”
“Oh, shut up.” Joy stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re not exactly Mr. Helpful either.”
“Mom, do you need help with anything after I refill the chips?” Blake asked with a wide smile. He pushed the bowl of nachos out of Joy’s reach and ignored her indignant cry.
Helen Ryan laughed. “Oh, no thanks, hon. I appreciate the offer, but I remember what happened the last time you tried to help me cook.” She gave him an affectionate pat on the cheek. “You’re very sweet, even if you only offered to help to spite your sister.”
Hey, an offer was an offer.
Besides, how was Blake supposed to know the difference between baking soda and baking powder? He’d been seventeen.
“Ugh, don’t encourage him, Mom.” Joy stretched across the counter to reach the chips; he moved them farther away, earning himself a scowl. “Just because he’s home for the first time in months doesn’t mean you need to spoil him. He’s the worst.”
“You’re the worst.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Children! Can we not?” Helen scolded. “You’re adults. Act like it.”
“She started it,” Blake said at the same time Joy protested, “He started it.”
Their mother shook her head. “And they say children grow up,” she muttered. “Joy, take more lemonade out. And Blake, take this to your father. It’s his favorite.” She handed him a plate of football-shaped bacon cheese balls.
Blake grimaced. He’d spoken three words to his father since he arrived yesterday: hi, and happy birthday. Joe didn’t seem keen on striking up a conversation with his only son, and the feeling was mutual.
Helen picked up on his reluctance. “It’s his birthday,” she reminded him. “Try, okay?”
“Okay,” he grumbled.
“All right. Love you, sweetie.” She squeezed his free hand. “It’s so nice to have you home.”
Blake softened. “Love you too.”
He really did feel guilty about not coming home more often. Honestly, other than the undercurrent of tension between him and his father, it wasn’t so bad. He’d spent yesterday helping his family tidy up the house and clean out the garage—grunt work, but he found the mindlessness soothing—and binge-watching Too Hot to Handle on Netflix with Joy. The show was so bad it was almost good. Plus, his mother could cook like nobody’s business and had been stuffing him with his favorite foods since he stepped foot in the house.
“You are such a kiss ass,” Joy said as they left the kitchen’s sweet A/C for the sticky heat of their backyard.
“You’re just jealous I’m Mom’s favorite.” Blake popped a cheese ball in his mouth. There were a ton left; his father wouldn’t miss one.
“Please. Everyone knows I’m the most lovable Ryan. Anyway, good luck with dad.” Her voice was sweeter than the pitcher of lemonade she placed on the picnic table.
He narrowed his eyes. “If I could disown you, I would. In fact, I’m doing that right now.”
Joy clutched her heart with mock distress. “But your life would be so boring without me.”
“Negative.”
“Go.” She pushed him toward Joe, who was holding court with his poker buddies by the oak tree in the corner. “Mom says you and I act like children, but it’s actually you and Dad.” She tapped a finger to her chin. “Huh. There seems to be a common denominator.”
“Disowned!” Blake shouted over his shoulder. “And forget about staying at my place if you ever come to New York.”
Joy merely laughed in response.
Blake’s humor faded and his mouth settled into a grim line as he approached Joe. Was it normal for sons not to want to talk to their fathers? Probably not.
But he’d promised his mom he would try.
“Hey, Dad,” he said, breaking up the older man’s conversation about the upcoming football season. “This is for you.”
Joe accepted the plate without looking at Blake. “Thanks.”
Tension hung thick in the air between them.
“Blakey boy! Haven’t seen you around in a while.” Max, a short, stocky man with a big beer belly and an even bigger mouth, clapped a meaty hand on Blake’s shoulder. He was Blake’s least favorite out of all his father’s friends. “Too good for us common folk now that you made it to the big time?”
Blake’s jaw tightened, but he smoothed it over with an easy smile. “I have a new bar opening up in New York, so I haven’t had time to visit as much as I would like.”
“New York, huh?” Max smirked. “The Big, Bad Apple. Guess our little suburb must seem boring compared to Times Square and whatnot.”
No self-respecting New Yorker would willingly visit Times Square, aka tourist central, but Blake didn’t bother explaining that to Max. “Austin’s not a small city.”
“I’m not talking about Austin, I’m talking ‘bout Cedar Hills. Big difference between the city and here.” Max chewed on an ice cube. “Hey, what’d you end up getting your old man for his fiftieth, anyway? Big birthday. New house? New car? You got the money.”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Don’t want to ruin the surprise,” Blake said coolly. He’d gotten his father a watch—a custom-engraved, $5,000 watch, which he was sure would end up collecting dust in the back of a drawer. Joe never used any of the gifts Blake bought him.
In truth, Blake would’ve been happy to buy his parents a new house. The Ryans lived in a comfortable but old split-level, and they had to have repairs done every year. But Joe and Helen had called it home for decades and refused to move out, so Blake dropped the issue.
Not that Max needed to know any of that. He wasn’t worth Blake’s time.
“Sure, sure.” Max chuckled. “Hey, you think you can get me a discount at Legends? Friend of the family and all that.”
“Sure.” Over my dead body.
“Speaking of Legends, we should go there for the NFL kickoff game,” Phil, another of Joe’s friends, mused. “It’s a great bar.”
This time, Blake’s smile was genuine. “Thanks.”
“Eh.” Joe munched on his food. “Why bother driving all the way downtown when we can watch it at your house like we always do? You just got a new TV, too.”
Blake’s blood heated, blistering his insides.
Are you fucking kidding me?
His father didn’t want to go to his openings? Fine. Didn’t want to go to his bars at all? Fine. But to stand there and discourage his friends from supporting his son’s business in front of his son? Not fucking fine.
“Legends is a twenty-minute drive away, and it has TVs too,” he said. “Not that you would know. You’ve never been to one.”
The group fell silent. Even the wind stopped blowing.
“Uh, I’m going to…get another beer.” Phil backed away.
“I’m going to take a dump,” Max announced.
One by one, Joe’s friends fled.
“What the hell was that?” Joe’s left eye twitched, a sure sign he was angry.
“I could ask you the same thing.” Blake vibrated with controlled fury. “Talk shit about me all you want behind my back, but you could at least pretend to support me in front of your friends.”
“Stop being so sensitive,” Joe said dismissively. “It’s not like you need the money.”
“It’s not about the money.”
“Then what is it about?”
Blake should stop. It was Joe’s birthday, and he didn’t want to ruin it for everyone else. But once you unscrew the cap on years of pent-up resentment, it’s impossible to hold it back.
“It’s about you never supporting me,” Blake hissed. “Not when I quit football, not when I started my business, not ever. It’s about you being so damned resentful you couldn’t live out your NFL dreams through me that you can’t stand me succeeding at something else. Let’s face it, you wanted my bar to fail so you could rub it in my face. Most of all, it’s about you being a shitty-ass father.”
Joe’s face paled, then flushed so red an onlooker would think he was having a heart attack. A vein pulsed in his forehead, but he didn’t confirm or deny the accusations. He didn’t say a damn thing.
Someone else, however, did.
“Blake.” The soft gasp behind him sent ice trickling through Blake’s veins.
He swallowed hard and turned to see his mother and sister staring at him with horrified expressions. Joy’s mouth hung open, while Helen’s eyes brimmed with tears.
Blake’s outburst probably hadn’t been what Helen meant when she’d said “try.”
Fuck.
Joy sent Blake on a supermarket run so he could “cool off and pull his head out of his ass.” Blake accepted the errand without a peep. Anything to get away from his father’s stony silence and mother’s tearful eyes.
Now, if only he could get away from the hard knot of guilt in his throat.
Blake should’ve kept his mouth shut. As good as it had felt giving Joe a piece of his mind, it was his father’s birthday, and the entire neighborhood had been at the party. They’d be gossiping about the Ryan father-son blowout for months. Not to mention, he’d ruined the weekend for his mom and sister.
“Fuck.” Blake glared at the contents of the freezer aisle. His shopping cart contained enough food and snacks to sustain a four-person household for a year, but he grabbed an extra box of strawberry kiwi popsicles (his sister’s favorite) and mint chocolate ice cream (his mom’s favorite) anyway.
He also swung by the beer aisle and picked up a six-pack of Budweiser. He told himself it was as much for his own sanity as it was for his father, even though Blake preferred Stella.
Satisfied he had everything he needed, Blake turned the corner to pay and bumped into another shopper.
“I’m sor—” His apology died in his throat.
You know that saying, things can always get worse?
It was true.
Because as much of a shittastic day as Blake had been having, nothing could’ve prepared him for running into the person before him.
Her name fell from his lips in a stunned whisper.
“Cleo.”
