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I disconnected and immediately called the main number for Bramble. It just now occurred to me how aptly named Aaron’s restaurant was. A prickly shrub for a prickly pain in my ass. He might have gotten older and taller and covered himself in tattoos, but I was sure deep down he was still the sensitive, insecure guy he’d always been. People didn’t change that much. I just had to fight through the thorns to get to him.
A male answered at Bramble, but it wasn’t Aaron. A rush of disappointment shot through me, but maybe it was better to have a middleman in our conversations. That way I wouldn’t upset him more than I already had, though only God knew how I’d accomplished that. I mean, the divorce was hard on everyone, but when I came home from college after freshman year, he was gone. Not like he’d moved out of the house gone—like, he’d left town and ditched his cell phone number gone. He’s the one who ghosted me but he acted like I was the at-fault party.
I heard through the grapevine he’d dropped out of high school his senior year and ran away to culinary school in Chicago. Even after he moved back to Middleton a couple of years ago, he stayed away. Despite being a relatively small town, we ran into each other precisely one time in the grocery store, in the produce aisle.
As I was reaching for a container of blackberries, funnily enough, a tattooed hand came in from the other side, reaching for the same carton. I remember that big red rose on the back of his hand, thinking how cool it looked with the thorns wrapped around it. When I followed the inky arm up to the face, a puff of air could have knocked me over. It was Aaron! In the flesh!
A whirlwind of emotions swept through me—happiness, surprise, confusion. I reached for him to give him a hug but he reared back like I punched him.
“The fuck are you doing?” he snapped, a look of pure disgust on his face. He’d always been lean, but the planes of his face were even sharper with age—and anger. Even though I used to have a couple of inches on him in high school, he stood eye-to-eye with me now, as reed-thin as ever despite his mastery at cooking.
I was so stunned by his reaction, I was speechless. So I stood there, like a dolt, and said nothing. All I could do was watch as he grabbed half a dozen cartons of blackberries and stomped away like we were complete strangers.
He looked back as he turned the corner. His expression was blank—cold and hard. But his blue eyes looked as hurt as I felt.
By the time I grabbed the rest of my shit and checked out, rushing outside to the parking lot, he was gone.
A year later, Bramble opened, but after that chilly encounter by the blackberries, I knew I needed to stay away. It’s clearly what he wanted, but I had no idea why.
All things considered, we were tight growing up. We didn’t have that stepbrother rivalry, even after he hit puberty and turned into a miniature version of Paul, his asshole of a father. Aaron was moody back then, but I rolled with it like I always did. Plus, I was busy with football and helping my mom at Briar Lane, so I wasn’t around very much toward the end. Maybe that’s what his problem was.
“Can I help you?” a male voice said through the phone, snapping me out of La La Land.
“Yeah, hi. Could you tell Aaron the flowers are covered for tonight? And what time is the wedding?”
“Uh, let me double-check.” The phone muffled for a moment. I could vaguely hear the guy yelling for someone in the background and I wondered if Aaron was going to pick up another extension. A second later, the first guy came back on the line. “Ceremony starts at four-thirty.”
“Great. I’ll be there by three-thirty.”
“Awesome. Sorry, man. I didn’t get your name.”
“It’s Alex. His stepbrother.”
3
AARON
Valentine’s Day — 10:32 a.m.
“He said what?” I blinked at Dane, my bartender, and cocked my head like it would help me hear him better.
Dane shrugged and went back to wedging white taper candles into their respective glass holders. “He said the flowers are covered. He’s setting up at three-thirty.”
“What the fuck?” I scratched the back of my head, trying to figure out what Alex was really up to. I mean, I’d asked for help, sure. And he essentially told me to get bent. Then an hour later he calls and swoops in like the hero? Nah. Not buying it.
I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and promptly called Briar Lane. Alex answered after two rings.
“What do you mean it’s covered?” I asked as soon as I heard his voice.
There was a pause on the other end and it sounded like he shifted the phone to his other ear. “Aaron?”
“Duh. How many other people are you performing miracles for today? You said it was impossible. So what gives?”
“I just needed a minute to move some stuff around. You kinda blindsided me this morning. But I found a workaround.”
I still wasn’t buying it. Unfortunately, I’d learned a long time ago not to get my hopes up when it came to Alex. Or anyone, for that matter. “This isn’t some sort of revenge plot, is it?”
“What? No. This isn’t a revenge plot. Why would this be a revenge plot?”
