Page 96 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Or find a third option that satisfies everyone. But Grayson? These investors don’t bluff. If they walk, we lose everything we’ve put into this project.”
The line goes dead, leaving me staring at the coffee shop where Michelle is serving coffee to customers who don’t know their gathering place hangs in the balance. David’s threat,investor ultimatums, and my spectacular failure to handle any of it properly.
I’ve managed to put Michelle in more danger by trying to protect her, and now I have less than twenty-four hours to fix everything I’ve broken.
Michelle deserves an explanation that honors her intelligence instead of treating her as fragile. She deserves to know that I picked protecting her over protecting myself, even though I handled it terribly.
She deserves to know that I love her too much to let anyone treat her as disposable—including me.
But first, I need to figure out how to apologize for making a choice about our future without including her in the decision. For treating our partnership as something to be managed instead of something strong enough to handle threats together.
My phone shows three missed calls from potential investors. I delete them without listening. Whatever happens next, it’ll be with Michelle’s input or not at all.
Now I just need to convince her to give me another chance to do the right thing correctly.
But watching her serve coffee through windows that feel more like barriers every minute, I’m beginning to understand that trust, once broken, requires more than explanations to rebuild.
I start the truck and drive away, but not before I see Michelle glance toward the parking lot through the window. For just a second, her mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of the hurt I put there.
The image follows me home, where I stare at the walls of my empty house for exactly twenty minutes before I crack. I throw some clothes in a duffle bag, grab my helmet and keys, fire up the Harley, and head for Charlotte. If I’m going to figure out how to fix this mess, I need perspective that only family can provide.
Four hours later, I’m standing on Amanda’s front porch in Charlotte, holding my helmet, a hastily packed duffle bag, and what’s left of my dignity. The coastal ride should have cleared my head. Instead, every mile reminded me of the trips Dad and I used to take on this same route when I was eight, back when he still thought motorcycle rides could fix whatever was broken between him and Mom.
Turns out wind therapy doesn’t cure stupidity.
Amanda opens the door before I can knock, as if she’s been watching through the window. Which she probably has, because that’s what big sisters do—monitor your disasters from across the state.
“You look terrible,” she says, stepping aside to let me in.
“Thanks. Really what I needed to hear.”
“When’s the last time you slept?”
“Define sleep. Because if you mean actual rest versus lying awake replaying every stupid thing I’ve said in the past week, then it’s been a while.”
“Come on.” She leads me into chaos that makes my problems seem manageable. Her six-year-old, Tyler, has apparently decided the living room coffee table is a pirate ship under attack by stuffed animal sea monsters. The dog—a black lab named Roxy—bounds over to greet me with the enthusiasm of finding a new best friend.
“Uncle Grayson!” Tyler abandons his naval battle to launch himself at my legs. “Mom said you might come visit! Are you staying for dinner? Can you help me build my Lego castle? Do you want to see my pet rock collection?”
The kid fires questions with pure enthusiasm. Behind him, Amanda’s husband Carlos waves from the kitchen where he’s apparently lost a battle with what used to be spaghetti sauce.
“How long can you stay?” Amanda asks, and her tone tells me she already knows this isn’t a social visit.
“Depends how long you can tolerate my excellent mood.”
“Uncle Grayson, you don’t look happy,” Tyler observes with the brutal honesty only children possess. “Did something sad happen?”
Did something sad happen?Like my entire ability to maintain adult relationships.
“Something like that, buddy.”
“Want to see my room? I have dinosaur sheets and everything. And a night light that makes stars on the ceiling. It’s really cool.”
Before I can answer, Tyler grabs my hand and drags me toward the stairs. Amanda follows.
“Fair warning,” she says as we climb. “The guest room is being painted. You’re bunking with Tyler tonight.”
“I can get a hotel?—”
