I feed her lunch and give her plenty to drink, all the while apologizing for my slack ways of the last few weeks.
“I know I’ve gotten off my routine, Momma. I don’t like going so long checking on you. I would never do this if I had another choice. You know that. I feel terrible, but Lance hired someone to keep an eye on me and I can’t risk him finding out about you. If he finds out about you, it’s possible that he could find out about everything else. And you know why I can’t let that happen.”
The weight of it all, coupled with the guilt of what I’ve done and what I still have yet to do, is suffocating. I wipe a tear from my cheek before it can travel very far. “I know if you could talk, you’d tell me I’m doing the right thing. You’d want me to take care of Travis the best way I know how, wouldn’t you?”
My mother’s vacant green eyes stare into mine. Something is going on behind them; I just don’t think that “something” is very often coherent or helpful. She grunts again and I see her lips move. Whether it’s because she wants more to drink or because she actually wants to speak, I don’t know. I choose to believe that if she could, she’d tell me that she understands and that she approves. But deep down, I hope that she has no idea what I’m saying, what I’m doing. I know that, one day, her out-of-it state will soon be a comfort to me. It will ease the guilt of what I may have to do when it comes time to run.
But that is another thought I refuse to dwell upon. I can’t give it room to grow. Or cripple me. Because that’s what it will do.
I’ve been at home for almost two hours and Sig still hasn’t shown up. That’s not like him. He seems very dedicated and, after this morning (and, even more, after the night at the club), I would’ve thought he’d be hard to shake.
As I pace through the living room, peeking through the curtains periodically for signs of his truck, I begin to feel the first stirrings of fear. And more guilt.
What if Lance found out that he lost me when I left? What if Lance, prone to dramatic mood swings, decided he wouldn’t give Sig another chance and fired him? All because of me. Or, worse yet, what if somehow Lance found out about our…relationship, whatever it is, and Sig is in trouble?
The mere suggestion of Sig getting hurt because of me twists my stomach into a sick knot. I pace faster, wringing my hands as I go.
After another thirty minutes, I get in my car and strike out to see if I can find Sig’s house. If he’s there, I’ll see his truck. Not many of the houses in this neighborhood have garages, so…
I go to the stop sign and turn left, like I’ve seen him do, and I prowl slowly along the street, looking for his big, black vehicle. When I reach the next stop sign, I take another left. No truck. At that stop sign, I make another left, which brings me full circle, to the crossroads of my own street. One block, no Sig.
I retrace my steps to the first stop sign and go left again. At the next one, I take a right instead and comb through the driveways on that street. Still no truck.
I’m about to turn left at the next stop sign when I see the back end of a black truck sticking out of a driveway up ahead. I go straight through the red octagonal sign and stop in front of what looks exactly like Sig’s truck.
I glance around, looking for what I don’t know. I feel like I’m doing something wrong, even though I’m not. It’s not like I’m casing the joint to break in later, which I did once or twice in my stupid youth.
Shifting into park, I cut the engine and head for the front door. Just as I’m raising my hand to knock, it swings open to reveal the very aloof face of Sig.
He says nothing as he stares at me and, for a moment, neither do I. I just look at him, take him in. He’s so beautiful, his eyes so rich and deep, his features so handsome and strong. He practically fills the entire doorway with his tall frame and wide shoulders. An involuntary shiver runs through me, one that registers a small frown on his brow.
He takes a step back and tips his head for me to come in, so I do. I stop just inside the front door, looking around his barely-there living room, which consists of an olive-green couch and matching recliner, a coffee table and a big screen television mounted to the back wall, and then the tiny kitchen that opens onto it. I see a few boxes stacked against one wall, but certainly not enough to contain all that would be needed to fill up this space.
“Still getting settled?” I ask.
“I travel light,” is his only response. He closes the door and then comes around in front of me, crossing his arms over his chest. “As flattered as I am that you’re concerned over my state of unpacking, I seriously doubt it brought you all the way over here.”
I laugh uneasily. “No, it didn’t. I, uh, I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Another frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I shrug with one shoulder. “Since I didn’t see you when I left Lance’s this morning, I wanted to make sure you didn’t get in trouble for not sticking with me.”
“How can I get in trouble when you took off?”
Again, I shrug. “Lance is unpredictable.”
“I told you that you don’t have to worry about me.”
“I know, I know,” I say, looking down at the shaggy beige carpet and digging at it with the toe of my ratty Vans. “I wish I could not worry about you.”
I see big boots enter my field of vision and then a finger touches my chin, bringing my gaze up to his. There is still some aggravation in his eyes, but now they hold tenderness and heat and…possessiveness, so much so that they take my breath away.
“I’m not a sadist, but I actually like that you worry.” One side of his mouth twitches up into a lopsided grin. “I just wish you weren’t so damn slippery.”
“Slippery?”
“Hell yeah. I can’t get a bead on you.”
“You know how a woman loves her mystery,” I say, nonchalant.
“You may, but I don’t. I want to know what’s going on behind those eyes, what’s going on inside that beautiful head.” His voice is soft now, his touch whisper-light as he brushes the back of his finger along my jawline.
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
“Oh, but I do. I want to know. I want to know you.”
“I told you–”
“I know what you told me. I’ve heard every word you’ve said. The problem is, it doesn’t make any difference. I care about you, Tommi. I care about what happens to you, what you’re going through. I care that you don’t smile much. I care that you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, but you won’t tell me why or let me help. I care that you put yourself through awful shit for reasons that I don’t understand. Because I know you don’t give a rat’s ass about Tonin.”