The Finish Line

by Stewart , Kate

  “Of course. You didn’t think I’d let you carry this three miles, did you?”

  The cashier gives her the total, and I stare at the screen, eyes wide. Two hundred and twelve dollars. She doesn’t even blink as she hands him three hundred dollar bills and puts the change in one of my bags. I look over at her, eyes wide.

  “In case he needs more medicine,” she says, but I know it’s pity. And I fucking hate it.

  Swallowing hard, I nod because I’m finding it hard to speak. I gather the bags and haul them to the car as she turns the ignition and flips on the AC. The drive home is silent as I glance at the back seat full of bags and then back at the woman gripping the wheel, her fingers turning white. I feel sorry for her, this sad pregnant woman, who’s so lonely she needed to shop with me to make herself feel better.

  When she pulls into the driveway, I stop her from helping me. As nice as she’s been, I won’t invite her in. I rarely let any grown-ups near Dominic. I don’t trust them. I don’t trust anyone here. Once I haul the bags to the porch, I walk back over to the car and shut her back door, and she rolls down her window on the passenger side. “Thank you.”

  “Really, please don’t thank me, it was my pleasure.” She shakes her head and again looks like she’s about to cry.

  “I’m Tobias,” I tell her as if it matters.

  “Thank you for keeping me company, Tobias.”

  “I hope you have a better day.”

  She bites her lower lip as if she might explode before she speaks. “You made it so much better. Thank you for indulging me.” She shakes her head. “You must think I’m crazy.”

  “It’s like you said, you’re having a bad day. I was too. You made mine a lot better.”

  “You’re a good kid. You deserve,” her eyes drift to the house, “you deserve a lot better than bad days.”

  I shrug. “We all have them.”

  “Thank you, Tobias.”

  Weirded out about the last half hour and the goodbye, I turn to run up the stairs and drag the bags in, closing the door and locking it three times.

  Once inside, I peek through the bent-up blinds to see her still parked in the driveway, head bent on the wheel, her body shaking.

  She’s crying. A part of me wants to go to her. Mama always said never to let a woman dry her tears alone and never be the reason for them, but I wouldn’t know what to say to her. All I do is watch her for a few minutes before she wipes her face and pulls away. The aching feeling in my chest stays with me as I unpack the bags. Dom was still asleep when I poked my head in his bedroom. Lining up the cans in the empty narrow pantry, I feel relieved when I stare at the amount of food. No more starving before Delphine decides it’s dinner time. She rarely eats, so the stash will feed us for a few weeks. It’s when I hear Dominic pipe up behind me that my excitement kicks up.

  “All of this is mine?!”

  A few minutes later, packages lay scattered on the floor of his bedroom as I try to dot him with pink lotion while he smashes his new cars into my thigh. Bellies full, I think of the woman who helped me and wished I had thanked her better than I had. Once I’ve fought Dominic enough to get him covered in the lotion, I haul him back in bed and pull the small TV from my room to his. He’s halfway back to sleep when his window opens, and a rat’s nest of blond hair appears. Sean lifts his head and grins when he sees us camped out on Dom’s bed. He climbs through the window dressed in his favorite Batman T-shirt and jeans, already covered in dirt from his trek through the trees in the neighborhood.

  “You not going to school?” He asks the two of us.

  “No. Dominic’s sick.”

  “He doesn’t look sick.” Sean stares at us both, running his nails down his arms, and that’s when I spot the blistering dots on his arms, face, and neck. I open my mouth to speak when Dom shoots up from his bed and points at him.

  “Sean! You’re the culpit!”

  “Sir?” The unfamiliar voice pulls me back to where I stand. “You have seven bags.” The sound of ringing merchandise eases me slowly back into the present as I take my change and receipt from the woman’s extended hand. Chest aching from the memory, I gather the bags by the handle and make my way out of the store and toward Dom’s Camaro. “We both know I wasn’t going to make it to thirty, brother. Take care of her.”

  Staring blankly out of one of the large windows into the parking lot, I refute the idea that I’m searching for any sign of the Camaro—for him. Yet another glance at the clock has me aggravated with the lies I’m telling myself. He dropped me off three hours ago. I know he hasn’t changed his mind. I know he’s coming back.

  He came back, for me.

  He left his life, for me.

  He killed, again, for me.

  “Where is your head today, woman?” Marissa asks, sidling up next to me at the counter.

  “Just…distracted.” I know I should probably give her a heads-up on what, or rather, who’s coming, but I have no idea if he has any plans of invading my workspace as he has my home and my new life. I have no idea if he intends to remain incognito here as he has in the past. It’s anyone’s guess for now, especially mine.

  Marissa is the closest thing I have to a girlfriend here, and I’ve told her enough about Tobias for her to know why I’m not entertaining men for the time being. I hold back in revealing any more for the moment because believing anything at this point is far too premature. He could very well disappear as quickly as he came.

  But I don’t believe that, despite my need to hold on to my skepticism.

  I hate that I mostly believe him and the sincerity he’s shown thus far with his words and actions.

  But if I do believe him, take his words to heart, will I be forever a fool?

  For now, I could be. I can’t let him do it. He has to earn my trust again, no matter his place in my heart.

  “Distracted? I’ll say, you’ve been shining that napkin dispenser for ten minutes.”

  “What? Oh,” I glance around the café, which is dead after the last of the morning rush. “Did you need me for something?”

  “No, just worried. You’ve been acting out of sorts since the Presidential Address yesterday. Want to talk about it?”

  “No, I’m fine, swear.” I turn to her and force a smile, and she raises a brow.

  “We’ve been joined at the hip since you hired me. You think I can’t tell when you’re faking it?”

  “Sorry, you’re right. Something is going on, and to be honest, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. I’ll explain later.”

  “Yes, you will, and it’ll have to wait because he’s back.” She gives me a conspiratorial wink.

  “What?” Paling, I glance behind me, following her gaze to see Mr. Handsome stroll in. Within the second of seeing he’s the man she was referring to, I’m gifted with a little relief, quickly replaced by a spike of anxiety.

  “All yours, girl. And in case you’re wondering, our omelets aren’t that great.”

  He takes a stool, dressed to impress, his eyes focused on me as I grab the coffee pot, snatch a ready mug beneath the counter, flip it and pour, refusing to meet his inquisitive gaze. “Morning. Western Omelet, no peppers or cheese, right?”

  “Most people call me Greg,” he quips, “but yes, please.” I give him an answering smile while I write out his ticket and haul ass back toward the kitchen, cutting off any chance to draw out conversation. So far today, I’ve filled a few salt shakers with sugar, dropped three plates, and in my haste, ran smack into my office door.

  Bastard.

  The fatigue has finally set in from lack of sleep, and mostly because I stared at the fucking French Adonis that took up over half of my queen mattress last night wearing nothing but black boxers. He is a dangerous temptation, his profile and build—all hard lines and thickly muscled curves—mesmerizing in half-light. His construct just as incredible as it was when we were together, maybe more so now. His surreal looks are just as distracting as they were before, threatening to replace
my resentment with desire. And the minute I woke up from a dream that left me raw and aching, my first instinct was to pull him to me, to wrap myself inside him, and never let go. Oh, how much I wanted to touch. So much so I had to leave my own bed to get away from him. From his smell of citrus and spice. From any familiarity that might bring me comfort.

  Because fuck that, I refuse to make it easy for him.

  He wants another chance, but he’s had years of chances to come back to me. He refused me at every turn in Triple Falls, forced me to let him go. Purposefully, he let me walk out of his office and his life.

  And he’s right. No matter his reasons, no matter how justified, they’ll all be excuses for me at the moment.

  I deserve more.

  I will hold out for more, no matter how gloriously beautiful he is. No matter how many times over the years I dreamt of him coming back to me and saying the things he said. His words from yesterday cross my mind.

  “I couldn’t look away.”

  No matter how much the words mean, I’m no longer a teenage girl or twenty-something woman who’d had her first mind-blowing orgasm gifted by a beautiful, smooth-talking man. Been there, have the tear-soaked pillowcases and blood-stained clothes to prove it.

  “Cecelia.” Travis, my short-order cook, booms from behind the cutout steel window in the kitchen, making me jump where I stand.

  I glare at him, and he winces. “Sorry, you weren’t hearing me. Order up.”

  “Chill,” Marissa grabs the plate from the hot bar and walks it over to Greg. She gives me a curious glance once it’s delivered, as does Greg. Annoyed by the scrutiny and refusing to look again toward the parking lot, I retreat through the double doors of the kitchen toward my office for a timeout, wishing for the first time in months I had a joint to smoke.

  It’s minutes later when I’m safely behind my desk, that Marissa bursts through the office door, a look of utter shock on her face that lets me know I’m not getting off so easily. Marissa darts her eyes around the office in panic, chest heaving before she leaps for her purse.

  “Jesus by the river,” she says, brushing a week’s worth of gloss across her lips, standing at the threshold of my office door. “Please tell me the man that just got out of your Camaro is your adopted brother.” Loathing the relief I feel, I slide my chair back, second wind determination running through me as she looks at me with wide-eyed hope, while Travis grunts something unintelligible behind her.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “That tells me nothing,” she’s hot on my heels as I toss my shoulders back and push through the double doors.

  I gather the few bags I need to set up shop before making my way inside. Upon entering, it’s nothing like I expected. Though Meggie’s sits in a ratty-looking building in an outdated shopping center, the interior, including the paint and the furnishings, are new and somehow, distinctly Cecelia. Inside, it’s a complete one-eighty in feel from the pothole-filled parking lot and chipped and faded paint of the building. It’s cozy. The wall colors are a mix of burnt sienna and azure. Black and white photographs hang throughout with price plaques floating next to them; no doubt, Cecelia’s attempt to help support local artists. Large bookshelves line the far walls, and oversized chairs are situated to create a reading nook. There’s an internet bar and stools along the floor-to-ceiling rows of windows. Cozy booths and tables sit throughout the middle of the café designating the dining area.

  Dominic would have loved it here.

  It’s the same thought I had when I entered her house yesterday. Guilt blinds me briefly as I try to switch gears when I spot her in the center of the bar pouring coffee, just as her eyes lift to mine.

  It’s an arrow straight through the burn, and the hole isn’t small.

  Fuck, I’ve missed her.

  Breaking our stare-off, she paces the counter refilling drinks before stopping just in front of the man I take a chair next to. Retrieving my new laptop from the box, she sets down a cup of coffee in front of me and a menu while I power it up.

  “Thought you were on vacation,” she mumbles before setting a check on the counter in front of the suit next to me.

  “This is my vacation laptop,” I assure her and open the menu, reading the selections.

  “Right,” she says dryly before walking off. Zeroed in on her, I sense I’m not alone in doing so and stiffen when I glance at the suit before following his line of sight. The plastic on the menu squeaks around my fingers as white fire thrums through me. He’s got my attention. Decent looking, close to my age, and he’s not here for the fucking coffee.

  Mr. Fucking. Handsome.

  I’ve never killed a man in cold blood or out of jealousy. Something tells me today should not be the day I get to check it off my list.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” I ask, plugging my laptop into one of the ready outlets beneath the counter.

  “Am I that obvious? I’ve been here every day this week.”

  “That so?”

  He nods before lifting his cup in salute. “Greg.”

  “Tobias.”

  “That a French accent? You sure are a long way from home.”

  Cecelia glances our way, eyes our exchange before her attention drifts back to me, lingers, and darts away.

  “Actually, I’m right where I need to be. Just moved here.” I turn to him in the hoodie and jeans I picked up from the discount superstore. I’m dressed like a fucking teenaged boy due to slim options. Casanova is in a suit.

  “There’s something about her,” his smile deepens, “I feel like a creeper coming back like this, but she’s…” I can hear the curiosity in his voice. Each word spoken might as well be lighter fluid he’s dousing me with. “I’m going for it.” Cecelia uses that moment to approach us and genuinely smiles at the motherfucker, before turning to me.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving,” I manage through clenched teeth. “Breakfast was shit.”

  Day one, Tobias. Day one. No dead bodies on day one.

  She’s completely clueless to the attention she’s getting. Or is she? Her to-do list makes that theory shit, but she won’t be fucking to-doing Greg. Not to-fucking-ever.

  “Just let me know when you’re ready.”

  “Cecelia,” suit dick addresses, an over-confident smile on his face as he stands and pulls out a twenty to cover his check. Cheap fuck. Knowing what’s coming, I see the panic in her eyes a millisecond before she schools her features. She’s gotten a lot better at bluffing, but I’m the master of bullshit detection. She wants no part of Greg or the offer that’s coming, but that doesn’t lessen the urge to imprint the Apple logo of my newly purchased Mac into his skull.

  “I was wondering if I could take you to dinner?”

  Logged into a new email account, I click to compose while keeping my tone even. “The first time I saw her, she was eleven.” They both turn to me, but I continue typing, not sparing a glance at either one of them. “She was nothing but a little girl, but she was mine to protect from this fucked-up world. Mine to look out for. Mine to care for.”

  “Tobias,” Cecelia hisses in warning.

  “She came in later like a fucking wrecking ball and obliterated the image of the little girl I remembered. I claimed her then as mine to have, mine to touch, mine to possess, fucking mine.”

  Cecelia shuts her eyes, fisting her hands on the counter.

  I lift my eyes to Greg, who looks like he’s about to shit his silk boxers.

  “And so, I would very much appreciate it if you would stop fucking looking at my future as if she may be yours. The answer is no, Greg, she won’t be dining with you.”

  Greg nods. “I apologize, I really had no idea. She isn’t wearing a ring.”

  I tap the mousepad to open a new email. “Leave your address, and we’ll send you a save the date.”

  “Tobias, enough,” Cecelia scolds. “Greg, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” He lifts his tweed jacket, pussy, from the stool next t
o him and tosses his voice my way. “You’re a lucky man, Tobias. See you around, Cecelia.”

  “Come back, Greg,” she urges, her gaze lingering on him for ten fucking seconds too long as he makes his way out the door, whistling like a nutjob.

  My laptop is slammed on my working hands before I’m face to face with violent-dark blue waters.

  That’s right, baby, fight me.

  “If you’re going to go all caveman, you can leave. That’s not going to fly here.”

  “Two things,” I mumble, lifting the screen to type the last of my email. “I would like a club sandwich, fries, and your phone number.”

  “You are such a bastard.”

  “Your bastard,” I remind her, unlocking my phone and pushing it across the counter. “And he can order all the fucking eggs and coffee he wants here, but he doesn’t get to look at you like that.”

  She stalks off through the double doors of the kitchen. Seconds later, a petite blonde with a head full of messy curls saunters toward me. It’s then I know Cecelia’s back there hiding.

  “Has Cecelia got you?” She asks in a sickly-sweet voice.

  “By the balls,” I mutter, shooting off the email.

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ve ordered, thank you. But,” I lean over and engage her. “Please make sure she’s not back there with a box of rat poison.” She laughs like it’s hysterical and leans over, giving me an eyeful of cleavage that I opt-out of.

  “Now, why would she do a thing like that?”

  “Ex-boyfriend.” I wrinkle my nose. “She’s not my biggest fan.”

  Her jaw slackens. “You’re the bastard?”

  “In the flesh. So, you know about me?”

  Good.

  She narrows her eyes. She knows enough.

  Not good.

  “Oh, I’ll make sure we take really good care of you.”

  And I’m no longer eating here.

  “You from out of town?”

  Perched on the stool, I peck at the keyboard on my Mac next to my untouched club. The question was raised by an old-timer who’s spent the majority of the time since his arrival scrutinizing me. Cecelia’s been mostly avoiding me since our earlier exchange. When she realized I wasn’t leaving, she had no choice but to resume her shift. She pauses her fifteenth wipe of the counter, her circles in three, no doubt just to fuck with me, in wait of my response.