by C. C. Hunter
He sat down beside her. “You save a lot more than you lose.”
She offered him a teary-eyed smile. “She was only a few years older than you,” she said. “A few years older than Emily. I wanted to save her.” She inhaled. “It’s hard losing any patient, but when they’re young … I think if I could save them, then it might make up for…” She put her fingers over her trembling lips.
“Make up for what?”
She shook her head. “It was my fault. I was so busy with school. It was my day to watch Emily, but I called the nanny and asked her to take her.”
“That doesn’t make it your fault,” he said sharply.
“I know. I’m just feeling sorry for myself. And tomorrow is … fifteen years since Emily went missing.” She paused. “I hate that I couldn’t save her.”
Fifteen years. He wasn’t even sure which one she was talking about not saving. The girl with cancer or her daughter. She patted her eyes and looked up at him. This close, he saw her pain-filled expression.
He put a hand on her arm. Where the words came from, he didn’t know, but they left his lips. “You’ve saved me.”
“Have I?” Her voice shook. “Sometimes I worry you haven’t really let us close.”
“You’re closer than anyone has been.” And it was so damn true.
She smiled through her tears. “Thank you. Is it too much to ask for a hug?”
He shook his head, even when he wished he could avoid it.
They stood, her arms surrounded him. He didn’t move; the emotional pain went deep. His throat tightened.
She let him go quickly, as if sensing it was hard for him. “We love you like our own child.”
You shouldn’t. “I know.” But they deserved their own daughter, and if he could—if at all possible—he was going to give her back to them.
* * *
I’m getting ready for school the next morning when my cell rings. Sure it’s Lindsey, I answer it. I’m wrong.
“How’s my baby girl?” It’s the man who owes me an apology. Suddenly I want him to know he hurt me. It seems there’s nothing left of the dad I knew. The guy who used to take me out for Indian food because Mom doesn’t like it, the guy who used to hug me so tight, the guy who taught me to change a tire. He’s gone. Gone.
“How’s my girl?” he asks again.
“Fine.”
“How’s school going?”
“That’s funny.” But I’m not laughing.
“What’s funny?”
“I thought you were going to call the first day of school to check on me.”
“Oh.” Guilt rides his one word. “I’m sorry, hon. It’s been hectic.”
This is where I should say it’s okay and let him tell me how much he misses me. I can’t.
“Good to know everything comes before me.”
“Chloe! Don’t say that.”
“Why? It’s true. You gave Darlene my room. You say you’ll call, but you don’t. What’s next? You going to renege on paying child support?”
“What? Is your mom going around bad-mouthing me?”
“Yeah, but she has been for a while. What’s different is that I’m finally realizing everything she says is true.”
I hang up and start crying. But it kind of feels good. He deserved that.
Seeing the time, I realize I have to leave. I dart past Mom so she won’t see I’ve been crying.
When I walk outside, Lindsey is waiting by my car. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything.”
She gives me a shoulder bump. “This may sound terrible, but now you’re not faking it so well anymore, and I like you better.”
I look at her like, What the hell?
“Before, you acted like Superwoman. I felt bad telling you my problems because you’d think I was pathetic.” She goes around to get in the car.
“What are your problems?” I ask, to avoid looking more pathetic. I get behind the wheel. “Besides the cheating dog?”
She settles into the front passenger’s seat and looks hesitant. “I won’t bore you with details, but…” She comes off scared and serious. “My mom’s gay.”
I look at her. “I know that.”
Her mouth drops. “It’s that obvious?”
“Yeah. Your mom’s girlfriend is always at your house, and when they watch TV they hold hands. Why’s that—?”
“A big deal?” she finishes my sentence. “It’s not. I’m happy she’s found herself and found Lola. About two years ago, she got depressed. Then until seven months ago, she was on antidepressants, lonely, and miserable. She’s so much happier now. And I’m so okay with it. But … not everyone is. And I’m afraid—”
“You shouldn’t care what they think. Who your mother loves isn’t anyone’s business. I have family that’s gay. It just doesn’t matter.”
Her eyes tighten. “You don’t get it. It’s not that I care what they think. I’m afraid the next time someone says something about her, I’m going to come unglued and jump their ass. That’s my mom! I hate that the world judges her.”
I smile. “Good. Who said something about her?”
“Clare, one of Jamie’s cousins. It was right before Jamie left for camp. I didn’t know Jamie had told her until she started saying how weird it must be for me. I just walked out. I didn’t even say goodbye to Jamie. Later, I was so mad at myself for not defending my mom that now I’m champing at the bit for someone else to say something.”
I cut her a look. “Tell you what. When someone says something, come get me and I’ll help you give ’em crap. I’m getting good at it these days.”
Lindsey sighs. “I’m so glad you moved next door.”
I can’t say that back, because I still long for my other life, but I smile. Right then, I know I’m not just Lindsey’s sidekick. Like it or not, I’ve got myself a good friend. So I decide to confide in her about Cash and the tire incident.
“What if he just did it to have a reason to talk to you?” she asks.
“If he wanted to talk to me, he could’ve talked to me. He’s not shy.”
“You don’t know that. He might not be as confident as he comes off.”
Did I freak, because of my own insecurities? Because I didn’t think he could possibly be interested in someone like me?
Did I automatically jump to the wrong conclusion, like everyone else? Remembering the story of how he’d been thrown out of his last school, because people believed the worst of him, I start feeling guilty.
“I’m such a bitch,” I mutter, and Lindsey laughs.
* * *
Cash had decided to apologize. He’d do whatever it took to get back into Chloe’s good graces. He needed answers, and the only way to find them was to get close to her. He had to find out if she was Emily Fuller.
He didn’t know exactly what he needed to prove or disprove it. But his gut said he’d know it when he heard it. And he wasn’t going to hear shit if she pushed him away.
He’d seen Chloe once at her locker, but before he got to her, she disappeared in the hall crowd. Walking to the American Literature class that they shared, he looked left and right, hoping to spot her. When he approached the door to the classroom, he saw her standing there, waiting.
Their gazes met and she started toward him. He wasn’t close enough to read her expression. But tension pulled at his stomach.
She stopped in front of him, then waved him away from the door. “Hey. I—”
“Look, I—”
“Go ahead,” he said. Always let the other person talk first. Your game plan may have to change.
She bit down on her lip. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have accused you. That was rude.” She glanced up. Her apology brightened her brown eyes. He saw the flecks of gold and green. Were they the same color as Mr. Fuller’s?
Resting on his tongue was his own apology. When had dealing with girls gotten so impossible?
Instead, he nodded. “It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t.” She paus
ed as if it was his turn to say something, but he was too busy feeling like shit because he was guilty and should’ve been the one apologizing. She turned to leave.
“Wait.” He caught her arm and felt that emotional jolt again. Like touching a live wire. But it faded and all he could feel was how soft her skin was. “Can we get together this afternoon?”
“Yeah.” She smiled and didn’t move.
It took a second to realize he still held her arm. He was even rubbing his thumb over her skin. But damn, he liked touching her.
He reluctantly let her go and followed her into class. Touching her might come with a spark of pain, but what came next—the warm, feminine softness—made it worth it.
8
After school, Cash drove to Chloe’s house, but parked down the street. Waiting, he felt a tight ball of nerves in his gut. He’d been planning to suggest they meet at the coffee shop. Something about Ms. Holden gnawed at his stomach lining. Seeing her so sick, and questioning if she’d been the one to kidnap Chloe, made it difficult.
He wondered how hard it was on Chloe, seeing her mom so emaciated. And here he was going to compound Chloe’s issues if he told her she was possibly Emily Fuller. He found himself thinking it’d be easier if she wasn’t the Fullers’ kid.
He wouldn’t have to lie to her.
Chloe’s car pulled into the drive.
He watched in his rearview mirror as Chloe’s friend slipped a backpack over her shoulder. He’d noticed her last year. She wasn’t one of the bitches.
Chloe got out of the car. Cash liked watching her, especially when she didn’t know he was watching. She seemed somehow … different from other girls. When she’d run into people in the hall, she said excuse me. Most didn’t. She smiled at other students—not just the popular people, like some girls did.
He also saw the guys looking at her. He couldn’t blame them. He looked, too. It’s just some of the guys were jerks.
Only when Chloe spotted his car did Cash get out.
“Come on in.” Her hair swayed around her shoulders, and the red shirt clung to her breasts.
He followed her into the house.
“Mom,” Chloe called out. “Cash’s here. We’re going to sit out back.”
Cash heard her mother say something from a bedroom.
Chloe dropped her backpack on a dining room chair. “I’ll bet your house is a lot nicer.”
“Not really,” he lied, because to say differently sounded rude. But until he came to live with the Fullers, this house was nicer than any he’d lived in. Hell, for six months, he and his father had lived in a shack in the woods without running water, electricity, or a bathroom.
He followed her through the house and saw some framed pictures on the sofa table. There were several of Chloe when she was like three. One of them called to him, like he’d seen it before. It was Chloe holding a red tabby cat. He picked it up. Was he imagining it, or was it almost the exact photo Mrs. Fuller kept in one of the extra bedrooms? He wished he could photograph it to compare them.
He looked up and realized she was watching him. “You were cute.”
“Right.” She motioned him outside. He recalled the last time he was here, she’d given him hell about the tire. Hopefully, not this time.
Once on the patio, a yellow medium-sized dog, of an unrecognizable mixed breed, came running up and barking. Not a threatening bark, but playful. Cash petted the animal.
“No. Don’t jump up, Buttercup.” Chloe moved to sit on the swing. He got the feeling she expected him to do the same. He lowered in the seat, purposely leaving several inches between them. But even that was too close. He could smell her. A fruity and flowery scent. Not perfume, but lotion and maybe lip gloss, because he noticed her mouth looked shiny.
The dog put his paw on Cash’s leg. “She’s cute.”
“He,” Chloe said.
“You named a boy Buttercup?”
“He was yellow. I was seven.”
Cash chuckled. “You probably took away his manhood, too.”
She lifted a brow and petted her dog. “Only after he got a neighbor’s dog pregnant. And it was at my birthday party, too. My entire school class attended. I had a jumping house, a clown, and sex education.”
He laughed and realized he did that a lot around Chloe. Then what she’d said landed. He hadn’t really thought about what her childhood would’ve been like, but it didn’t sound bad. Did people who threw elaborate birthday parties kidnap children?
He’d never had a birthday party. He’d had only one birthday cake before he got to the Fullers’. Now it was like clockwork. Cake and presents. And Mrs. Fuller always took the day off and cooked him anything he wanted. If he didn’t tell her what he wanted, she cooked the things she knew he liked. Was that what Chloe had?
Realizing the silence had grown awkward, he said, “Sounds like a good birthday.”
“It was memorable.”
“I don’t care!” Chloe’s mom’s raised voice leaked out from behind the closed back door.
Chloe frowned.
“Well, I’ve only said the truth!” Her mom’s voice carried again.
“Shit.” Chloe bolted up from the swing. “Be right back.”
She tore off inside. The dog sitting next to him whimpered. As the door closed, he heard Chloe say, “Mom! Cash’s here.”
Her mom’s voice exploded again. “Maybe you should have thought about that before you started screwing someone who could’ve been her sister! Yeah, I said that. You’re a piece of shit. And she’s a bitch!”
“Mom! Stop!” Chloe’s voice rang louder.
“Goodbye!” her mom yelled out, and then … “Did you tell your dad I was bad-mouthing him?”
Cash put his feet down to stop the squeaking motion of the swing so he could hear what came next. “I … can we talk about this later? Cash’s here.”
“Why would you tell him anything I said?” her mom yelled.
Chloe’s voice came next. “I didn’t mean…” Pain sounded in her voice. The same kind of pain he’d heard yesterday when she told him about her father.
“That man’s a bastard! And you can tell him I said that!”
A door slammed inside. Cash ran his hands down his jeans and wondered if he should leave.
Chloe stepped back outside.
Her face was red. She had her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if angry or embarrassed. Maybe both.
She met his eyes. “Look, I’m going to give you a piece of advice—leave and forget about me. You don’t want a part of this dysfunctional crap.”
He didn’t move, searching for something to say that would make her feel better. “I’ve lived in far worse dysfunction. This is just divorce problems.”
She came over and dropped down on the swing. “I’m sorry.”
When she turned her face up, he saw tears webbing her long dark lashes. “Seriously, it’s okay.”
“I’m a mess. You don’t want…” She bit down on her lip.
“No. They’re the mess. You’re just an innocent victim.”
He couldn’t believe he was recycling some of the old psycho crap that had been tossed at him when he was in the hospital after being shot. The psychologist was there when he woke up. He remembered asking her, “Am I going to jail?”
She’d tried to console him. “No. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He remembered sticking out his chin, willing to take his punishment. “Yes, I did.”
“You aren’t a bad person. It was your dad who did bad things. You’re young, you did what you had to do to survive.”
Next to him, Chloe shook her head. “No. I’m not innocent this time.” Again, she bit down on her lip. “Dad called this morning, and I said something I shouldn’t have. I was wanting to hurt Dad, not Mom.”
He wasn’t sure what provoked him to do it, but he placed his arm over Chloe’s shoulders. A jolt of pleasure went through him but pain came with it. The pain left.
She let out that sad sound
again—one so much like Mrs. Fuller’s, it reminded him why he was really here. Before he could move his arm, she leaned against him.
He tried not to flinch. “It’s still on them. Not you.”
She looked up. They were so close that he could count her lashes. And that gave him a front-row seat to the hurt in her brown eyes.
“You’re pretty good at this,” she whispered.
“At what?”
“Knowing the right thing to say.”
“That’s odd. I usually suck at it.” He forced a smile, feeling every inch of her that came against him. Feeling all kinds of rightness, but wrong, too.
“Did your parents get a divorce?” she asked.
Air caught in his throat. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about his past. “No. They’re dead.”
“What happened? Sorry, I shouldn’t…”
Buttercup bumped against his knee holding a yellow tennis ball in his mouth. He pulled his arm free and tossed the ball for the dog. “Your mom seems really angry.”
“She’s more than angry. She’s bitter.”
Chloe looked at the door, and her expression went sad again. “I can’t blame her, except … it hurts to hear her constantly belittle my dad. I know he deserves it. But—” She dropped her face in her hands. “Blast it. I’m doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Barfing my problems all over you.”
He grinned. “I can handle a little barf.”
She laughed and leaned back. They were even closer now.
He inhaled. “Is it cancer?”
“Yes.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
The anger in her eyes shifted to sadness. “Doctor said she’s cancer-free. But I just learned … it could come back.” Chloe paused. “I can’t wait until she stops looking like … she’s dying.”
“I’m sorry.” He almost told her Mrs. Fuller was an oncologist, but talking about the woman he thought could be her mother felt wrong.
Their eyes met. Locked. Her mouth came against his.
He jerked back.
She flinched. “I’m sorry.”
“No. I just. I wasn’t…” He couldn’t look away from her mouth. Then he leaned in. His senses went on hyperalert.