by Hunter Rose
“There were reasons I didn’t call her,” I protest, suddenly feeling defensive. “Like the fact that I almost got blown up.”
El holds his hands up, palms facing me in surrender. “Hey, I’m not the one you should be telling this to,” he says. “I’m just throwing this out there to give you some food for thought.”
“Yeah, thanks for that.”
His phone vibrates on the table with an incoming text message. Picking it up and glancing at the screen, El frowns.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Looks like I have to go clean up another mess.”
“Have fun,” I say, and then look him in the eye. “And thanks for tonight, El. I appreciate you listening.”
He slides out of the booth and puts his hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. He’s a good friend.
“You can pick up the tab,” he grins. “For my psychological counseling services.”
We laugh together as he slings his coat over his arm and heads out of the pub, leaving me there alone to absorb and digest everything he’d just said. The one thing that stands out in my mind like a bright, flashing neon sign, is that he’s right – I am making a lot of assumptions about a lot of things. Which, since I do pride myself on my ability to think logically and critically, definitely isn’t my usual MO.
I sigh and lean back in the booth as my eyes drift back to the game on TV. Since I’m already going to be calling a car to come cart my ass home, I figure that I might as well have another drink and watch the last few innings of the game – enjoying something that’s orderly, efficient, and makes perfect sense to me – while at the same time, doing my best to shut out the images of Scarlet that keep floating through my mind.
18
Scarlet
“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Tyson.”
He pulls me to him, and I bury my face in his shoulder, doing my best to keep my crying quiet as worry and fear twist and turn my insides. After a couple of minutes, I sit back up and dry my eyes. I’ve just come off shift, and with Kinsey at day care, I asked Tyson to meet me for coffee at our usual spot after his last class because I needed to talk.
The place is about three-quarters full, but most everybody either has their faces buried in their laptops and phones, or they’re busy talking to their friends. If anybody noticed my outburst, they’re giving no indication. Thank God for small favors.
“Oh baby, I’m so sorry,” he commiserates. “I would take the two of you in, but I barely have enough room in my place for me.”
I shake my head and wipe at my eyes, frustrated with myself for breaking down. Again. I can see the guilt racking Tyson’s face and know that he’s mentally already trying to reconfigure and rearrange his one-bedroom apartment to squeeze us in. But I take his hand and give it a gentle squeeze.
“I appreciate it, but don’t even think it,” I say softly. “I will not impose upon you like that. I’m just scared right now.”
“I know you are. Who wouldn’t be?” he says. “But together, we can figure this out.”
I nod. We will. Tyson is always able to keep a cool head and cut through the emotion of things to get at the real problem. He’s a passionate, emotional guy, but he’s also one hell of a problem solver. I know if there is anybody who can help think of a way to get me out of this pile of shit I’ve landed in, it’s Tyson.
We both sit back and take a drink of our coffees at the same time, both of us thinking, our minds spinning. I’ve got fifty-nine days left before I have to be out. And as we sit there, it’s like I can feel each and every grain of sand falling through that hourglass, drawing us closer to the inevitable end. And with each passing minute, my fear and worry ratchet up a bit higher.
At this rate, I’m probably going to have a nervous breakdown long before my sixty days is up. Of course, that would solve my housing problem, since I’d probably be locked into a padded cell somewhere.
The problem is that the cost of housing in Southern California is incredibly high. Hell, the cost of everything in Southern California is incredibly high. Add the cost of raising a little girl who’s growing by leaps and bounds every month – every week, it seems sometimes – and needs new clothes and whatnot all the time, and you don’t have to be a mathematician to figure out that I’m screwed.
Even with a roommate, my paycheck barely covers all our bills as it is. Having to go it alone now and pay the rent on a place by myself is impossible. Unless I want to move further inland – a lot further inland – to a place I would rather not live.
The idea of moving to a place like San Bernardino County – or the Valley of the Dirt People, as I call it – makes my skin crawl. The only thing it has going for it is that the rent is a hell of a lot cheaper than it is where I’m at right now. But that’s because nobody wants to live out there. It’s dry, hot, dirty, and it’s also crawling with gangs and drug addicts. Meth is practically a way of life out there, and I’d rather not expose Kinsey to any of that.
There’s also the fact that although the rent is cheaper, the commute to Orange County would not just be brutal, it would be expensive. With gas prices through the roof, it would probably offset any savings on rent I’d have in a place out there. Not to mention all of the money I’d have to pay out for extended day care, since my commute would be several hours each way, given traffic. Which also impacts my time with Kinsey. I’m not keen on the idea of somebody else raising her because I’m always stuck on a goddamn freeway.
No, the idea of going inland is a non-starter in my mind.
“I hate to even float the idea,” Tyson starts. “But maybe Roman can help. Maybe he can –”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not. I will not take a dime of his money.”
Tyson’s expression is patient, but I can see the frustration seeping out around the edges. It’s hard for me to explain to him why I’m being so stubborn about this. The truth of the matter is that I don’t know why I am. All I know is that Roman hurt me, and now it’s a point of pride to me that I don’t give him one foothold in my life or in my world. I don’t want him anywhere near me or Kinsey. And I certainly don’t want to owe him a damn thing.
“Honey, you know I love you, and when I say this, it’s with nothing but the purest love and intention,” Tyson starts.
“Oh God,” I groan – when Tyson starts a sentence with a disclaimer and declaration of love, I know I’m not going to like what he says next.
“But you need to do this – not for you,” Tyson says gently. “But for Kinsey. Think about her in all this instead of only your wounded pride, honey. You need to swallow that shit down and think about your daughter.”
I sigh and take a drink of my coffee, absorbing the sting of his words and avoiding Tyson’s gaze as it occurs to me that, yeah, I have been pretty selfish about this. That sting I feel is because he’s right and I’m wrong. And the bitch of it is, that I know it. He’s right. I’ve been thinking about myself and my hurt feelings in deciding what I will and won’t do when it comes to Roman. But in my own defense, that man hurt me like nobody’s ever hurt me before – or since. And sometimes it’s hard to see through that pain.
It was a Herculean feat that took every ounce of strength and courage I could muster to tell him about Kinsey to begin with. But I did it because Tyson was right – it was the right thing to do. Roman had a right to know about his daughter. Just because it was right, doesn’t mean it was easy. And it makes me wonder what it’s going to cost me to suck up my pride and go to him for help.
The mere thought of it churns my stomach so hard; I feel like I’m going to vomit.
“You do realize that child support is his duty and obligation as a parent, right?” Tyson presses, his voice stern.
I keep trying to push that thought away. Asking for child support is giving him a foothold into our lives that I don’t want him to have.
“I hate to bring it up because I know how you feel about it, honey. But he helped bring a child into this world – why should it be you and you al
one stuck with paying the tab to raise her?” he continues, his voice harder than steel. “Because of your hurt feelings and pride? Pardon me for saying so, but that’s utter horseshit, Scarlet. You need to wrap your head around the idea that this current situation has nothing to do with you and everything with Kinsey. Specifically in how you’re going to provide for her.”
I look up at him and feel my eyes widen slightly. He will always tell me the truth and gives it to me straight, but even still, Tyson is usually pretty delicate with his words and rarely ever says something so – forcefully.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so indelicate, honey,” he sighs, his voice gentler now. “I know you’re still hurting when it comes to that man, but I need you to step outside of that and focus on the more important issue right now – Kinsey.”
I shake my head to clear it, then look back up at him. “No, you’re right. You’re absolutely right,” I tell him. “Kinsey is what matters. I need to deal with my own bullshit in my own time and focus on her – on making sure we’ve got a roof over our heads.”
Tyson’s smile is warm and filled with love. He reaches across the table and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“I know this is hard. I know he left a pretty big hole inside of you,” he says.
I nod. “That he did. As much as I hate to admit it.”
“Well, maybe having him come back into your life is the hand of fate at work. Not only was it fortuitous in its timing, now that you need to find a place to live,” Tyson muses. “But maybe, it’s serendipitous in that you can perhaps find a way to finally heal from the wounds he gave you.”
“Or maybe, God just wanted to screw with me because he was bored and needed to be amused.”
Tyson shrugs. “Yeah, it could be that too.”
He finally gets me to smile. The dark cloud over my head lifts – if only just a bit and only for a moment. On some level, I know that holding onto my anger toward Roman for all of these years is irrational. But I can’t help it. I really felt like we connected in Syria. I really felt like a bond had formed between us. It was like he unlocked something inside of me, and I felt an attachment to him I’ve never felt for anybody. The depth of the emotion I carried for him was overwhelming. He got me to let my guard down.
And then he ghosted me and left me feeling – used. Dirty. Cheap. He took what I felt for him and used it to get me into bed. And once he got what he wanted; he was out of there. Yeah, I’m pissed at him for it – even still. But more than anything, I’m pissed at myself for letting him in and allowing myself to get played like that.
“I’m sorry to be so indelicate about it,” Tyson’s voice is soft and warm. “I just worry about you and Kinsey. You know I love you both. You’re my family.”
“I know. And you know we love you too,” I reply. “And you have nothing to be sorry for. I know I’m being irrational, and I know that sometimes, I need a kick in the ass.”
He laughs softly. “That’s true. Sometimes you do.”
“Well, I appreciate you being willing to give it to me.”
“You can count on it anytime,” he smiles, then leans forward, his expression earnest. “You can count on me anytime too.”
I nod and give his hand a squeeze in return. For as miserable as I feel – and can be sometimes – it’s good to know I have somebody in my corner.
“I don’t even know what to do,” I admit. “I mean, I don’t want to go over there and demand money from him like I’m an extortionist or something.”
“So I suppose just going to a lawyer and having him drop a demand for child support – as well as back support – is out of the question?” he muses.
“Yeah, I really don’t want to go the court and lawyer route if we can avoid it,” I tell him. “I don’t want this to be – ugly.”
“I understand that,” he nods. “If Kinsey is going to have any kind of a relationship with her father, we don’t want it starting off on adversarial footing.”
The thought of Kinsey and Roman having a relationship sends a chill washing through me. If they have a relationship, that means I’m going to be in regular contact with Roman – which does not sound appealing to me at all. Tyson screws his face up as he thinks. He takes a sip of his coffee, and I see his mind working as he looks at the problem. Finally, he looks back to me.
“Well then, the best way to go about it is to make him think it was his idea all along,” he says simply.
“And how am I going to do that?”
He shrugs. “Subtle hints. Small clues here and there.”
“Yeah, because we both know I do subtle really well.”
“Use your womanly charms on him, honey,” he grins. “I know you have those in spades.”
“That makes exactly one of us,” I laugh. “Honestly, with the way I left things with him, I don’t know that he’ll even want to see me again.”
“That bad huh?”
“Worse.”
“Yeah, I may need to rethink your ability to use your womanly charms.”
I laugh ruefully. “Gee, thanks.”
Then Tyson smiles, as if an idea has suddenly occurred to him. I can practically see the light bulb flash to life over his head.
“I have to go into the hospital for a follow up soon,” he confides in me. “Maybe it would be a good idea to have you and Kinsey along for the ride? And maybe there, you can accidentally run into him and let nature take its course?”
As I look at him, I see a mischievous glint in his eye. I immediately know what he’s thinking. I shake my head as a wry laugh escapes me.
“No, this is not going the way you think it is,” I say. “Nature will most definitely not be taking that course.”
“Are you so sure? I mean, the longer we sit here, and I listen to you talk about him, the more convinced I become that there’s something more beneath the surface there,” he presses. “You’re just so – passionate. Emotional. And usually you’re so tightly-controlled with your emotions that it’s unusual. An oddity in you.”
“A thousand percent positive,” I declare. “That is never going to happen. Ever. Never.”
He gives me a small shrug. “You never know.”
“Trust me, I know,” I state. “I have no interest in Roman Wheeler. Zero. None.”
“You just hold onto so much anger for him,” he says. “And they say anger and passion are very similar. In fact, they say that anger is just passion seen beneath a different light, but if you change the light –”
“I don’t know who ‘they’ are, but they’re so wrong. Totally and completely wrong.”
“Huh. Okay,” he raises his eyebrows, sounding totally unconvinced. “Well, I still think it would be a good idea for the two of you to come to the hospital with me. I think, if nothing else, it can at least start the ball rolling on getting him to pay you what he owes.”
I sigh and sit back in my chair. “This all feels so – manipulative.”
“Oh, it is,” Tyson says. “But sometimes, a little manipulation is necessary to get what it is we really want. Or in your case, what you really need.”
I tug on the ends of my hair, frustrated. Of course he’s right. I don’t have first and last month’s rent – let alone a security deposit on a new place – saved up. Unless I want Kinsey and I to end up in a shelter, I’m going to have to ask Roman to pay what he owes. And as distasteful as it is, I need to accept the fact that I’ll have to use every means at my disposal to make it happen.
19
Roman
“And how do you know El?” the man asks.
“We met shortly after I moved to Los Angeles,” I respond. “And we’ve been tight ever since.”
The man nods. “He’s a good lawyer,” the man replies.
The man sitting in a chair across the desk from me – Liam Breslow – is tall. He’s maybe six-one, or six-two, and he’s got grey hair and blue eyes. He’s lean and fit, though he’s not bulging with muscles. He’s more or less – average. As
I look at him, I realize there really is not one remarkable thing about this man. Nothing that would ever make him stand out in your mind. He’s so nondescript that you could have an hour-long conversation with him – and then forget who he was five minutes later. He was just – plain. Ordinary. Totally and completely forgettable. Which, I suppose, is one of the things that makes him good at his job.
Reaching down into the bottom drawer of my desk, I pull out a box and set it on my desk. His eyes remain on the box as I slide it over to him. He opens the top and with a smile, pulls out the green bottle inside.
“Elliott also said you’re a connoisseur of whiskey, and that I should have some on hand,” I tell him.
He laughs as he admires the bottle. “El is a very wise man,” he says, and then whistles low, speaking almost reverently. “A twelve-year-old single malt whiskey distilled in Japan. Your taste is exquisite, Doctor Wheeler.”
Liam finally looks up from the bottle with a wide smile on his face and then looks around the office. I can tell he’s looking for a pair of glasses.
“Sorry,” I say. “They tend to frown on boozing it up in our offices.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” he says. “I suppose I’ll just have to enjoy this delicacy on my own later.”
“I hope you do enjoy it,” I tell him.
Setting the box down beside his chair, Liam pulls his briefcase into his lap, enters a passcode, which reveals a key slot, takes out a key and opens the top. It’s a nice-looking case. Thoroughly modern, obviously. Honestly, I’d remember that case before I ever remembered the man if I saw them both in a crowd.
“Pretty secure case,” I say.
“I keep my materials safe and unseen,” he explains.
“You take your security seriously.” I nod.
He grins. “I do. And I take your security seriously, which is why any and all paperwork I generate on your case, including reports I write for you, are kept in here. Nobody but you or I will ever see them.”