“It’s not worth it. Whatever it is, it’s not worth it,” he says and sets my phone back down on the desk before he stands, hops down the stairs, and heads down the hall. I pull myself up to my desk and eye the texts that have been coming in since I left.
OUT FOR WALK. BACK NOW, I text back and then put my phone on silent and shove it in my purse. Lydia ambushing me sucked, but the fact that she felt the need to do it sucks even more. Chief Delgado’s words ring in my ears.
It’s not worth it.
Only, I think he might be.
Christmas
Chapter 10
Jameson
One Week until Christmas
“If one more person tries roasting chestnuts over an open fire this season, I’m gonna start roasting their nuts,” Hennessey gripes from beside me.
We’ve just gotten back to the house from a call where a couple of teenagers tried to roast chestnuts . . . in their fireplace. It didn’t end well. There were no injuries, but there’s substantial damage to their fireplace, surrounding walls, and what is, apparently, their parents’ antique spoon collection.
This last call was just the icing on the cake of this crappy day. Yesterday we responded to a hot dog cart fire, which pissed us all off. It was our favorite hot dog vendor, who suffered minor burns, but his cart had been lobbed with a gas-drenched rag that had been lit on fire. I don’t know who the fuck would want to do that to Carlos, but it’s fucked.
And the worst part is Carlos was freaking out and making it hard for us to help him—he was on fire, ya know—and I couldn’t help but think how Mel is going to miss his Italian sausages if he goes out of business. Then I started thinking about how fucking stupid it is that she won’t return my calls. And that led to a bad mood where I ended up snapping at some old man for complaining about where I parked the truck. I was putting out a man on fire, so excuse the fuck out of me. So I sent Mel a text to let her know about Carlos—because she’s crazy and wants to know stuff like this. She’s probably been down to the hospital to visit him already. For a woman who professes to have few friends, she makes them everywhere she goes. She’s just nice to almost everyone. Except for me because, again, she’s not returning my fucking calls. Or texts. I tried email, and that was a no-go.
I know she flew in for the holidays two days ago. I saw it on Facebook. And I know the last time we spoke she asked for space, but that was before Thanksgiving, so she’s had space. And my mood isn’t helped by the fact that she and Royal had dinner together last night, and not only did neither of them invite me, but neither even told me about it.
Not that they can’t have dinner without me, but you would think my own sister wouldn’t shut me out when it comes to Lulu.
Only, she doesn’t really know what Lulu means to me.
Not yet, anyway.
Soon enough, everyone is going to know what she means to me. The lease on my apartment is up in March, so after the holidays I’m going to sit Lydia down and let her know this isn’t working. She already knows we’re headed here—I can feel it—but neither of us has had the guts to say it yet. Right before Thanksgiving, I almost did it, but we had this big family dinner planned, and it was too late for her to book a ticket to spend the holiday with her folks in Maine. I almost did it before Halloween. She wanted to go to a costume party, I didn’t, and she went anyway—wearing a tiny fucking schoolgirl uniform—and I didn’t care. I used to care. It used to make me go all caveman and want her to cover up, the idea of men looking at her. Instead, this year I spent the night laying on the couch and looking at pictures Mel was tagged in at some frat party. In one picture, some douche was pinning her to his side and kissing her cheek. She was in a cute kitten suit.
A last-minute red-eye ticket to New Orleans was going to cost me four-hundred and ninety-six dollars. I hovered over the purchase link for about a half an hour before giving up and shutting the computer down. If I’d gone, I’d have never made it back in time for my shift the next day. What the fuck was I supposed to tell the Chief I was doing out of town instead of on shift the next day?
So I’ve held on this long, not exactly pretending to be happy, but not yet voicing how unhappy I am. Now I’m about a month out from taking the first step to ending this nightmare. Lydia will be happier. She has to be.
“I’m clocking out,” I say to Hennessey, who is doing a double check of the rig to make sure all her shit has been put back where it belongs.
“You do that,” he says. “I’m almost done here myself.”
“Yeah, you got plans?” I’m desperate enough to get out of my own head that I’ll willingly dive into H’s. His eyes dart to me and then back to what he’s doing in a strange, reluctant movement. I know that move. He doesn’t want to share, which isn’t like him. My little brother gets off on sharing. Even when we were kids, he couldn’t keep a fucking thing to himself.
“Spill or I’m on the phone to Mom,” I say and pull my mobile out of my pocket.