“Exactly, oh shit.”
“Are you . . .? I mean, is it—”
“Mine?”
I didn’t want to just come out and ask, but after what I saw last weekend I have to wonder.
“She messes with me, but she’s a good girl. I don’t think she’d fuck anyone else.” He groans. “Hell, I don’t know what I know. No way I’m asking her now though. She hasn’t stopped crying in days.”
“So you’re pulling out of your dad’s shit to . . . what?”
“What do you mean to what? Take care of my kid, my woman, what the fuck you think?” It’s only natural for me to doubt his intentions. The guy fucks up things without even trying.
“Good to hear, D. Really. So, this Vegas thing, is it like a one last hurrah and then you’re out?”
“Something like that.” He mumbles something I can’t make out. “Shit. I gotta run. Saturday night. I’ll see you there.”
“I can’t guarantee—” The line goes dead.
Fuck.
I pop my phone back into my armband and take a swig of water. This is good. Drake’s moving towards cutting ties with his dad, and although getting his girl pregnant wasn’t in the plan, it’s helping him to man up. Can’t be angry about that.
I’ll go to Caesars Saturday night and see what his dickhead dad has to say; then hopefully Drake can put all this shit behind him for good.
Trix
Midnight.
Officially five days now since Hatch walked out of my life. Again.
Every day that comes and goes feels like fingernails slowly raking across my skin, digging deeper each pass they make, elevating my irritation. Hours, minutes, seconds tick by and all of it is wasted time. Time I could be spending with Mason.
A pathetic growl gurgles in my throat as I toss the contents of my dresser drawers onto my bed. Organizing has always managed to calm me when I’m angry. Sorting through my belongings, tossing the old shit, and arranging the still wearable.
I separate my shorts between casual and dress-up, throwing some of the worn pairs to the floor with more force than necessary.
How long will I wait before I give up and resume my life?
I told myself a few weeks, but here I am almost a week into it, and I’m ready to give up and launch myself into Mason’s arms for good.
Svetlana’s gone and Mason’s here, alive and wanting me, just as much as I want him. Neither of us deserves this torture.
As if summoned from my thoughts, I find a photo beneath my clothes pile. Bright shining eyes and her barely there smile. Svetlana.
I flip it over in my hand. It’s her passport photo.
She had plans to do missionary work with my dad at the orphanage we were adopted from in Russia. She’d had her photo taken, and days after she died, it was delivered in the mail.
Giving hope to all those children in the orphanage who feel completely forgotten was something she’d talked about for years. The last known picture of her is a sick stab to the heart.
Dammit. The senselessness of it all racks my body, and I drop to my knees at my bedside, resting my forehead against the mattress and pressing the photo to my chest.
“Why, God? Why did you have to take her? You had plans for her, plans that were bigger and better. I know you’re capable of using even the worst tragedies for good, but how, God? How can this ever be made good?”
I wait, listening with not my ears but with my heart. Waiting for an answer, a divine intercession that would throw me back and help me to see the purpose to it all.
But I get nothing.
“So that’s it, huh? Maybe some people aren’t worth your help.” Anger boils deep in my chest. I push up off the ground with my fists balled, crunching Lana’s picture in my palm. Not that it matters. She wasn’t important enough to God for him to save her. I’m not important enough for him to give me direction in all this.
With a primal roar, I lash out, sweeping my arm over my bed and sending my neat piles of clothes sailing across the room. Why can’t this just be over? A deep sob forms in my chest, but I refuse to give into my weakness. Sadness is pointless. Anger is motivating.
The low growl of a motorcycle filters in from my open bedroom window. Listening hard, I concentrate as the rumble grows louder and louder. I wait for the sound to reach my driveway, fully expecting it to continue by as the rest of them have these last five days.
But this one doesn’t.
Holy shit, he’s here.
Panicked, I race to the mirror, pinch my cheeks, and practice my fake look of indifference. Good enough.
I race to the front door just as I hear the motorcycle engine cut off. Crap, I can’t fling the door open right when he walks up. I scurry to my couch, flipping on the TV and trying to look casual just as the knock comes at the front door.
“Hold on.” With a deep breath, I force my feet to drag. “I’m coming.”
When I open the door, my heart jumps and quickly sinks. It’s Hatch.