I told Sam this but what I didn’t tell him was one of the charities she went all out for was me.
By this time, I’d been married to Cooter for five years and there wasn’t much of me left. All my friends had said things, done things, I’d noticed the looks and they all avoided Cooter like the plague and not because he made it clear he didn’t like my friends around the house or me spending time with them (both of which he made very clear), but because they hated him for what he was doing to me and, by that point, they hated him so much they couldn’t be responsible for their actions or their words if they had to spend too much time with him.
But, after Rich died, Missy had approached me three times, each increasingly more assertive, to discuss what was happening to me or, more to the point, what Cooter was taking from me. Finally, I had to lay it out that Cooter and I were just fine, not perfect but happy and I’d done this in a way that was not mean or ugly but definitive.
After that, none of my friends said things or did things (but I still noticed the looks). And, sitting in that Lamborghini, it hit me that they didn’t probably because Missy warned them I was living the dysfunction and, until I got my head out of my ass, there was nothing they could do.
And I got this too. I loved them all enough to know that, even if a man had stripped away most of what was them; I’d take what was left rather than pushing something that might mean she’d take away anything I could get.
I pressed my lips together and tried to force this new knowledge out of my brain. I was failing at this when Sam spoke again, taking my attention and when he took it, the way he took it, he took all of it.
“So tell me, baby,” he asked gently, his tone in his deep, rough-like-velvet voice gliding along my skin, coating it with a sheen that was like an invisible barrier that I knew, if I had a lifetime of his voice stroking that soothing ointment along my skin, nothing would ever harm me and my head turned to him. “You get this, what do I do?”
I was lost in his voice, so lost, his question confused me. “What do you do?”
“Gordo was my boy, we spent a lot of time together, good times. He also had my back in some serious situations and there was no one I trusted more than him. Knowin’ Luci loves him like she does, witnessing her devotion even after he’s gone, gotta admit, Kia, I dig that. Gordo deserves that. But time is passing. She’s young and she’s got a life she isn’t livin’ because she’s dedicating hers to livin’ mine. How do I stop that?”
There was something about this question, an intimacy, a trust that threw me. I’d been in his presence three times and he was asking me a question the answer to which was beyond important. It was about friendship and the wrong answer could lead to the wrong action and might result in the end of their friendship and that could mean me giving him an answer that would guide him to a loss of something that was unbearable.
And, for some insane reason, I found my mouth telling him that.
And I did it like this, “I don’t know, honey. I don’t know Luci so I can’t say and I’d never give blind advice when something as important as friendship lies in the balance. Your friend, if he knew what would happen to him, would trust you to handle her with care. And I wouldn’t be handling her with care if I pretended to know the answer just for the sake of giving you one.”
Sam didn’t reply but the air in the car changed again. This wasn’t an intense pulse. But whatever it was shifted in like it was going to stay awhile, it was warm, languid and it had the kind of feel you wanted to float in forever.
I faced forward, trying to ignore the air and what it was doing to my state of mind and understanding of the world.
“Kia,” Sam called.
“Yeah,” I answered the windshield.
“Your friends handle you with care?”
Oh man.
Shit.
I closed my eyes and opened them, trying to think fast of how to answer without giving away any secrets.
When I did this by not speaking at all, undeterred, Sam compounded his question.
“His boys?”
I pressed my lips together.
Then I gave away a secret, I didn’t say much and hoped it wasn’t too much.
“Yes,” I answered his first question, paused then answered his second question softly, “and no.”
“Right,” he murmured, that word quiet but heavy with an easily read edge of harsh.
This said he got me and he gave a shit. This said he understood and he knew exactly what kind of “boys” Cooter had. And being a man, this meant he could probably guess a variety of ways, some of them likely accurate, of just how Cooter’s friends did not handle me with care not only after his death but prior to it.
And they hadn’t.
Well, it appeared I’d said three words and still I said too much.