My mom. My sister. My job.
“So, you’ve sorted things out with Liberty then?” he presses, like every other time he’s tried to engage with me today.
“I didn’t say that.”
It’s only been two days since I promised Liberty space. Two days since I stood there, holding her in my arms while she laid into me. Two days of trying to figure out how I’m going to fix this mess I’ve put us in. I wish I knew what I was doing. If I could go back to the night I walked out on her, I would. But I can’t. And now I don’t know what to do. I’m torn. Part of me wants to march over there and demand she let’s me back into her life, but the other part—the part that’s scared I’m going to lose her completely—has me holding back. I have to figure out what she needs from me to trust me again.
“Well, in that case, maybe you should open your wallet up a little wider and order two bouquets of flowers.” Fox, oblivious to my inner turmoil, continues to play with me.
“Liberty’s not the kind of woman you win over with flowers.” I reject his jab. If my fuck-ups were fixed by a simple bouquet of flowers, I’d have dropped into Walmart for a ten-dollar bunch last week when she ripped me a new one about not showing up for Mitch.
No, I need more.
Something deeper.
I need to be smart here and think this through before making my move.
“Well, you got me there,” he agrees, clicking his tongue. “So, what are you doing to win her back?” The question is loaded. Careful, but also challenging.
“I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Figures.” He laughs outright, and I weigh up the dangers of what a blow to his arm while traveling at eighty miles down the freeway might cause.
Too much danger. I’ll get the prick later.
“Shut the fuck up, Fox. Like you have any better advice.” It may be an insult, but it also may be my way of prodding. Either way, I’m not about to admit I’m hoping he will share some sage advice.
“I’ll have you know I was very romantic when I was married.” He takes my bait, and the downtown loop exit, driving us closer to our destination.
“She turned out to be a bitch, so I stopped.” It’s my turn to laugh now. He shoots me a look that tells me while he may prefer to be rudimentary, there is well-hidden charm in there somewhere.
“Okay, so what the fuck should I be doing?” I swallow my pride and finally ask for help. I’ve always been the type of person who’s never been comfortable asking for things. Before I started seeing Dr. Anderson, I would have shut down this line of conversation, but if I have learned anything in the last three weeks, it’s that asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness. Isolating myself for self-preservation doesn’t work. I needed help, in any form.
“You need to remind her why she fell in love with you. Show her you’re willing to do anything she wants.” The concept sounds simple, but there is one fundamental flaw.
“Yeah, well it’s hard to remind her of anything if she won’t talk to me.” I cringe, recalling how the last two nights I’ve resorted to talking to her through our bedroom wall. She hasn’t acknowledged me yet. But I’m not giving up.
“Patience is overrated, Hetch. Stop being a *. Just claim her back.”
Just claim her back?
That’s all he has?
“We’re not talking about a lost piece of property here, Fox. We’re talking about my woman. The woman I hurt.”
“The woman fell in love with your demanding ass, didn’t she? She thinks she wants time. She doesn’t know what she wants.”
He has a fair point. I did manage to get her in my bed by claiming what’s mine, but this is different. This is about respecting what Liberty needs. Sure, I’ve wanted and needed things so desperately before that I’ve taken them without any worry or repercussions, but there’s a saying my father used to quote, “You get the chicken by hatching the egg, not by smashing it.”
Pushing Liberty too fast would smash everything we have. I’m not willing to do it, no matter how desperate I may seem.
“She won’t go for it. I need something else. I need to prove to her I’m serious.”
I wait for his wise words, but they don’t come.
“Are you serious?” His words are dragged out, each one enunciated clearly. Not because he’s unsure of the question, but because he wants the question to be heard. “Or is this some * you’ve got your head messed up with?”
“Fuck you, asshole.” This time, I do punch his shoulder, the cruiser only shifting a little unsteadily from the impact. Fox curses before righting his arms back on the steering wheel.
“Don’t talk about my woman’s * ever again, fucker.” He doesn’t have a chance to reply before the radio crackles with a code ten SWAT pre-call up and our conversation comes to a grinding halt. Fox turns the SUV away from the direction of Cherry Lane Flowers, heading straight to where we’re needed.
It looks like Mom isn’t getting flowers today.