Smith leans over and presses a soft kiss right above my right brow, and my heart catches. “Come down tonight and have a beer when you’re up and around. I’ll save your regular seat for you.” He gives me that crooked smile I’ve grown to be fond of, to say the least, and then leaves, the door clicking softly behind him.
I lie there and let my mind wander as I think about what it’s been like staying here the past few days. Smith isn’t uptight about things at all. He has three full bottles of ketchup in the fridge, because he says he keeps forgetting and then buys another. Clearly not someone who’d get mad and shame me for a duplicate now and then.
And in the quiet of the morning or night, when we’re lying together, we talk. He tells me what his childhood with his dad was like—how his father was a hothead just like them, quick to bellow, but he always had a big smile and a big heart, and he made time for his boys. He even was careful to spend one-on-one time with each of them. Smith’s love of the man is evident in how he speaks of him.
He’s even talked about his mom, a couple of memories he has. Mostly of the way she smelled like flowers, and how she liked to sing as she washed dishes. He doesn’t know why she left, and I think the open-endedness is what hurts him most of all. No closure.
I told him about my parents, how they’re kind but distant, not very affectionate. I grew up an only child. Listening to stories Smith tells about the trouble he and his brothers got into as kids—setting the middle school Dumpster on fire, trying to skateboard down the smooth rail of the library’s steep steps, making a potato gun and accidentally searing off Asher’s eyebrows…
I find myself smiling and wiggle my aching toes. I want to know his brothers better, though I think maybe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. They’ve only come by once since I’ve been here, and they spent all of five minutes in the apartment, barely giving me a hello. Does my presence bother them? Are they upset about Smith putting himself in danger to help me out with the Roger situation?
I yawn again and sink deeper into the couch cushions. I should make an effort to talk to his brothers. After all, I’m living here now. I need all the friends I can get. The tiny voice in the back of my head says that I also want to know them simply because they’re related to Smith.
I want to know more about him.
I find myself drifting to sleep. I’m not sure how long I’m conked out, but my phone vibrating in my pocket jerks me awake. I rub the sleep from my eyes and glance around the room. The late afternoon sun has dimmed the living room quite a bit.
Crud, someone texted me earlier too, and I forgot to check it. I dig into my pocket and procure the phone, then look at the messages.
They’re both from a number I don’t recognize.
Do you miss me? I haven’t seen you at your place. Where are you?
And then the next, sent only a moment ago.
What the fuck. I just saw you with a man. Is he the one you left me for, you fucking bitch? I knew it. You’re a lying whore.
My heart jumps to my throat. How in the hell has Roger found me? How does he know where I live and my new cell phone number? Only a few people have that information right now. I know Michaela would never have told on pain of death. Hell, she’s the one who encouraged me to get the hell out of the relationship.
A sinking feeling hits my gut as a suspicion blooms in my mind. They wouldn’t, would they?
My hands are shaking as I pull up my mom’s number and call her. It rings twice, then she picks up.
“I was wondering when I was going to hear from you again,” Mom says lightly. “You’ve been so busy working. Don’t they give you days off?”
I swallow and struggle to keep my emotions level. My mom responds poorly to me being emotional, a fact I learned a long time ago. “Mom, I need to ask you something.”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Have you talked to Roger since I left?”
Her end of the line goes silent. And now I have my answer. Betrayal hits me square in the chest. How could she? I told her our relationship was bad, though I didn’t give her the details so as not to upset her. And still, she talked to him.
Maybe I should have given her all the gory details though. Maybe then she’d finally get it and stop viewing him as someone who should be given another chance.
Mom clears her throat. “Well, Roger came by a week or so ago and he just seemed so contrite. I felt bad. He was even crying. What was I supposed to do, be cruel and tell him I couldn’t help him? He just wants to be with you—he loves you so much and he doesn’t understand what happened.” Her tone turns sharp. “And by the way, you didn’t tell me you just left him while he was at work. I didn’t teach you to run away from your responsibilities like that.”
I’m so mad right now I’m shaking. Is she really chastising me over protecting myself? It’s tempting to hang up, but I’m not letting it go like this. Not this time. I suck in a breath and then I tell my mom everything.