She whirled on her heel and rushed out of the kitchen, grabbing her jacket and flinging the front door open.
I made an angry grunt and ran after her. God, why was I so irrationally furious? I wanted to stop this fight, I wanted to rewind and come in the house again and be prepared for this conversation, handle it differently, let go of the irate fear that was still racing through my veins, but I couldn’t seem to let it go. I followed her out through the front door and onto the porch.
Lia was already in the front yard, but suddenly, she whirled around and raced back toward me. I came up short so I wouldn’t collide with her. “I’m not traipsing all over the world, Preston. I know I have responsibilities. I went to the camp to take food to the people who live there because they’re hungry. I was with a group, and I was never in danger. And moreover, they’re not dangerous. They’re just people. People who are poor and hungry and who’ve risked everything, risked hardship, and loneliness, and even death for the only reason anyone risks those things: for love. For the hope of providing their children with the basic human needs so many take for granted. They don’t ask for much—just a place to belong. And yet they don’t belong here, and they don’t belong in their own country anymore. Maybe they don’t belong anywhere, or at least that’s how it feels!”
She was shaking and her words took my breath, making me feel confused and suddenly uncertain. She turned away and then turned back, and I saw tears in her eyes. “The drought has affected them, too, and they have nothing to fall back on. Nothing. They pick food nine hours a day and yet they can barely feed themselves let alone their children. Can you even imagine the fear of that? Have you ever even thought about it?”
“I—”
“If they don’t work the fields, who will?”
I let out a breath, running my hand through my gritty-feeling hair. “Lia, I know—”
“Who will? Is anyone else applying for those jobs?”
“No, no one else applies for those jobs.” Every once in a while someone from town would take a job picking fruits or vegetables on our farm, but they generally didn’t last long. It was hot, hard, dirty, and dangerous work, and it was true—Americans preferred to make minimum wage working fast food than picking lettuce. “Goddammit, Lia, I appreciate every man and woman who works on my farm.” I was confused and didn’t know how the conversation had turned in this direction.
“You appreciate them, but they’re dangerous?”
“No, I didn’t mean that. I just meant people in general can be dangerous, and a migrant camp doesn’t provide any safety.”
“I walked every back road and farm row in this area growing up, Preston Sawyer, and no one ever harmed me. So don’t lecture me about danger. The migrant workers I’ve met have only been kind and helpful.”
“For fuck’s sake! You’re purposefully misrepresenting me and making me sound like some kind of bad guy here. You know me better than that.”
She let out a sound of anger and turned again, calling from the door of her car, “I think I should go now before this goes any further.” Then she got in and drove away, leaving me feeling stunned and bewildered.
I was still standing there when my mother drove up, getting out of her car and looking at me strangely. “Was that Annalia I just passed? She’s not driving out of town again, is she? She didn’t even look at me as she passed and the expression on her face was—”
Stark terror raced up my spine, and I made a strangled sound of fear as I raced to my truck. “Hudson’s in bed. Will you listen for him until I get home?” I didn’t wait for my mother’s answer before I jumped inside my truck and pulled out of the driveway.
I barely even remembered the drive to Lia’s apartment. When I got there, her car was in the parking lot. Was she inside packing a bag? Would she get in her car and drive out of town leaving me with no idea where she’d gone? I took the stairs two at a time and used my fist to pound at her apartment door. It felt like my heart was coming out of my chest as I waited for an answer. Finally, the door was pulled open and Lia stared at me in shocked silence.
My eyes focused on the room behind her, scanning the space for any sign that she was leaving—an open suitcase, clothes on the bed—but I didn’t see anything. My gaze met hers again and I attempted to catch my breath, my chest rising and falling rapidly as we stared at each other from across the doorway.
“Preston—”
God, what the fuck was wrong with me? She wasn’t leaving. She’d told me she loved me. We’d danced in the Laundromat. She’d spent the day with Hudson and looked happy and satisfied. We were starting over and— “I’m sorry,” I choked. “For what I said. I’m sorry.” Don’t leave. It was too much. My emotions were overwhelming me, and I just needed to get my bearings. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Preston?” she called, confusion in her voice, but I walked to my truck, got inside, and drove home. My hands shook on the steering wheel the entire way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Annalia
Once again I drove down the dirt road toward Sawyer Farm and slowed to accommodate the bumps, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. The look on Preston’s face when he’d shown up at my door. It was . . . panicked terror. My stomach knotted with guilt and sadness. He’d looked over my shoulder, his eyes searching wildly, and I’d known he’d been looking for signs that I was leaving. He believed I was capable of disappearing again. Every ounce of anger from our argument had drained from my body leaving me weak with regret and heartache.
Oh, Preston.
Was that how he’d looked when he’d shown up at my mama’s apartment door the day after I really had left? Somehow I knew it was, and the knowledge was a sharp blade to my heart.
That year . . . that terrible year—punctuated only with the joy of the first time we laid eyes on our beautiful baby boy. I’d thought Preston hadn’t seen me, but I hadn’t seen him either. I hadn’t tried. I’d allowed myself to fade into the background and in doing so, had denied us both the affection, the closeness, the comfort we might have shared. I had squandered every opportunity by my unwillingness to make a fuss. I thought it was fair to forgive that, given the exhaustion of having a newborn, but if I had really loved Preston the right way, I should have tried to look past his defensive walls. I hadn’t made a fuss. I never made a fuss.
No more.
He’d left and I’d stood in the doorway for several long minutes, shocked by the desperation I’d seen on his face. We’d fought and because of it, he thought I might leave. His trust in me was still shaky, so easily fractured, and I honestly couldn’t blame him for that.