Peter cleared his throat. “Usually not. But it depends on how many wars we’re fighting,” he told her. “And how badly they need men with my particular skills. I do see your point, though. I also have to face harsh reality. And mine is that as much as I want to be Maddie’s dad, and as glad as I am that she finally seems ready to talk, that she reached out to you in that text—she still might never fully accept me. And I might have to face the fact that living with me might be too upsetting—too toxic—for her.” He exhaled hard. “And I know that sounds a lot like what I did before—just letting her go. But she needs to feel safe in her own home, and if I can’t give that to her…we’ll have to find an alternative. Maybe boarding school—someplace great, though. And this time I will insist on weekly visits. And every other weekend. So I’m going to want to live relatively close to wherever she lives, and if that’s Palm Springs, then yes, I’ll have a lot of free time.” He shrugged as he glanced at her again. “So that’s my worst-case scenario plan. What’s yours?”
“Well, it was alleviate the current torture that is the writing of this latest book by daily conjugal visits in the back of your garage, while hoping like hell that this is just a phase, and someday, soon, please God, I’ll wake up to find that I want to write again,” she admitted. “But if your garage is suddenly in Palm Springs, the frequency of those visits will have to change.”
“Hoping things will change is not a plan,” Peter chided her. “Don’t writers need inspiration and, I don’t know, periods of renewal? Maybe you shouldn’t write. And I don’t mean the not-writing that you’re doing where you, what? Sit there and try to write and don’t?”
She nodded.
“That’s gotta suck. Maybe your plan should be to lock up your computer for a month, or six months, or a year,” he said. “In the meantime, you can go on a vision quest to rediscover your muse.”
“Yeah, right, my muse.” She laughed. “Sorry, but that’s not a real thing. If I waited to be inspired by some kind of muse, I would simply never write.”
“So a muse is not a real thing like the way you thought writers’ block wasn’t a real thing?”
Shayla looked at him. “You’re, like, the world’s best listener,” she said. “I never actually realized there might be a downside to that.”
He ignored her. “You write love stories, right?” he asked.
“Romances,” she corrected him. “Love stories are diff—”
“Okay, yes, sorry, you write romances. Two people meet and earn their happy ending. And they lived happily ever after. How do you write stories like that when your heart’s been vaporized? How did you describe it? A complete Alderaan.”
“And you know what?” Shayla told him. “Here’s what I should be thinking. Wow, Lisa’s an idiot, because this man would win the Olympic gold medal in relationship communication. Instead, I think What kind of freak remembers that kind of detail? Why is he paying such close attention to the things I say? When is he going to turn into a monster?”
And there it was.
Peter glanced at her again, his eyes narrowing. “Did Carter…? Nah, there’s no way you’d let Tevin and Frank near him if he—”
“Beat the shit out of me?” Shay asked. “Damn right, I wouldn’t. No, it was Kate, my best friend—former best friend—who kept needing to go to the emergency room. But she wouldn’t leave him—her husband. She kept coming to me for help, and I kept thinking, This time she’s finally going to leave and be safe, but she always went back, and I couldn’t take it—having my hopes dashed like that. And I knew I had to put distance between us, because I wanted to save her even though she didn’t want to be saved, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stay away, and I pushed too hard, and he finally managed to turn her against me. She cut ties with me, completely. She changed her phone number and…I know they moved about a year ago, but I don’t know where. Every now and then I email her, hoping…But she never responds. And all I can do is force myself not to think about it. About her. But it’s always back there—my dread of what’s coming. Because someday he’ll kill her, he will—that’s how it works—and all of his friends and co-workers will finally go Oh, my God, he seemed like such a nice guy, maybe that crazy lady who sent us those emails saying he was a monster wasn’t lying after all. But Kate’ll be dead and I’ll hate myself even more than I do right now. And until then, and maybe for the rest of my life, as a bonus, I’ll look hard at every man I meet, thinking, Is there a monster hiding under that good-natured smile? And How do you abuse your wife or girlfriend, when no one’s around to see? And when I’m in a really dark place, I’ll think, Well, maybe you’re one of the ‘good’ ones, and you’ll only lie and cheat, the way Carter did—the way I’m pretty sure he does to Tiffany right now.” She forced herself to laugh. “And please don’t panic. I know this all is extremely heavy. And see, this is why it’s a really good thing that you and I are just friends—who occasionally go out on dinner-dates so that I don’t disappoint my boys, thank you very much.”
“No expectations, no strings, no chance of getting hurt,” Peter said. “I get it now. I do. I’m glad you finally told me that. And you’re right—you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. You just can’t. But, Jesus, I’m so sorry…” He glanced at her again. “For the record, I would never…I’m not…”
“I know,” Shay said. Or, in truth, she thought she knew—and as he glanced at her again, she knew that he knew what she was thinking.
“Time heals all wounds,” he said, then smiled. “Since I’m not a writer, I’m allowed to use clichés. But it’s true. Time is really the only thing that can counter broken trust. I’ve experienced that, from both ends. My heart was also vaporized,” he reminded her. “But I’ve recently discovered—to my surprise—that it grew back. Yours will, too.” He glanced at her. “And maybe, when it finally does, you’ll be able to write again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dingo came out of the motel office and got back into his car. “It’s eighty-nine dollars, plus taxes and something called a resort fee, which is insane. This place should have a shithole fee, instead.”
“That’s too much,” Maddie said.
“I know, but I think we should stay here anyway. Well, you should. I’m going to sleep in the car.”
She was incredulous. “Then, what’s even the point?”
“Mads, I’m not sleeping in a motel room with you. In the morning, I’ll come in to take a shower. And that’s the point.”
“Not really,” she argued. “We might be clean, but we’ll still stink because we’re wearing these shitty, dirty clothes. We’re not far enough from Manzanar, anyway. Just, drive.”
He sighed as he pulled out of the motel parking lot and onto Route 395, and tried his accent. “Lookit, love, I’m exhausted.”
“So then let’s find a side street,” Maddie said. “Here. Turn left—East Inyo Street—it looks like it goes back behind the high school.”
He took the left, shaking his head at his own lack of backbone as she continued, “Let’s just drive until we don’t see any more houses, and then pull off and sleep. I really don’t want to spend any more money—all dinner did was make me tired again.”
They’d had some pretty decent BBQ for a relatively low price—the early-bird special—but she was right. Dingo’s full stomach was making it even harder to keep his eyes open.
“I’ll do this,” he told her, “but we’ll just take a nap. I’ll set my phone alarm for a few hours, okay? And when we wake up, we’re finally going to talk. About keeping that meeting tomorrow with Shayla and your father.”
She sighed, an exaggerated exhale of exasperation. “God, Dingo.”
“Not God, yes,” he pushed. “Yes, Dingo, we’ll talk.”
“All right,” she said.
“Say it.”
She rolled her eyes, and her tone was mocking. “Yes, Dingo, we’ll talk.”