*
“You keep running your hand over your head like that, Cujo, you’re going to lose hair.”
Pixie smiled as they turned onto I-195 toward the airport. His tick gave him away. In truth, she was as nervous as he was.
“Yeah, well, the idea of you heading to another country on your own is facilitating hair loss. I think Drea and I should come along for backup.”
“You freaking out is not helping, Dad.”
“Funny! I feel like your father right now. Feel like I should sit on the porch in a rocker holding a double barrel, scare the fucker off.”
With her flight around half past seven in the morning, Cujo had insisted on picking her up shortly before five. When she first met Cujo all those years ago, it had taken her months to figure out why this guy would look out for her the way he did. His capacity to care for others was larger than anyone she’d ever met.
“I’m fine, Cujo. Honestly.” It was an exaggeration, but there was no need for him to know she’d debated cancelling.
Even now, she could still make the call. Arnie’s visit had left her rattled. His touch had left an invisible layer of dirt on her skin, one that couldn’t be scrubbed off in the shower.
The evening after his visit, she’d kicked herself for not asking more about her mom. Questions had crowded her mind as silvery slivers of moonlight weaved their way across her bedroom ceiling. Were they still together? Or worse, was her mom aware of what Arnie was doing? Thoughts of her mom condoning his actions turned Pixie’s stomach until the cramps forced her to curl up in a tight ball. Perhaps they’d separated and her mom had finally gotten clean. Pixie knew firsthand how hard it was to come down off all the pills she’d used to numb herself. Her own first couple of weeks in rehab were excruciating. Facing memories of what she’d endured without anything to take the edge off a perpetual nightmare that wouldn’t end. She’d cried for days.
“Say the word, Pix, and I’ll hop the plane with you.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m not a child. I don’t need a chaperone. You wouldn’t come with me if I went on a date in Miami. This is no different. I’ll be fine,” she said, patting his shoulder.
“It’s not you I’m worried about, it’s me. I feel like I’m taking my kid to her first day of college and I am so not fucking ready.”
Pixie laughed again. “I’m not that much younger, only ten years.”
“I’m not sure it’s the age thing, Pix. Remember my promise?”
She’d not been able to afford any kind of rehab, but Trent and Cujo had paid for outpatient treatment at a clinic. In the months that followed, it had become apparent they were both on really tight budgets while they started the studio, which made their support all the more meaningful. Trent had told her once about the moment they saw her in the doorway to the shop. She’d reminded them of Kit, his sister who had resorted to cutting herself at about the same age as Pixie was when they found her. They’d felt compelled to help.
Cujo had driven her to her first appointment. It was the kind of day you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. Her mouth was drier than the sand on South Beach, and her head pounded, but she’d been determined to not take any painkillers. The only parking spot had been a block away. The walk to the rehab center felt like a death march. Self-doubt the consistency of syrup pushed its way through her veins, sluggish and dark. What if she failed?
“You can do this,” Cujo said.
How had he known what she was thinking? “I don’t know that I can,” she replied honestly.
“Yeah, you can. You aren’t alone, Pixie. I’m here for you. I promise.”
“Like my boyfriend?” she asked, sickened at the thought of what he might expect in return.
“No, Pix. I’m nowhere near good enough, and I’m too fucking old for you. But I’ll replace every shithead that let you down.”
“I remember,” she whispered.
“Well, I meant it then, and I do now.”
Pixie sat in silence. She owed Cujo and Trent more than they would ever understand. There wasn’t a way to repay them. Which was part of the reason she felt bad about wanting to start her dress business. She didn’t want to leave Trent or Cujo, but she wanted the opportunity to grow, and possibly make more money so she could get her own place. They’d tried to teach her to tattoo, both of them having the patience of Job, but she was never going to be close to their skills, and it was time they all admitted it.
Cujo pulled up at the terminal and got out of the car. Pixie dropped down from the truck as he pulled her suitcase from the back.
“Okay,” he said, setting the small case on its wheels. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a white envelope. “I got you this. If you don’t use it, you can give it back to me when you come home.”
Pixie opened the envelope to find a credit card.
“It’s preloaded with six hundred dollars.”