feel my anxiety level rise dramatically, and I’m suddenly desperate to get her out of here.
"What's your warning?"
It’s taking all the self-control I have to keep from giving her another black eye. Another part of me is debating on whether to run out the back door.
"Do I have to explain it to you? Isn't it obvious?" She looks at me full-on, showing off her bruises.
"You have a black eye. What does that have to do with me?"
"Riley gave it to me. To show me what he planned to do to me if I didn't find you and report back to him. When I told him I found nothing, he did it again. And again." She wants sympathy from me. Is she serious?
"Well, he put me in the hospital."
Her jaw drops. "I didn't know that."
"I'm sure you didn’t. What I want to know is how and when he got out of jail."
"You know his father. Drug charges are enough to motivate him to act. He bailed him out."
Fucking fabulous. Drug charges. Is she kidding me? "I need to get back to work."
She stands up and I catch the first glimpse of her body. "Dear God, please tell me that's not Riley's," I say pointing to her easily six-month-pregnant belly. She flushes and looks down coquettishly at the floor. "Whatever you do, don't tell him that. I'm surprised you've managed to get away with it this long without him figuring it out," I whisper, remembering his reaction. I gently place my hand on my little mound. "That's how I ended up in the hospital."
In an instant, she starts crying. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."
"Get out of here, Becca, and get away from him," I say in a tight voice.
"I can't."
I feel a surge of pity as understanding washes through me. Becca’s situation is not much different than mine was. Walking away isn’t easy.
Neither of us says anything, and after a moment she leaves. Once she's gone I go over to Bartie. "Can I have a minute?"
"Sure, but stay close."
"Thanks." I turn to head off toward the bathroom.
Jesus. Becca looks like hell. I'm not sure if I should feel sorry for her or what. I am surprised that he lets her around him; she’s easily three months further along than I am. Which confirms that he was cheating on me. Becca, no doubt, is one of dozens of women out there with a Riley stamp on them, knocked up or otherwise. The thought brings chills, and I make a mental note to try and discuss some things with Dr. Alston on Friday.
I suddenly feel very dirty. I wash my face and arms, trying to shake the feeling.
It’s a slow night, and around eleven, the cook, Bart Jr., or BJ, who also happens to be Bartie’s nephew, tells me to take off early. I look at Nyssa for reassurance and she nods.
I step outside just in time to catch the next bus. As I'm climbing on board, I catch a glimpse of a man with slick, black hair and nice threads walking into the diner. He looks a lot like Mikah. But the bus takes off before I can ask the driver to let me out. I consider getting off at the next stop and walking back, but the next stop is a ways down the road; by the time I get back to the diner, he'll have left.
About forty minutes later we get to my stop. This driver isn't Al, so he doesn't linger. Right before I turn the corner, headlights come on across Lake Street, shining on me from behind. By the time I get to the door the headlights have moved on, just like the other times. And just like the other times, I look over my shoulder to see a sleek black Mercedes.
I'm exhausted tonight, so I forgo my shower and climb into bed, bringing the bag of goldfish crackers with me.
I smile at the thought that Mikah just might be trying to disobey my order to leave me alone, and then find myself comforted by the idea that it's him in the Mercedes making sure I get home okay. Though I’m wondering how he beat me to my apartment tonight, considering I got home an hour early and he had just been going into the diner when I left. Assuming that was him.
I realize after a few minutes that I've been absentmindedly rubbing my belly and
"What's your warning?"
It’s taking all the self-control I have to keep from giving her another black eye. Another part of me is debating on whether to run out the back door.
"Do I have to explain it to you? Isn't it obvious?" She looks at me full-on, showing off her bruises.
"You have a black eye. What does that have to do with me?"
"Riley gave it to me. To show me what he planned to do to me if I didn't find you and report back to him. When I told him I found nothing, he did it again. And again." She wants sympathy from me. Is she serious?
"Well, he put me in the hospital."
Her jaw drops. "I didn't know that."
"I'm sure you didn’t. What I want to know is how and when he got out of jail."
"You know his father. Drug charges are enough to motivate him to act. He bailed him out."
Fucking fabulous. Drug charges. Is she kidding me? "I need to get back to work."
She stands up and I catch the first glimpse of her body. "Dear God, please tell me that's not Riley's," I say pointing to her easily six-month-pregnant belly. She flushes and looks down coquettishly at the floor. "Whatever you do, don't tell him that. I'm surprised you've managed to get away with it this long without him figuring it out," I whisper, remembering his reaction. I gently place my hand on my little mound. "That's how I ended up in the hospital."
In an instant, she starts crying. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."
"Get out of here, Becca, and get away from him," I say in a tight voice.
"I can't."
I feel a surge of pity as understanding washes through me. Becca’s situation is not much different than mine was. Walking away isn’t easy.
Neither of us says anything, and after a moment she leaves. Once she's gone I go over to Bartie. "Can I have a minute?"
"Sure, but stay close."
"Thanks." I turn to head off toward the bathroom.
Jesus. Becca looks like hell. I'm not sure if I should feel sorry for her or what. I am surprised that he lets her around him; she’s easily three months further along than I am. Which confirms that he was cheating on me. Becca, no doubt, is one of dozens of women out there with a Riley stamp on them, knocked up or otherwise. The thought brings chills, and I make a mental note to try and discuss some things with Dr. Alston on Friday.
I suddenly feel very dirty. I wash my face and arms, trying to shake the feeling.
It’s a slow night, and around eleven, the cook, Bart Jr., or BJ, who also happens to be Bartie’s nephew, tells me to take off early. I look at Nyssa for reassurance and she nods.
I step outside just in time to catch the next bus. As I'm climbing on board, I catch a glimpse of a man with slick, black hair and nice threads walking into the diner. He looks a lot like Mikah. But the bus takes off before I can ask the driver to let me out. I consider getting off at the next stop and walking back, but the next stop is a ways down the road; by the time I get back to the diner, he'll have left.
About forty minutes later we get to my stop. This driver isn't Al, so he doesn't linger. Right before I turn the corner, headlights come on across Lake Street, shining on me from behind. By the time I get to the door the headlights have moved on, just like the other times. And just like the other times, I look over my shoulder to see a sleek black Mercedes.
I'm exhausted tonight, so I forgo my shower and climb into bed, bringing the bag of goldfish crackers with me.
I smile at the thought that Mikah just might be trying to disobey my order to leave me alone, and then find myself comforted by the idea that it's him in the Mercedes making sure I get home okay. Though I’m wondering how he beat me to my apartment tonight, considering I got home an hour early and he had just been going into the diner when I left. Assuming that was him.
I realize after a few minutes that I've been absentmindedly rubbing my belly and
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