helpful. This morning he needed to take off to do some stuff for work though. I’m not sure he’s going to be back before you leave.”
Her mouth opened to speak, but slowly closed again. Why do I care if he said goodbye? He was being nice to a needy stranger. No more.
“Here’s my number in case you need anything,” Scar said. “You can call me, you know.”
“I know. I’ll call if I can.”
“Why wouldn’t you be able to call me?”
“I’m not alone often. Do you have an e-mail address?” She imagined the chances of getting an e-mail to Scar would be slim. E-mailing her when she returned to New York would have to suffice.
“Yeah, I’ll write it down for you. You want me to put Jackson’s phone number down?”
It took nearly half a minute of contemplation before deciding not to take the number. She had no doubt she would call if she became weak, but adding one more man to the circus she called life would complicate things further. She needed to fix what was already broken and forget about Jackson. “Thanks, but no, having his number wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Wayde and Max walked through the door. Max smiled and ran to her. She opened her arms, wrapped them around him, and laid her chin against his head. When holding him tight, he often filled her with the strength to go on. Scar lifted her hand a little and said goodbye.
Kinsley smiled, lifted her hand in return, and headed out to the car with Wayde and Max.
Wayde opened the trunk, and she put her purse and small bag in. She wished she could throw him in with them. After slamming the trunk hood down, she got into the back seat with Max. Wayde had driven Savannah’s car; that was unusual, but she was thankful for the privacy of the back seat. His truck would have forced her to be closer to him.
He leaned over and looked into the window. “What the hell are you in the back seat for?”
“I want to be with Max.” It bothered him. Things always bothered him. From now on, she’d only appease him when necessary.
“I don’t want to sit up here alone. I’m not your chauffeur.” He leaned with one arm propped on the roof and stared up at the sky. After taking a long drag of his generic cigarette, he flicked the butt from his fingers with the finesse of a thirty-year smoker. He continued staring at her.
“I said I’m sitting with Max.”
“Have your way now, but don’t think I’m putting up with this new attitude when you get home.”
“That shit box isn’t my home.” She bit her tongue; she was pushing the limits talking to him the way she was.
“Only home you got.”
She gave him a dismissive shrug, dropped her head against the window, and held Max’s hand. He fell asleep after the first ten miles. Eventually, she dozed off, too. When she woke, they were close to Wayde’s house. The landscape was dull and boring, not the Florida people think of. It was the other Florida where the terrain was nasty, and the people were poor. She stared out at the rundown shack housing of the predominantly Mexican migrants who picked the oranges. They had an invisible world of their own, separate from the community.
The drive was long, and when they finally turned into the driveway off the long stretch of dusty road, a wave of nausea swept over her. She hoped she’d never have to return to the place again. Her mind wandered to places she didn’t want to go, and she relived the last three months with Wayde. She wasn’t sure what was ahead of her, but something was, and not knowing worried her.
The house was small, like a box with windows centered on both sides of a door, and other than the acre the house stood on, it was surrounded by orange groves. A big, crooked, southern oak with downy moss hanging from the distorted limbs stood in the yard. The oak was picturesque, but its eerie appearance gave a sense of foreboding. Beside the house was another dirt road, and about a mile down stood a single-wide trailer with a barn and horse ring.
Her mouth opened to speak, but slowly closed again. Why do I care if he said goodbye? He was being nice to a needy stranger. No more.
“Here’s my number in case you need anything,” Scar said. “You can call me, you know.”
“I know. I’ll call if I can.”
“Why wouldn’t you be able to call me?”
“I’m not alone often. Do you have an e-mail address?” She imagined the chances of getting an e-mail to Scar would be slim. E-mailing her when she returned to New York would have to suffice.
“Yeah, I’ll write it down for you. You want me to put Jackson’s phone number down?”
It took nearly half a minute of contemplation before deciding not to take the number. She had no doubt she would call if she became weak, but adding one more man to the circus she called life would complicate things further. She needed to fix what was already broken and forget about Jackson. “Thanks, but no, having his number wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Wayde and Max walked through the door. Max smiled and ran to her. She opened her arms, wrapped them around him, and laid her chin against his head. When holding him tight, he often filled her with the strength to go on. Scar lifted her hand a little and said goodbye.
Kinsley smiled, lifted her hand in return, and headed out to the car with Wayde and Max.
Wayde opened the trunk, and she put her purse and small bag in. She wished she could throw him in with them. After slamming the trunk hood down, she got into the back seat with Max. Wayde had driven Savannah’s car; that was unusual, but she was thankful for the privacy of the back seat. His truck would have forced her to be closer to him.
He leaned over and looked into the window. “What the hell are you in the back seat for?”
“I want to be with Max.” It bothered him. Things always bothered him. From now on, she’d only appease him when necessary.
“I don’t want to sit up here alone. I’m not your chauffeur.” He leaned with one arm propped on the roof and stared up at the sky. After taking a long drag of his generic cigarette, he flicked the butt from his fingers with the finesse of a thirty-year smoker. He continued staring at her.
“I said I’m sitting with Max.”
“Have your way now, but don’t think I’m putting up with this new attitude when you get home.”
“That shit box isn’t my home.” She bit her tongue; she was pushing the limits talking to him the way she was.
“Only home you got.”
She gave him a dismissive shrug, dropped her head against the window, and held Max’s hand. He fell asleep after the first ten miles. Eventually, she dozed off, too. When she woke, they were close to Wayde’s house. The landscape was dull and boring, not the Florida people think of. It was the other Florida where the terrain was nasty, and the people were poor. She stared out at the rundown shack housing of the predominantly Mexican migrants who picked the oranges. They had an invisible world of their own, separate from the community.
The drive was long, and when they finally turned into the driveway off the long stretch of dusty road, a wave of nausea swept over her. She hoped she’d never have to return to the place again. Her mind wandered to places she didn’t want to go, and she relived the last three months with Wayde. She wasn’t sure what was ahead of her, but something was, and not knowing worried her.
The house was small, like a box with windows centered on both sides of a door, and other than the acre the house stood on, it was surrounded by orange groves. A big, crooked, southern oak with downy moss hanging from the distorted limbs stood in the yard. The oak was picturesque, but its eerie appearance gave a sense of foreboding. Beside the house was another dirt road, and about a mile down stood a single-wide trailer with a barn and horse ring.
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