Repeat - Kylie Scott Page 0,12
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“. . . after what you did, you’re probably the last person she needs anything to do with.”
Slowly, I sit up, woken by the noise.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Ed, voice low and angry. “And it doesn’t matter. She can make her own decisions.”
“She’s not herself.”
“So who’s going to make all the decisions for her? You, Frances?” Even from a distance, Ed’s sarcasm is palpable.
“I’m grateful you could help out today, but surely you can see that staying in contact would be emotionally confusing for her.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Whatever happened between you two, whoever was at fault . . . it doesn’t even matter anymore. Right now, she’s vulnerable. I have to protect her.”
Gordon stands in the hallway, watching the showdown in the front room. When he sees I’m awake, he starts wagging his tail. It’s gray outside now, dusk leading into night. The streetlights are on. I must have slept for hours. Long enough for the pain meds to wear off because my face and brain are not happy. Other parts of my body are lodging similar complaints. Carefully, I climb off the bed and gather my cell and the meds off the bedside table before wandering out into the living room.
“She just doesn’t know what’s best for her.” That’s my sister, and she sounds all worked up. Not so surprising.
“She’s awake,” I say, shielding my eyes from the light.
“God, Clem, are you okay? You look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
At this, Frances makes a noise in the back of her throat. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m fine. Doctor Patel isn’t overly worried.” It’s only a little lie, but it’ll save me much hovering and sibling concern in the long term. “Seizures are apparently not unheard of after an injury like this and it was only a small one. Once I rest up for a few days I’ll be as good as new.”
She doesn’t look convinced.
“Everything okay at work?” I ask.
“Same old, same old.”
Frances either can’t or won’t talk about her job. At least, nothing specific. Maybe she thinks talking about violence will give me flashbacks or something. Or maybe at the end of her shifts, she’d rather just forget all about it.
I wander toward the kitchen, bottle of painkillers in hand. Before I can start opening cupboards, Ed is there, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. Guess I should have asked first. Though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care. He doesn’t seem the type to worry too much over niceties.
“Thank you.” I down the two pills and then finish off the water, my throat as dry as something seriously lacking in moisture. I don’t know. My brain isn’t working well enough for similes. “He came to my rescue today.”
Frances makes a pained face. “I know. I’m sorry I couldn’t get away.”
“It was fine,” says Ed. “Take the Tylenol with you, just in case.”
Nails click against the hardwood floor, Gordon pacing back and forth over by the front door.
“He’s past due for his walk.” Ed gives me a grim smile. “How you feeling?”
“I’ll live. We’ll get out of your way. Thanks again.”
“Sure.”
Frances continues to say nothing. Might be for the best.
A leash is attached to Gordon’s collar and his excitement levels soar. It’s the whole-body-wriggling thing again. When there’s too much anticipation for it to be expressed via tail wagging alone, the delight spreads. I crouch down, giving him a hug and receiving a doggy kiss in return. Ed just watches. Frances, meanwhile, is already gone.
“Thank you again,” I say, and he nods.
When we drive away, they’re walking in the opposite direction. I resist the temptation to turn and watch. Twilight in this neighborhood is nice. Cafés, restaurants, and bars are open for business, a good amount of people filling the sidewalks. There’s a studied air of casual cool to the whole scene. I bet it’s not cheap to live here.
“Is that his shirt?” she asks.
“Mine had blood on it. You really need to give him a break.”
Her lips press tight together.
“We’re not getting back together. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Car lights cast shadows on her face. “I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
“I know.”
Her scowl deepens and she sighs.
“What?”
“I didn’t tell you, but . . . I was married a few years ago.” Her gaze stays fixed to the road. “He cheated on me, so I guess it’s a hot-button topic.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not something I like to talk about. My own stupid fault really, I knew better than to marry a cop,” she