Always Wrong - Xyla Turner Page 0,64

part but told her it wasn’t a problem and I’d see her tomorrow morning.

The next week went by like this, and so did the month. Mr. Vega had come home for a week or two, but I’d kept up my mantra of being scarce around him. The first time, it was hard as he was in the house most of the time. So I adjusted my schedule to make sure I was outside of the house, and it’d be a taco day or something easy to make that did not require a lot of prep time.

We did our customary greetings of saying the other’s formal name but kept it there for the most part. Mrs. Vega saw it but never addressed it after she said she’d stop apologizing for him the first time.

Another month passed, and Mrs. Vega began to lose some of her curves. Another month passed, and she was home a lot earlier but in bed. A month after that, Mr. Vega was not traveling so much, and Mrs. Vega was home every day, but they kept me on to watch over Casey. They would whisper and have small arguments, but those were the times that I’d work hard at being extra competitive with Casey on a video game. I had asked a few times if she was all right, but she claimed she would be fine. She told me in a nice way that my concern should be around Casey.

There was something going on with the two of them that they weren’t sharing with Casey or me—not that they had to. It was none of my business, but I found myself cooking for the three of them because Mr. Vega did not cook and Mrs. Vega was in bed most of the time. She had given me a list of things that she could eat, so I made sure she had her own meals.

One evening, after putting Casey down for bed, I saw Mr. Vega near the fire with a glass of whiskey. They had one of those electric fireplaces that looked really cool against the brick wall. It was fall, but I guess he was cold, which was something that the brownstones suffered from during the colder months.

“Ms. Jacobs,” he called to me.

This wasn’t his customary greeting, but the inflection in his voice made it seem as though he had a question.

“Yes,” I answered and remained at the mouth of the living room, which connected to the kitchen area.

“Can you cut a slice of your sweet potato pie and join me over here, please?” he asked.

His tone was not terse, and it even seemed a bit sad, but I didn’t like the idea of sitting near him in any way. I mean, he’d never done anything inappropriate to me before, but Mama always told me about what is and what can be interpreted. I took heed to that, so I sliced him a piece of the pie, gave it to him, and remained standing away from him.

When he saw that I did not obey him, he turned to stare at me with dead eyes. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought the man was defeated. He looked like someone had beat the shit out of him. Dark circles were under his eyes, and there was no life or even spark in those light gray irises of his.

Damn.

“Are you all right, sir?” I asked.

“It’s Logan,” he corrected. “I’m not sir, Mr. Vega, or any of that shit. Call me Logan, Faith.”

I wasn’t in agreement with that, but I did not plan on arguing with the man.

“Have a seat,” he commanded. “We need to talk.”

“About?” I asked but still didn’t move from my spot.

“Sit,” he snapped.

This was my cue to go. He and I already started off on the wrong foot, and it looked like he was trying to go zero for two.

“Please,” he insisted. “It’s important.”

Reluctantly, I pulled up a seat on the other side of the fire with the recliner and crossed my legs.

His eyes were on the faux fire again, and he tossed the drinks back.

“My wife,” he started. “She’s dying.”

Holy shit.

“W-w-what?” I stammered as my breath seized with the news of what he was saying.

Her frail body came into my mind, and all the pieces started to click as to what I’d seen the past few months. Her vigor was gone, and her body was slowly deteriorating away. This was a fast progression, and she was so young. A tear came