I don’t know what else to say, how else to explain. “I don’t think I’m a good fit.”
Once more, her lips compress into a grim line, and she taps her manicured nails against the counter.
“I disagree. Okay, look, I don’t know these men you’re talking about. For all I know, they’re complete assholes. But I do think I know you. Maybe not that well, since we met two and a half minutes ago, but I can already see that you’re brave and smart and selfless. Am I right?” She doesn’t give me a chance to respond, but my cheeks flame at the praise. She continues, “I can’t tell you what to do, and I never would, but I can tell by the tone in your voice that you’re only hurting yourself by pushing them away. Maybe them too. I did that once—pushed my men away, that is—and I regret it to this day. Don’t be like me.” Before I can comment, she releases a curse, jolting up in her seat, back ramrod straight. “Dammit! I have to go.”
I have no idea why she has to leave all of a sudden. I didn’t hear a phone vibrate in her pocket or a watch buzz with an alarm or anything.
“But…”
“Here.” She digs around in her purse, grabs a blood-red pen, and with surprisingly neat handwriting, writes her number onto a napkin.
I stare at the confident muscle memory of her hand as she writes, pity and empathy both making my stomach lurch awkwardly. The fact that she can write so perfectly and precisely means she wasn’t always blind. Did she have an accident too? I feel a sudden connection with her, and as she hands me the card, her fingers brushing mine, that feeling is cemented into some strange sort of tragic bond.
“We’ll meet up again. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Katrina.”
With a small grin in my direction, she rises smoothly from her chair, her walking stick clacking against the smooth tiles, and exits the shop, striding out into the afternoon sunlight.
I sit in my chair, not really seeing my surroundings as her words replay in my head.
You’re only hurting yourself by pushing them away. And maybe them.
And didn’t I leave them in the first place to protect them from getting hurt?
Fuck.
My solution to protect them doesn’t seem as simple anymore.
Because how can something be right when it hurts so much?
5
Katrina
Adam barrels into me with a smile on his face, his head smashing right into my stomach, which is full of coffee and sloshes on impact. I grin down at him as Sasha walks over and hands me his jacket, which he forgot inside the daycare again, just like yesterday.
I mouth “thank you” at her, because there’s nothing worse than driving a four-year-old to school on a crisp morning while they complain that they’re cold every two seconds. “I’m a popsicle. No, an iceberg! No, I’m the South Pole. I wanna be the North Pole by Santa.”
Sasha just gives me a smile and a wave before she disappears back into the facility.
“Guess what? Guess what?” Adam rapid-repeats when he pulls back from our hug.
I stare down at his adorable chubby cheeks and grin. “What?” I ask as I reach out and ruffle his dark brown hair.
“Mom and Dad came to see me!” He giggles in delight. “They said they’re fixing up our house and that I’ll get to go home soon!”
My stomach immediately drops, gets tangled in my shoelaces, and trips. What the fuck? Fear snakes up from my stomach and locks my legs. My eyes glance around the sidewalk, wondering if they’re still here. My hand goes to Adam’s. “When did they say that, buddy?” I keep my voice light, but inside I feel chilled, like someone’s just dumped a big glass of ice water over my heart.
“Today, duh!” he chortles, oblivious to my panic.
I consider asking him more questions to try to narrow it down, but he mixed up “yesterday” and “tomorrow” last week, so I honestly don’t think it will do any good. Instead of focusing on the timeline and whether or not my shithead parents are currently trying to track down our location—which would have been obvious if they’d bothered checking my bank statements—I lead Adam to the car and buckle him into his carseat.
“Want ice cream, buddy?” I ask, because this is ice cream binging bullshit right here.
Why the hell would my parents approach a four-year-old and tell him he’s going home? Why wouldn’t they tell me?