It was hot, and it smelled like the peaches I’d bought off the clearance rack at the grocery store.
I rested my head against the steering wheel.
He wasn’t looking for me.
I bought chocolate chips.
And a dirty book.
I pressed my hands to my lips, unsure whether I was going to laugh or cry. Until I was doing both. Loudly. Like a crazy person.
A sudden knock on my driver-side window made me jump, spilling my books all around me.
A cop stood out there. I must have shot him the worst look, because he stepped back and lifted his glasses up onto his head. He smiled.
I’m a nice guy, that smile said. I swear.
I used the old crank to unroll my window, brushing the tears away from my face with my other hand.
“I didn’t mean to spook you,” he said. He had a nice face. Round, with a little blond scruff around his chin. An uncommitted beard.
“It’s all right,” I said, my voice reedy and thin.
“I just…I saw you and I wanted to be sure you were all right.”
He saw me in the middle of some kind of freak-out. A panic attack. I was caught in that wide chasm between what I’d had and what I could have. What my life had been and what I wanted it to be, and every step, every huge step I’d taken away from what I knew and into the unknown, felt terrifying.
“I’m fine.” I gave him my best smile, which apparently wasn’t convincing, because he asked, “Are you sure?”
No. I’m not, but I’m trying here. I’m trying harder than I ever have and it’s so damn hard.
“Yep,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
Funny, but I felt like this time it wasn’t totally a lie.
In the twilight, hours later, the heat had broken and the breeze coming in through the windows was cool. My little trailer was ripe and delicious and homey with the scent of pasta sauce, bubbling away on one of the burners of my two-burner stove.
But my body was restless. Aching.
I sat up from where I’d been lying on the settee and put the book down on the table.
God.
I mean. God.
Between my legs, I throbbed. Actually throbbed. I felt swollen and wet and…throbby.
Honestly, I’d never felt this way before. Like my skin was too tight and aching and I needed something…something to split me open. To relieve this pressure.
No wonder that book was so popular.
I clasped my hands to my lips, closed my eyes, and tried to will the feeling away, but the more I thought about it, the worse the ache became, until it was in my bones.
I turned my head, staring back at my room.
The phone was in there.
Dylan.
I call him and…what? Have phone sex? Honestly, Annie McKay, is that what you’re thinking? You have no idea how that starts. How it even happens.
But I would bet my last seventeen dollars that he did.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I went back and grabbed my phone and took it back into the kitchen.
Away from the bed.
See how crazy you are?
Its face was dark and my intentions uncertain.
I’m twenty-four. Girls my age do this shit all the time, and worse! Why do I have to be different?
Dylan wanted to know about Ben, I thought, searching for a respectable reason to call the man. Something more…me. More passive and meek. Ben, a man with a penchant for tattoos and tomatoes. A harmless guy. So what would be the harm in calling Dylan and letting him know that the old man was fine?
Because Ben was not the threat.
Dylan is.
No, not even that was the truth.
I am the threat.
I’d promised myself in that bus station in Tulsa that I wouldn’t lie to myself anymore. The self-deception would stop. Because it had made me complicit in my abuse to some extent.
All married couples fight. That was one I told myself quite a bit.
Hoyt’s just under a lot of stress—that had been a doozey.
I’ll be fine.
That had been the worst of them.
So I wasn’t going to lie to myself now.
The phone was in my hand because I wanted to call him. Because my belly was full and my shelves were stocked with food I liked. Because my hands were raw from honest work, because I’d had a week of safety in this world I’d carved out for myself.
Because between my legs I was sore with…desire. Lust.
Those were such strange words. Foreign to my life.