No. When do I ever?
I should be a hundred miles from Cape Cod right now. My email is full of job opportunities. A missing parolee down in North Carolina. A hit and run driver in Michigan caught on CCTV with a ten-thousand-dollar reward on his head. Quick jobs. Easy ones that I could move on from and never think about again. If I could move from this spot. If I could just stand up, walk out the door and leave this sea foam green nightmare of a room behind. Get on my bike and go.
It’s obvious why I can’t light out of this place. She is the reason. And Christ, it’s fucking painful to think about her. Your loss, bounty hunter. Truer words were never spoken in this lifetime. Until she tossed her hair and strutted away from me on the sidewalk, I never stopped to acknowledge that I have PTSD. There is no way in hell a man lets a woman like that leave his side unless he’s blocked up by serious mental trauma. I have post-traumatic stress. The Christopher Bunton case screwed with my head and…
And she’s right. I’m punishing myself over it. Three years later, my past is leading me to do things like shout at this incredible woman when I should be kissing her, rejoicing in her safety, praising her for being brave. I did none of those things. I lashed out like a wounded bear. Knew it, too. Kept going because of the crushing residual fear. She drove her car straight at a murderer. Could have crashed, could have been shot or stabbed. Or caught in a crossfire with the police. My blood turns to ice thinking about it.
Hell yeah I’m still pissed at what she did. Sorry.
I’ll probably be mad about it until the day I die.
But I’m feeling a lot worse about her not being in my lap right now.
A lot worse.
Sort of like I might die.
I try to swallow and can’t, a choked noise tripping out, instead.
Taylor sure did give her statement and high-tail it out of there without glancing in my direction a single other time. She is well and truly done with me. And I just keep seeing flashes of her. Everywhere. They play out on the wall in front of me. Taylor licking her ice cream cone. Running beside me in the rain. Covered in moonlight on the beach. Dappled in a mixture of sunlight and shadows in the cave.
“Oh fuck.” I manage to stand up and cross the room, feet numb, the heel of my hand rubbing at the center of my chest where an apparent eruption is happening. This woman, this woman who is in my head and under my skin, and might as well face it, buying up real estate in my heart, is done with me. I behaved like an asshole. Not just today, but most of the time I’ve known her. I’m not even sure why she tolerated me as long as she did.
She’s going to find someone she doesn’t have to simply tolerate.
She’s going to find a man she likes. Who treats her like a princess.
Who gives her children.
“Shit.” I drop back down on the bed, folding forward to wedge my head in between my legs. Breathing in and out through my nose. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Taylor is going to have babies with someone else.
Oh my God.
When did my skin turn into fire?
Before I register my own movements, I have my phone in my hands. I start to call Taylor. I need to hear her voice, but I’m pretty sure I’ll drop dead from the pain of her sending me to voicemail. And what would I say, anyway? Earlier today, I was ready to leap without looking. A relationship with Taylor would be nothing like my first marriage, because I’m too…present with her. The way I feel about her? It doesn’t come close to anything I’ve experienced before. Or even knew was possible. But I don’t have any stability to offer her. Would I be holding her back from the happiness she might find elsewhere? Jesus, I can’t do that.
I need more. She deserves more. Where do I even start?
I scroll to my brother’s number and hit send, holding the device to my ear in an unsteady grip. “Are you calling me on purpose or is this an unfortunate butt dial?”
It has been so long since I heard Kevin’s voice, that it takes me a moment to respond. The sound of it is like walking into a wind tunnel of memories. “I’m calling you on purpose.”
“Oh yeah? Well, fuck you.”
“Fuck you, too.” The noise in the background tells me he’s in a crowd. A man’s voice booms over a loudspeaker, someone shouts for a beer. “Where are you?”
“Me? Where am I?” The crowd makes a collectively disappointed sigh. “You don’t get to ask me that when your ass has been God knows where for three years.”
“You have your whole life to be a prick, Kev. Don’t waste it all on one phone call.”