When his phone rings, he doesn’t even budge. His eyes are on me.
“Answer it,” I whisper, glancing at the screen to see his mother’s face.
Reluctantly, he picks up the phone and I hear Melanie’s voice on the other end after he swipes to answer the call.
The press has been all over her since Truett’s arrest. The minute the news went public, Adam had security increased at their residence and canceled service at the church on Sunday, the day after the attack.
People are angry, confused, and want answers. I hate that so much has fallen on Adam’s shoulders, even though he claims to be taking it all in stride. He said there are some other guys at the church whose job entails cleaning up after Truett’s mess, but he still has his mother to worry about.
“Yeah, she’s feeling better,” he says to his mother, his eyes on me.
I smile when I think about how compassionate she’s been through all of this. She visited me in the hospital before I was discharged, and she’s been sending food to my apartment every day since.
One of Truett’s employees posted his bail less than two days after the attack, but as far as we know, he’s been staying in a hotel somewhere since. I don’t know the details of what happened between him and Melanie, but from what Adam said, she wouldn’t let him back in the house.
In my head, I picture her standing by that front door, shotgun in hand, defending her home and forcing him away.
While I’m not exactly sure that’s how it went down, I love the image.
When Adam’s face takes on an expression of worry, I lean forward.
“What’s going on?” I mouth.
“He does?” Adam asks his mother.
“Who?” I whisper.
“I’m not ready,” he replies.
I bounce anxiously as I wait for him to finish the conversation so he can catch me up on what they’re talking about.
Finally, he tells his mother he loves her and hangs up the call. I’m staring at him with anticipation before he finally takes a deep breath. The worry line is still positioned in the middle of his forehead, which means whatever this is, it isn’t good.
“He wants to meet with me.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Who do you think?” he replies. “My dad.”
“Fuck that,” I rasp, and Adam gives me a scornful expression for trying to speak.
“I’m not ready,” he says, chewing his bottom lip. “I’m just…afraid of what I might do if I see him.”
This time it’s my turn to reach across the table to touch his hand. “You’re not a bad guy for wanting to kick his ass,” I whisper. “Good people sometimes do bad things for the people they love. Bad people do bad things for themselves.”
The corners of his lips lift in a crooked grin. With those stunning, kind eyes and laugh lines framing his mouth, I admire him for a beat, realizing just how perfect this man is.
So I squeeze his fingers with my own.
“I wonder why he wants to talk to me,” he says.
“To apologize?” I ask.
Rolling his eyes, he lets out a scoff. “Very funny.”
“I don’t like it,” I reply, to which Adam nods.
“Neither do I.”
We’re still holding hands and staring at each other across the table when the hostess seats a couple at the booth across the aisle from us. Within seconds, I feel their curious stares on us, but I only glance their way briefly.
I don’t know if they recognize us from the videos or Adam’s latest family scandal, but either way, it’s exhausting.
And it feels like being draped in shame I don’t deserve, like there’s some sort of scarlet letter on my chest.
“I want to go home,” I whisper.
Adam quickly waves down the waitress, asking her to box up our breakfast, then pays the bill. A few moments later, we’re heading out of the restaurant, bags of food in hand and Adam’s arm draped protectively across my shoulders.
It’s a short walk to the apartment, but we’re quiet the whole way.
And quiet still as we eat our cold food at the linoleum table in my tiny apartment. I don’t get much down and by the time my stomach starts to turn, the food lands heavily in my gut, the sky has turned gray and rain pelts the large window in my living room.
I point to the bedroom and toss my uneaten food in the garbage. Without another word, I crawl under the heavy duvet in my room and beg my mind to quiet so I can sleep.
Just as recurring images of that monster with his hands around my windpipe start to play across the insides of my eyelids, I feel the bed dip with Adam’s weight. He settles himself behind me, wrapping an arm around me as he holds me close, his lips in my hair.
“I’m here,” he whispers, and my hands tighten around his forearm.
It sounds silly, but it makes me feel safer. Not that Adam can scare away my nightmares, but with his firm embrace, I’m able to drift off to sleep with ease.
Forty-Three
Adam
I ’m helpless. My mother told me a good man makes it right, but I have no clue how to do that. If holding her and being there for her is enough, it doesn’t feel like it. Sage is in pain, and it’s all my fault.
I was a fool to assume it would pass when her throat healed.
It’s been three weeks since the attack, and she’s lost the glow she had the day I met her. There is no more bounce in her step and the sparkle in her eyes has dimmed—and there’s nothing I can do for her.
I just keep waiting for her to wake up feeling better, but no amount of rest seems to help. In fact, some days, she hardly gets up at all.
I’ve prayed just as much as I’ve cursed God. I’m desperate and angry. Out of all the people in the world to be hurt, why her?
As I pull up to my mother’s house, I’m pleased to see the extra security still in place. The media has died down. There are no longer hordes of cameras and reporters stationed around the gate of their house. My father, as far as we know, has secured himself a short-term living situation, and according to the judge at Austin Municipal Court, he has been ordered to stay at least one thousand feet away from this residence and Sage’s for the foreseeable future.
I should be relieved.
But I’ve never felt more unsettled.
My mom is standing by the side door, her hands on her hips and flour on her apron as she waits for me. When she notices that I’m alone, her mouth sets in a thin, worried line. I pull the bouquet of flowers and the bottle of wine from the passenger seat and pass them to my mother as she pecks me on the cheek.
The good Christian woman she is, my mother never drinks much. Well, never drank much. She’s made an exception as of late, a decision I fully support.
I’m early for Sunday dinner, but I’m here mostly because I just need to talk.
“How is she?” are the first words out of her mouth.
“No change,” I reply, hating that answer.
“Did you call the counselor Luke suggested?”
“She saw her two days ago,” I reply, stepping into the kitchen.
“And? Nothing?”
I shrug. Everything feels so uncertain. I know Sage is suffering from the trauma of what happened, and I can’t help but feel as if there’s more to it. More she’s not telling me.