19. Retreat
NINETEEN
RETREAT
Ian
I force myself to take a deep breath, but my fists clench at my sides as if by their own free will. “You agreed to talk about this when I got back.”
Trish looks drown, the wisps of her topknot falling forward over her face.
Another deep breath. All I want to do is hug her, tell her it’s okay, get her to sit down with me, try and gloss over this blip, but I can’t. No more managing. “Why are you running, Trish?”
“I’m not running.” She shrugs, looking smaller than usual in her sneakers. “It’s just time for me to go.”
“We both know that isn’t true. You can lie to yourself if you want, but don’t lie to me.”
She winces.
“And I’m not just talking about right this second.
I mean from before. I want to know everything.
” I take a step forward, only to stop when her shoulders jump.
Deep breath. “Trish.” My voice is calm, controlled, the opposite of how I’m feeling.
“Tell me why you move around so much. Why were you waiting with a shotgun loaded and ready when I knocked on your trailer door that day? What’s up with the private detective looking for you? ”
Trish starts. “How do you know about the private detective?”
Shit. I forgot Jules told me that in confidence.
“I—”
Her eyes narrow. “Have you been asking around about me?”
“No.” I falter at the death glare she has aimed at me. “Well, just once. I just wanted?—”
“You just, huh?” She jumps out of the trailer, landing on the garage floor and spinning to close and lock the trailer door. Hand still on the lock, she speaks to her feet. “You told me you wouldn’t do this. That you wouldn’t ask these questions.”
I step forward again, this time not stopping until I’m inches away. “Maybe that’s the problem. I didn’t ask these questions sooner .”
Reaching out, I grip her shoulders, turning her around. She won’t look at me. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“You don’t want to know.” Her voice is small.
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.” When she still remains silent, I sigh, my agitation peeking through my outer calm. “Come on. I asked nicely.”
She shakes me off, her brown eyes sparking fire into mine, hands on her hips. “And since the great and mighty Ian Kincaid asked, I just have to answer. Is that it?” She scoffs. “Well how ’bout this— I don’t want to tell you.”
“But why? It makes no sense.” I run my hands through my hair, gripping hard to keep myself from trying to shake sense into this woman.
Frowning, she walks past me toward the house. “I’m sorry, but it’s better this way.”
“How is this better?” I follow her, glad she’s heading inside, rather than to her truck with the trailer already hitched and ready to go.
Yanking open the door, she marches into the kitchen. I have to grab the door to keep it from swinging shut in her wake. “It’s better to say goodbye now than me having to leave later when you’re angry.”
“I could never be mad at you.” I fish my car key out of my pocket and drop it in the dish as if on autopilot.
Trish stalks through the kitchen. “What a bunch of hooey. You know darn well you’re mad right now.”
“Trish—”
“No.” She spins once more, this time holding her hand out as if to warn me away. “It’s better this way. Just remember me all dressed up, looking like everything you ever wanted. Even if it’s the exact opposite of what I am or where I came from, it’s still better than the truth.”
My brows pinch together, confused until I remember what I told her when she came gliding down the stairs in her white dress.
“I may have said you’re everything I ever wanted when you were all dressed up that night, but I meant it whether you’re in pjs, a bathing suit, or bare-ass naked by the pool.
” At her disbelieving look, I shake my head.
“And what’s this talk about where you came from?
The only one who seems to have a problem with where you come from is you. ”
“That’s why you had photographers take your picture with Brenda?” She blinks, looking as surprised by her snarky comment as I am.
But it’s my fault. Like Dr. Brown said, if I hadn’t been so busy managing things instead of dealing with them, I never would have been at that fundraiser.
Trish and I could’ve been sprawled out in front of the TV, another smorgasbord of takeout around us, watching some foreign TV series and cuddling.
Letting our relationship grow, building trust. Maybe then she wouldn’t still be keeping things from me.
I grit my teeth, now madder at myself than her. “That wasn’t my idea. I wanted to be seen with you on my arm.”
“Yes.” She nods, looking wistful. “That’s what you said.
” Sighing, she walks over to the bench by the French doors, grabbing her laptop bag by the long strap.
She gives me a small smile. A sad smile.
“And maybe you believe that, Ian, but it will change. If you know more about me and who I am, it will change.”
“No.” I try to infuse every ounce of conviction I have in my voice. “It won’t.”
“Yes.” Her voice, though softer, sounds just as sure. “It will.”
We stand there, ten feet apart, each of us convinced that we’re right. Neither of us wanting to give in.
“I guess we won’t really know unless you tell me.”
“You think that, but?—”
“Just tell me.” My voice cracks across the house, the near empty rooms echoing my anger. My frustration.
She flinches. “Please. Can’t you see that I want you to remember me the way?—“
“Tell me.”
She drops her head back, like she’s hoping for divine intervention. When none comes, she straightens. “Fine.” Hiking her bag on her shoulder, she walks toward me, a look on her face I’ve never seen before. “You want to know?”
“Yes. I do.” I reach for her, but she steps out of range. “Trust me, Trish.”
Another sad smile, but this time she holds my eyes. “Let’s start with that. You know me as Trish Garrett. You know my pen name, Audrey Cole. My real name is Patricia Anne Garrett LaRue.”
“Why did you change your name?”
“I originally changed it because I was a stripper. Now it’s because I’m a wanted felon.”
I blink, replaying what I just heard. Then I laugh.
“Funny.” Stepping back, I lean against the kitchen island.
“This is some sort of test, huh? Throw the worst-case scenario at me, and when I buckle you’ll have proved your point?
” Still smiling, I shake my head. “You, a stripper and felon?” I chuckle. “Yeah, right.”
Seconds tick by, her serious, forlorn expression never changing.
The humor I felt a second ago drains away, leaving behind a sense of foreboding.
Once more I replay her declaration, really thinking it through this time, aligning this new information with what I already know.
The fake name, the secretive past, moving from place to place.
Why a private investigator would knock on her door.
The more I think about it, the more things fall into place. “Oh.”
“Yes, ‘oh’.” Tears well in her eyes, making them look darker.
Deep pools filled with secrets I never fathomed.
“Not only am I a bastard child, abandoned by her mother and who doesn’t even know who her daddy is, but I grew up to be the ultimate cliché— a stripper accused of stealing. ” She hitches her bag higher.
I’m ashamed to admit it, but one of my first thoughts is wondering what my father will do when he finds out.
“If I stay, I’ll be found out. And not even your father would be able to control the bad press.
And that’s not to mention what NASA’s reaction will be.
A government employee, up for a promotion that involves international partnerships, in a relationship with a felon?
” Her laugh is short and hard. “Bye-bye, career.”
My thoughts are elsewhere, trying to see ahead, plan my next move, figure out some way to protect Trish.
She’s still talking as she circles the island, but her words and movements are just a blur.
My mind is too busy running through possible scenarios, trying to come up with a solution to this puzzle now that I finally have more of the pieces.
My father. My job. Her background. Her warrant.
Maybe she can live under her romance writer pseudonym, Audrey Cole? We could get married. That would force my father to keep her past a secret if he doesn’t want it to implode his career. Some people might consider that a drastic move, but marriage to Trish sounds awesome, actually.
To be safe, I could find work somewhere else so we’re not tied so closely to the government. I love NASA, but I love Trish more.
Love . Yes. I love her. All that stuff she said doesn’t matter. Well, the felon thing does, but we can figure it out. We can deal with it together . Like we should’ve from the start.
I unclench my jaw, trying to stop the rumbling that suddenly fills my ears. I blink, refocusing on the room. “Trish, what did you?—”
She’s gone. “Fuck.” The rumbling wasn’t in my head, because I can still hear it. I’m out the door, nearly crashing into my Audi. The boat garage is empty.
I jog to the bottom of the drive, looking down the street. The glint off of Trish’s silver trailer hits me in the eye as she makes the turnout of our neighborhood. I hurry back to my car, sliding inside and hitting the starter button.
Nothing.
I pat my pockets, remembering I left the key in the dish. I jump out once more, almost taking the hinges off the kitchen door in my hurry.
The dish is empty.
She’s taken my keys.
Trish
“Yo! Shortstack!” Jules jogs down the front steps of the ranch house and through the dirt drive’s dust, still swirling around my truck. “How’re you…” Her smile fades when I slam the truck door closed and aim a death glare her way. “Um…”
Like a cowboy about to challenge someone to a gunfight at high noon, I step into Jules’ space. With us both wearing sneakers, she towers over me, but I’m mad enough not to care. “Et tu, Brute?”
It takes a sec, but I see the exact moment Jules understands why I’m mad. “Oh, shit.”