Chapter 3 #2
Ford becoming a professional athlete.
Sebastian getting his shit together.
Vale and Hudson.
Knox was the only one who went away for years, devoting his time to service in the Navy. As a former naval aviator, he’s been everywhere.
My Delilah gives me a questioning look.
“Got a family?” she asks.
I snort. “A big one.”
“One of your own?”
I pause, studying her face and catching on the soft glow of her eyes. “If you’re asking if I’m married with children, the answer is no on both counts. Never had a wife.” Although I came close once. “And no kids officially my own.”
“Officially?” She tilts her head to the side, waiting for more information.
“Now that’s a story too long to tell in one night.” I chuckle. “What about you? Got a husband?” She mentioned a book boyfriend earlier, but I want a solid answer.
“Or a wife?” she counters seriously, then chuckles. “Zero on all counts. No husband or wife. No children, extraterrestrial or otherwise. I don’t have that mom-gene women are assumed to carry.”
I nod. I respect women who know who they are—or are not—when it comes to parenting.
“No one here saying you have to have kids,” I point to my chest.
She smiles slowly. “Speaking of traveling, my family was a bit nomadic when I was young.” She shifts, gripping the railing and turning toward the river.
“Adventures, as my mama used to call them.” Her voice lowers even more.
“But then my mama went to jail when I was young, and I guess I continue a nomadic lifestyle because she’s locked up and can’t enjoy it anymore. ”
When she turns back toward me, something in my expression must show how sorry I am that her mother is behind bars.
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” she immediately commands, twisting to face me, straightening her body, and I stand taller to match her stance. “From ten to eighteen, I lived with my aunt, who was a wonderful, inspiring, unique woman. Then had art school. After that, I set off to conquer the world.”
While she makes it sound exciting—art school and the world—sadness still rests beneath the surface. The loss of her mother must have been hard, and I can relate. Still, I don’t pry.
She waved her arms out to emphasize the adventure of life and caught at the edges of my jacket to keep it on her shoulders.
Reaching for the lapel, I fasten the single button to keep the garment in place on her, needing a minute to distract myself from asking more about her mother. My profession makes me curious about the details, but I want to know about this strong woman, the survivor in her, more than her mother.
When I glance at her face, she’s watching me. For some reason, I don’t remove my hands from where the two sides of the jacket now link together.
Our eyes lock, and I lean forward, swallowing hard, feeling connected to her and desperate to kiss her. To bring that connection closer.
The setting is almost romantic. A dark river. The low streetlamps. A deserted pathway.
Only . . . the sudden stomp of hard soles running on concrete shatters the moment.
“Stop. He’s got my bag.”
With a quick glance behind me, I see a young woman running toward us, waving her arm toward the man who just raced by.
“Shit.” I release my Delilah. “Stay here.”
Running as fast as I can in hard-soled shoes, despite not having jurisdiction here, I chase the culprit. When he glances over his shoulder at my pursuit, he trips, stumbles, and tosses the bag at me, which I awkwardly catch. The distraction buys him time to get back up and take off.
With the backpack in my hands, I bend at the waist, drawing in deep breaths.
I’m not typically on a chase, and the whiskeys I had earlier, along with a beer at the bar, have caught up to me.
I heave in air before standing upright and turning back for the younger woman who stands near my walking partner.
When I return to where they wait, the young co-ed’s face is flushed from her pursuit.
“Is there someone we can call for you?” Delilah asks, rubbing her hands up and down the younger woman’s arms. “Maybe walk you somewhere?”
The girl shakes her head. “I was almost home when he tugged the backpack out of my hands.” She sighs. “I wouldn’t have chased him, but my laptop is in there, and I hadn’t backed up my paper.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Delilah coos.
“Where do you live? We’ll walk with you,” I add.
“I’m just over the bridge.” She points toward a walkway leading over the river to a row of apartment buildings on the opposite side.
“Let’s go,” I say, motioning for her to lead the way.
First, she fumbles through her bag, then with a shaky voice she says, “I’m just going to call my mom while we walk, if that’s okay?”
“Whatever you need,” Delilah says.
We let the young college student walk a few feet ahead of us, giving her enough space to talk to the most important person in her life.
Moments like this make me miss my own mother something fierce. “My mom died when I was twelve,” I blurt.
My walking partner swings her head in my direction. “I’m so sorry.”
I bite the inside of my cheek before I add the rest of the story, including how my dad died when I was twenty-two.
When her hand comes to my bicep, I glance down at it. Her fingers are long and thin. Her hand slightly veined. Earlier, I’d noticed bright splashes of paint mixed with the rich brown polish and those splatters now make sense.
She surprises me even more by sliding her hand down my arm and slipping her hand against mine. She leans against my arm.
I link our fingers together, unable to recall the last time I held someone’s hand. Her fingers felt right connected with mine. Two puzzle pieces coming together, easily clicking into place.
When we near the bridge, two other young girls stand by the corner. They race toward the co-ed in front of us, and all three girls embrace. Coos and questions, along with hands stroking over the stolen-backpack victim’s hair and back, meet us when we draw closer.
The victim turns towards us as we approach. “Thank you. My friends will walk with me from here.”
“Are you sure?” Delilah releases my hand and steps closer to the girl. For someone who says she isn’t motherly, she tenderly pulls the girl toward her for a hug, whispering something that makes the younger woman nod.
“Thank you,” she says to me one more time before Delilah and I continue walking.
She slips her hand around my bicep, but doesn’t reach for my hand again. I miss the connection, but I like this position almost as much when she leans against me one more time.
“You lied, Samson. You really are from outer space.”
“What do you mean?” I chuckle.
“Superman. He came from the planet Krypton.”
I laugh a little harder. “I am definitely not Superman.”
“Oh, I beg to differ . . . Superman.”
And now she’s given me another nickname.
I only wish I could live up to it for her.