Chapter Eight
Kenna
“So, you want to see my bike?” Christian asks Amelia.
Amelia hops off her chair, and I’m surprised at how patiently she follows Christian as he navigates his way down the hallway on his forearm crutches. She’s usually in such a hurry. I can tell she really likes him. And I can’t very well blame her. He does seem pretty fantastic.
As does his dad.
I don’t know if it’s my subconscious, but I’m suddenly hit with Carter’s scent.
It’s fresh and clean, like inhaling a deep breath of morning ocean air.
My eyes close and I bask in it, my mind flashing between the few touches we shared along with the hours of easy conversation.
To say I’ve felt comfortable and safe with him is an understatement.
Especially since over the past year, I’ve come to the conclusion that everyone has ulterior motives.
But Carter seems different. Then again, he doesn’t know everything about me. He’d likely change his tune just like everyone else if he knew the truth.
Once again, I wonder if I’m crazy to consider his proposition.
But what choice do I have? Using my credit cards comes with a risk I’m not willing to take.
Am I na?ve to think we’d have made it all the way to Florida without needing to use them?
That anything other than fleabag motels would have accepted cash up front, no questions?
That I could have found a place for us to live that was safe?
Where nobody knew who I was and Amelia could grow up like any normal kid?
“That’s my dad’s room,” Christian says.
I try not to look embarrassed by how I was lingering in the hallway, a prisoner of my thoughts and pheromones.
I shake them off and reply, “Your house is a lot neater than I anticipated considering two guys live here.”
He holds up a crutch. “Dad said he learned early on that I’d trip over just about everything on the floor. That’s also why we don’t have carpeting or throw rugs.”
I’m struck with a terrible vision of Amelia leaving a mess of things and Christian falling and hurting himself. Then I remember we’ll be downstairs. And more... I remember this is only temporary.
It’s not lost on me that earlier today I was upset about my monumental setback, but now I’m already dreading when the car is fixed and Amelia and I will be driving away, leaving Carter and Christian in the rearview mirror. Oh how a few hours can change a person’s entire perspective.
How is that even possible? How have I gone from wanting to leave New York like it’s on fire, to trying to figure out if there’s any way I can stay?
My head shakes over and over as I watch Amelia fawn over his state-of-the-art stationary bike.
She’s the reason we need to get as far away from here as we can.
Keeping her safe is my number one priority.
Living under the radar and keeping my anonymity intact are a close second.
Protecting my father from scandal falls somewhere in there.
As if the universe is putting an exclamation point on my thoughts, my phone alerts me to a new text. I don’t recognize the number, but open it anyway. I stiffen, anxiety climbing my backbone like rungs of a ladder when my eyes skim the words ‘you can’t hide from me.’
It’s from Cyrus. I blocked his number on my phone. I figured if he couldn’t reach out to me he’d be less likely to follow through with his threats. That maybe if I disappeared he’d eventually get tired of it and move on.
But I’m an easy target. Always have been. It’s why I’m in this situation. I’m gullible. I’d already given in before, and he’s sure I’ll do it again.
I thought moving three times would show him I’m strong. I guess all it did was show him how scared I am.
Did he get a new number just to be able to reach me again? I contemplate not reading the entire message, but my eyes fail to cooperate.
929-555-0133: You can’t hide from me forever, Kenna. Living in a secure building with a doorman can only get you so far. I know your routine. I know Amelia’s. I know where you shop and who babysits your mess of a kid. You know what I want and you know what I’ll do if I don’t get it. Tick tock.
I close the text and block the number, all while my insides twist into knots. I don’t delete the message, however. It could one day be used as evidence, right?
But I’m only kidding myself. If I went to the police again, he’d make good on his threats for sure.
How did my life become such a shitstorm when it should be the complete opposite?
We end up back in the kitchen, and Christian says, “So, that’s it. I’d better get to my homework now.”
“Of course,” I say, remembering our place is downstairs and we’re not actually guests. Well, we are, but we aren’t. “Come on, Amelia.” I hold my hand out to her. “I’ll show you where we’re going to be staying for the next week.”
“Bye, Christian,” she practically sings. Then she stops suddenly, looking back at him as she grasps my fingers. “Will you help me build Frosty later?”
He smiles. “Yeah, sure.”
Her green eyes sparkle. My daughter is deep into her very first crush.
Like mother, like daughter, I think absently, then roll my eyes at myself.
After giving her the tour of the basement, she plops onto the couch and sighs. “Mommy, there are no toys here.”
“Carter is getting our things from the car. We’ll have some of your toys and books unpacked before bedtime.”
She looks at the television and sighs again, this time more dramatically. “There isn’t a PlayStation. Can we go back to the car place?”
“You’ve gone without one this long, baby. I think you’ll live.”
“But I got to play Ms. Kinney’s. She’s not here. Will we get to see her again?”
“We don’t live in New York City anymore, sweetie, so probably not.”
She glances around. “We live here now?”
“Only for a little while, remember? Until our car is fixed.”
Her lower lip quivers. “I’ll miss Christian.”
I almost laugh but catch myself. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Besides, she’s not the only one who’ll miss someone. Now I’m the one sighing.
“Mommy, I’m bored.”
I take her hands and pull her off the couch. “Come on, you can help me strip the bed and throw in some laundry.”
“That’s not fun at all.”
“Hey, now. Remember what Bug said about being good and helpful and all that?”
“And I’ll get pink hair?”
“Okay, maybe not pink hair.” I think on it when she starts to pout. “But maybe a PlayStation.”
She instantly perks up, runs ahead of me, and starts throwing pillows off the bed to get to the sheets beneath. I laugh and follow. Who knew my child could be bribed so easily?
I cover my face with my hands, cringing in disgust. Because, again, like mother, like daughter.
A few minutes later, after putting a load of sheets in the washing machine and finding a cartoon for Amelia to watch, I’m rummaging through the ‘kitchen’ cabinets—all two of them—to see what I have to work with.
It’s not much. I assume Carter figured he and Christian would still eat together upstairs so there are just a few basic things here like plates and glasses and utensils.
But definitely no coffee machine. This just won’t do.
I need a coffee maker. With my addiction, I can’t very well bother Carter and Christian several times a day by going up to use theirs.
I need to get to a store.
I pull up my Uber app to see if it’s even a possibility in this little town.
It is. But I hesitate before ordering one.
It’ll show up as a charge on my credit card.
Before continuing, I check my most recent credit card statement on my phone, noting it doesn’t show the actual location of my last Uber charge.
Relieved, I go ahead and order the largest SUV I can get and request a forward-facing car seat.
The wait is an hour, so I finish washing the sheets and towels in the meantime.
I wonder if I should tell Christian we’re leaving.
I’ve never been anyone’s houseguest before, even if I am paying to be here, and I’m not sure of the protocol.
I decide not to, but figure it can’t hurt to leave a note on my little kitchen table in case anyone should come looking for us.
I have no idea when Carter will get back, and I’m sure he would wonder where we’d run off to without a car or any of our things.
Before I have the note written, I get a notification that my Uber has been cancelled. Sigh. Why did it even get accepted in the first place? I wonder if they couldn’t wrangle up a car seat.
“So much for our little adventure,” I mumble.
Amelia looks up from her show. “We’re going on an adventure? To make a Frosty?”
I shake my head. “We were going to Target. But not anymore. It’ll have to wait. Tomorrow maybe. And I know you hate shopping, so before you start complaining about it, I’d remind you about what Bug said.”
She claps excitedly. “Goody! I’m going to get a PlayStation. Thank you, Mommy!” She hugs me. “I love you.”
Ugh. I scold myself. I should have been clearer. I didn’t mean she’d get one immediately if she was good. I meant eventually. But she’s four. Her sense of time and patience is practically non-existent.
“I walked right into that one.”
Amelia looks around. “What did you walk into?”
I chuckle. “Nothing. Come on, let’s go back upstairs and see if we can scrounge up something for dinner.”