Chapter 13
CRUTCH
She’s gone when I get out of the shower.
For a split second, my heart breaks in two, but then I see her car is still parked in one of the spots between the gas station and the garage. I walk outside into the cool night air, searching for her. If she’s gone to the gas station, I’m gonna beat her ass.
Not literally, of course. Woe be to the man who lays a hand on My Lulu. She’d probably rip his balls straight from his body.
There she is.
Standing in the middle of the asphalt parking lot, watching the comings and goings of the gas station. She’s absentmindedly rubbing the back of her neck again.
Maybe she slept wrong and has a crick.
She takes two steps forward.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Lulu? Get your ass back over here.”
She spins around, catching my voice on the wind. One long leg cocks to the side, and she crosses her arms against her chest. “Seriously? You’re gonna call to me like I’m some dog and expect me to heel?”
Forty steps. It takes me forty steps to cross the distance between us. And she doesn’t move one single inch.
She likes it. She likes me coming for her. Fighting for her.
I know she does. Because I like it too.
I stop mere inches from her. I reach out, wrap my fingers around her waist, and tug her against me. Her hips are soft yet firm. Her pupils dilate in anticipation, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by me that she takes a deep breath, plumping her breasts between our bodies. I bend my head so she can hear me better against the sounds of the night. “You stray, looking for trouble. What else would you have me do? Besides, it looks like I’m the one who heeled to you.”
“Is it time to kiss me again?” Her whisper sends a live electric current pulsing through my entire body.
Her eyelids grow heavy with want and her arms lift, ready to circle around my shoulders. Nimbly I pull from her grasp.
That does not make her happy. Hell, it doesn’t make me happy either.
But I have to take my time with Lulu. I can’t rush all of our kisses. Why? Because I’m on borrowed time. Hours? Days? Weeks? It won’t be long until she realizes that I have nothing to offer. No plan. No future. No stability.
A loser.
A selfish loser who’s willing to use desire to draw out the inevitable.
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“And just why not?”
“Because it’s suppertime. Come on, I’ll make you a sandwich.” I grab her hand and drag her back in the garage.
***
“Lettuce, tomato, and cheese?”
Squaring her shoulders, she politely nods, but there’s a little glint in her eye, telling me something not’s right. I pause, freezing my hand over the sliced chicken sandwich. “Lulu,” I warn.
She blinks and forces herself to shrug. “Sorry. I’m used to agreeing to everything in restaurants to make it easier. I don’t like tomatoes, Ry.”
“Okay. No big deal.”
She pops a cheese cracker in her mouth. “I like tomato soup and ketchup, but I don’t like tomatoes.”
“Well, I like French fries and baked potatoes, but I can’t stand hash browns, tater tots, or mashed potatoes.”
She giggles. That simple noise makes my heart heroically swell like I just saved a drowning kitten or something.
“No mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving? How un-American.”
“Well, I haven’t had a true Thanksgiving meal in years. Not since before my grandma got sick.” I set the sandwiches on the table and take a seat next to her. Maybe a little too close to her…and we start eating.
Our first meal together.
“That’s terrible,” she says. “Tell me what happened.”
“Well, she was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s when I was a freshman in high school. The first year wasn’t so bad. She just turned a little forgetful. ‘Where’s the car keys? Did I leave the stove on?’ Then, it was like the dripping faucet turned into a fire hydrant. It got bad quick. Neither me nor Grandpa could safely take care of her. He found a great place for her. But it was private. No Medicare. They had other insurance, but it wasn’t all that great either. So, my grandpa sold the land to get money. He visited her three times a day. The commute back and forth from town three times a day was wearing on him. A year later, he sold his house and moved into a small apartment near the nursing home. That’s when I started staying here, at the garage. It was my senior year of high school, and I didn’t wanna switch schools.”
“You lived with your grandparents?” she asks.
“Yep. My mom’s parents. Moved in with them when I was ten. Trash was in juvie for the first time. My grandparents tried to get custody of both of us numerous times. But my parents would clean up just long enough to convince Child Services that they had their shit together. They received food stamps and other welfare income for us. That’s why they didn’t want to give us up.”
She has a dollop of mayonnaise on the side of her lip. Her napkin keeps missing it. I reach over with the pad of my thumb, wipe it, and suck the sweetness from my finger. Her tongue darts out to lick the skin I just touched.
It’s so damn distracting, I have to clear my throat, giving myself a second to remember where I was. “Anyway, Trash was in juvie, and Grandpa showed up on the doorstep. Said my parents had two choices, they could let him take me and he wouldn’t tell anyone, they could keep claiming me as a dependent and get all of my benefits. Or, they could keep me, and he would hire the best damn attorney in the state and fight until he had me and they had nothing. They shoved me out the door without even packing me a suitcase.”
Tears moisten her eyes and she reaches over, wrapping her fingers across my calloused hand. Her nails are painted navy and her fingers are long and slender. I rub my thumb slowly back and forth across her smooth, olive skin.
“Don’t feel sorry for me. Living with my grandparents gave me the best years of my life.”
“And your grandpa passed?”
I nod, swallowing against the boulder lodged in my throat. “The end of my senior year. Massive stroke. Died alone in the apartment. The nursing home called me at the garage when he didn’t show up to visit Grandma.”
I look up at Lulu, mesmerized by the silent tears flowing from her eyes. Her mascara turns clumpy and her eyeliner streaks, paving a small black roadmap down her cheek. She pouts in anger. “Ugh. I hate crying in front of people.”
She’s so damn beautiful, it hurts.
She thinks my grandma is dead too. I don’t correct her.
“My name is Ryland Joseph Crutchfield,” I say, answering her question from when she first got to the garage. I push away from the table. Tugging on her arm, she yelps when I pull her from her chair, onto my lap.
“Now, Lulu. Now it’s time to kiss you.”
And so I do.