5. Trina
TRINA
“Why is she always chewing on her fingers?” My cousin, Evelyn, sounds so judgy. She’s only six months older than me, but you’d think she knows everything.
“Evie,” Aunt Donna says. “We talked about this.”
“No we didn’t,” Evelyn frowns petulantly.
I bet she doesn’t even know what petulant means.
She never reads anything, even though our sixth-grade English teacher assigns us twenty minutes of reading every night.
She just stares at the pages and flips them every so often, and Aunt Donna falls for it every time.
“We discussed your tone when you talk about Catrina,” Aunt Donna corrects.
Yes, when she talks about me. Because most of the time, I might as well not even be here.
I’ve lived with them for a whole year now, but I quickly learned it was best to keep my mouth shut when Evelyn starts like this.
I lower my gaze and clasp my hands in my lap so she won’t see me chewing on them anymore.
Evelyn rolls her eyes. “I’m just asking a question. Her hands look all torn up.”
My cheeks start burning, and my eyes follow. I won’t cry in front of them again. They don’t seem to like that either.
Aunt Donna brings two plates over from the stove and places one in front of each of us.
The smell of grilled chicken and green beans turns my stomach, but I also know better than to refuse dinner.
If I do, there will be more concerned looks and therapist appointments and whispers about what to do with me and where I’m going to go.
“We’re working on it, right Catrina?” Aunt Donna tilts her head as she looks at me, the slightest pinch between her brows. It’s not a frown of concern. It’s one of warning. Shape up or ship out, it seems to say. And I know the response that’s good for me.
I nod, quickly scooping up some green beans and shoving them in my mouth. My stomach sours, but I force myself to swallow.
Apparently happy with that response, Aunt Donna turns back to the stove to make up more plates. Evelyn looks me up and down with open disgust painted all over her small face, her nose wrinkled and lips twisted. But she shrugs and starts cutting her chicken, discarding me.
Bile rises in my throat, and my mouth starts producing way too much saliva. I’m going to puke. I run to the bathroom as fast as I can.
“Again?” Evelyn scoffs. “What’s wrong with her?”
Gasping, my eyes shoot open, only I still can’t see anything.
My heart is pounding in my chest, and my mouth tastes faintly of that dream-bile, as if it were real.
Fuck, I hate it when this happens. I haven’t had dreams like this in so long, but every night since I had coffee with Isabella, I’ve been jolted awake by some long-forgotten memory from my childhood.
A therapist would probably tell me I’ve been triggered.
Nervous about the plane ride to the conference later this morning, maybe.
The first one I ever took was to my Aunt Donna’s house in Phoenix after my mom was arrested, so I guess that’s logical.
Or it could be people I work closely with moving on with their lives, like Scarlett.
My aunt calling me a few times over the past two weeks, despite me ignoring her, might also top the list. Of course she hasn’t followed up with a text, so I don’t even know what she wants.
No, she wants me to hear her tone of voice when she tells me about whatever has her calling so many times.
She never thought I took her seriously unless she was talking directly to me.
Seeing Casey at the coffee shop? No. That wouldn’t dysregulate me like this. It’s not like I’ve never randomly run into an ex-lover somewhere.
Overheated and sweating, I throw the comforter off me. Goosebumps rise on my skin, and almost immediately, I start shivering in the air conditioning. But it’s enough to knock my nervous system back into gear. My heart rate slows, and my breathing becomes more even.
I roll my neck out a few times, trying to release the tension in my shoulders.
A glance at the clock on my nightstand tells me it’s two thirty in the morning, and I groan loudly.
I can never get back to sleep after these nightmares, and my flight is at nine.
There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep on the plane either.
I’m going to be exhausted for this welcome dinner tonight.
I shouldn’t assume it can’t get any worse, because it absolutely can. But I’m having trouble thinking of how because this is already unbearable.
Might as well get this party started, then. Lying here and praying for sleep is only going to make me more anxious, so I roll out of bed and drag myself to the shower. The airplane smell is going to be bad enough, I don’t also have to wear eau de trauma under it.
I don’t care what anyone says, Midway is the superior airport.
It only takes about thirty minutes for my rideshare driver to get me there.
Security is a breeze, there are plenty of options for breakfast and coffee, and when I pass the Garrett Popcorn stand, the smell alone is enough to bolster my mood.
Once I have a coffee and pastry in hand, I stop by one of the bookstores just to check out what’s there.
My eyes are immediately drawn to Becoming, Scarlett’s comeback book.
I smile broadly as I take it off the shelf and turn it over, running my fingers over the soft matte cover, tracing the wheels of the bicycle on the bottom.
It never gets old, seeing books I’ve had a hand in bringing to life in places like airport bookstores.
I always feel like once your book is in the airport, you’ve made it.
There’s no small amount of pride in knowing that Scarlett has made it several times over, and I have been with her from the start.
“Is that one any good?”
I freeze at the sound of the deep voice behind me. It’s low and sultry, full of sinful promises and bad ideas. I should know—it whispered those bad ideas to me often.
Slowly, I turn around to see Casey’s wide smile. His eyes sparkle as they glide over the planes of my face, making me feel as if I’ve been laid bare for him. From the way one corner of his grin tips up even further, it would seem he likes what he sees.
I can’t deny that I like what I see either.
He’s dressed impeccably as always in a well-fitted green T-shirt and khaki-colored chinos that look as if they’ve been tailored to highlight his perfect ass.
His biceps pop against the sleeves of his shirt, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s picked up working out over the past year.
He’s also grown some facial hair since the last time I saw him, and it accentuates his jawline.
What the fuck is he doing here? I knew I should have been more careful asking what else the universe could throw at me today.
I clear my throat and wave the book stupidly in front of me, as if he were an image in smoke or a hologram I could clear away. “I think it’s her best work.”
Casey tilts his head, pinching his brows together. “Not her latest?”
Lifting a shoulder, I carefully put the book back on the shelf. I let my gaze linger on it to give myself a second to collect my thoughts before I have to look at Casey again. “Her latest is great,” I admit, “but this one is special.”
When I drag my attention back to him, his smile has fallen.
He’s regarding me softly, thoughtfully. That look right there is the one that almost got me in too deep more times than I can count.
Thank god I was always able to see that for what it was—my own yawning desire for someone, anyone, to be soft and thoughtful with me.
“How are you, Trina?” he asks with that quiet intensity he’s always possessed, as if he can see into the turmoil of my soul and he wants to cover it with his warm hand to soothe it all away. And after the past couple of weeks I’ve had, I almost want to let him.
At the very least, I want to cry out that I’m terrible. Maybe terrible is too dramatic a word, but I’m off balance. Even more so now that he’s standing in front of me, talking about books as if I haven’t spent an entire year avoiding him.
But I wet my lips and take a deep breath. “Good,” I say with more conviction than I feel. A boarding call comes over the speakers, and I’m suddenly jolted back into my surroundings. I glance around as if to verify that we are, in fact, still in an airport. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m headed to Denver for Writers and Agents.” He smirks. “Let me guess…”
I blink rapidly, my brain trying desperately to catch up. “Me too.”
“Scarlett didn’t tell you I’d be there?” He sounds surprised or…hurt? As if he thinks we talk about him regularly enough for her to have mentioned it.
“Why would she have? I’m not even sure she knew I was going.”
“Ah.” He nods like that explains something. “I took Ryan’s place as Anastasios’ rep so he could stay with her.”
Don’t do it, I tell myself. Hold it in. But my body has other ideas. I snort and shake my head. “So you enabled his overprotectiveness even further.”
He runs a hand over his low taper fade—what looks like a fresh haircut he probably got just for this trip—with a sheepish look on his face. “I guess I did. But I should be going anyway. This is…” He presses his lips together into a tight line. “I need to be there.”
I’m not sure what that was all about, but I decide not to ask. I’m already having trouble processing the fact we are likely going to be running into each other at this conference for the next three days. He doesn’t owe me anything. He’s entitled to his secrets.
“Well, I hope it’s a successful weekend for you, then.” It’s the verbal equivalent of that Midwestern thing where someone slaps their thighs and stands up to leave. I give myself a mental facepalm at how obvious I’m being, but after my two-thirty wake up call, I’m too tired to care.
“Flight 9382?”
“Hmm?”
“Only so many flights from Midway to Denver this early in the morning. I’m assuming we’re on the same one.”