Chapter 13
Trevor
I’m going to kill whoever the fuck that is walking up to Maren’s porch.
I’m pretty confident he’s not what she claims. But on the off chance I’m wrong, I think maybe I should kill him. Just in case.
I pop a peanut in my mouth as I plot, eyes tracking the prick as he scales the steps and closes in on Maren’s door.
She’s already gotten two deliveries tonight.
The first included the bottle of ready-to-drink margarita responsible for the deterioration of her spelling.
The second was from a quick service Mexican restaurant.
My stomach growls at the thought of a burrito as big as my head, but I ignore it because the door to Maren’s trailer is opening.
Grabbing the binoculars from the passenger seat, I jam them against my eyeballs so I can get a better look. Which is a mistake.
I get a look at her for the first time since I found myself parking under the same tree as last night instead of in my garage. Even from this distance I can tell she’s changed out of the skirt and sweater she had on at work. And now there’s significantly more of her pale skin on display.
And the second I see what the prick on her porch sees, I’m out of my car and stalking across the stretch of grass between my car and her door.
I make it all the way up the steps before anyone notices me. Maren’s oblivious because she’s clearly drunk, and the guy’s totally focused on how to make the most of Maren being drunk.
“Come on.” He’s whining, but probably thinks he’s being charming. “Just for a minute?”
Maren’s eyes are a little bleary, but her words are remarkably clear when she says, “I’m not interested, Doug. Now get the f—”
I don’t need to hear any more.
I grab Doug by his shoulder, pulling him away from her door while spinning him to face me. It takes more restraint than I knew I possessed to keep from punching him in the face.
His eyes widen, dipping down my frame before snapping back to my face. “Who the fuck are you?”
“None of your business.” I step around him, pushing my way into Maren’s home before slamming the door behind me.
She stumbles back a little as I enter, and I hook an arm around her waist, pulling her body to mine.
Only to keep her steady.
“Why are you here?” Maren shoves at my chest. “I had that handled.”
“Did you?” It didn’t look like she had it handled. “He wasn’t going to leave.”
“I know.” She wiggles out of my grip to grab an item from beside the front door. “I was going to hit him with my baseball bat.”
I can’t tell if she’s kidding.
But honestly, I think I know her well enough to assume she’s not.
“A baseball bat is not an effective deterrent, Maren. All he has to do is grab it, and—”
“I know that, jerk.” Maren waves the weapon between us, swinging it a little too close to my face in the process. “That’s why there’s a sock on it.”
“How in the hell is a sock going to help anything?”
She swings it again, and I have to lean back to avoid taking a hit to the face. I’m pretty sure it’s the tequila screwing up her depth perception and not that she’s actually attempting to knock me out. I grab the bat anyway, just to be safe.
But the fucking thing slides right out of my grip, leaving me holding nothing but a black, knit kneesock.
Maren laughs victoriously. “See?” She grips the handle tight, like she’s about to take a purposeful swing. “Now I could just whack the shit out of you.”
I get what she’s saying. I also get that it’s juvenile of me to think of her words the way I am. But something about Maren makes me think of things in ways I normally wouldn’t even consider.
This time when I grab the bat, she can’t easily pull it away from me, and as Maren tries to tug it loose, I grip tighter, using the connection to pull her closer.
Close enough I can easily wrap my free arm around her back, keeping her body against mine as I lean down and say.
“Feel free to whack me anytime you want.”
Maren makes a choking sound, and I assume it’s outrage. That she’s pissed I’ve not only camped outside of her house again, but now forced my way inside. But when I lean back, Maren isn’t spitting mad.
She’s laughing. Hysterically.
“Did you just seriously say I could whack you off?” One hand comes to the center of my chest, giving me a shove. “How old are you?”
Because I’m still holding on to her, the push she gives me does nothing more than shift both of our feet in a different direction. It doesn’t matter though, because she’s not actually trying to get away from me.
She’s giving me shit.
Shit I deserve.
Because it is pretty fucking ridiculous that a thirty-four-year-old man would use the term whack the way I just did. Ridiculous, and hilarious. Hilarious enough I start laughing too.
Maren blinks up at me, expression sobering almost immediately. “Are you laughing?” Her jaw is slack. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you do that before.”
“I laugh.” I laugh when someone is acting stupid. I laugh when I’m appalled at the audacity one of our suppliers brings to a meeting. I laugh when I can’t believe the bullshit I’m hearing.
All things that happen pretty fucking regularly.
But Maren is already shaking her head. Disagreeing with me. “You don’t laugh.” She shakes her head. “Not like this.”
I want to be defensive. Tell her she’s wrong. But there’s something different about how I feel in this moment. A lightness that doesn’t normally accompany my laughter. A genuine amusement that doesn’t normally happen.
And I don’t know if that’s good or bad since I won’t be able to indulge myself and experience this on a regular basis. I couldn’t even be on time to the meeting I begged Maren for today, so there’s no way I could ever commit to the sort of situation where we might laugh together often.
But I don’t get the chance to explain that to her—or myself—because a sleepy voice sends both of us spinning toward the small hallway leading to the back of the trailer.
“Maren, why are you being so loud?”
I stare in surprise at where the little girl I’ve watched Maren care for stands, rubbing her sleepy eyes, wearing a pair of pajamas covered in unicorns.
“Shit.” Maren drops the bat to the floor and rushes to the small child. “I am sorry, Z. I didn’t mean to be so loud.” She gently maneuvers the little girl back through one of the open doorways, leaving me staring after them.
I’m shocked. Not only at the sight of the girl she called Z standing and walking, but also at what the little girl called the woman I’m more and more confused by every day.
She called her Maren. Not mom. Not mama. Not mommy. Maren.
And it makes me wonder how much I don’t actually know about the situation I’ve thrust myself into.
As the seconds tick by, I’m feeling more and more antsy with the need to know what the fuck is going on.
Grabbing the bat from beside the door, I work the surprisingly effective sock back onto the barrel, propping the weapon back into place in case Maren needs it, before stepping deeper into her home.
It looks very much like I expected. Clean and tidy.
Furnished with items that are likely secondhand, but well-maintained.
There’s not a bit of boring or beige to be found.
The walls are painted in rich tones and the curtains are dark and floral.
A collection of thriving plants swarms the eastern facing window at one end of the structure, and thick, dramatically designed rugs cover the cheap laminate flooring.
It’s not only strikingly appealing to look at, but also comfortable and cozy.
The kind of place you’re not afraid to sit on the furniture or relax.
It’s strangely similar to the aesthetic I requested from my interior designer. But while my house looks nice, I don’t think anyone would call it comfortable or cozy. It’s definitely not the sort of place people flop onto the sofas and stretch out their legs.
Not even me.
I hear Maren’s footsteps behind me and turn to face her, ready to begin asking questions. But the first thing that comes out of my mouth isn’t a question at all.
“That’s not your daughter.”
The statement doesn’t necessarily require confirmation. I might be an asshole, but I’m not stupid. I can read a room better than most people. Pick up on clues most people miss. But even most people wouldn’t have missed that little girl calling Maren by her name.
Maren stares at me for a second, like she’s weighing over her options. Finally, she sighs, looking annoyed. “No. Zara is my sister.”
“But you take care of her like she’s your child.” Again, not a question. Maybe I didn’t actually have any after all.
“I take care of her the way kids should be taken care of.” Maren steps into the galley style kitchen across from the entry door. She scoops some ice into a glass and fills it with water from the tap, swallowing down a few long gulps.
I bite my tongue, narrowly managing to resist the urge to point out she’s doing exactly what I told her to do. But I want to continue talking to her more than I want to point out my own victory. Especially with the sudden influx of new information.
“Why?” There’s finally something I don’t already know the answer to. “Where’s your mother?”
Maren shrugs, letting out a quiet, but bitter, laugh. “Who knows? Probably either dead or strung out somewhere.”
My eyes drift to the doorway of Zara’s bedroom. “Is that why she has a wheelchair? Because your mother used when she was pregnant?”
“That’s the general consensus.” Maren stares down into the remainder of her water, tipping the glass from side to side. “She also didn’t have any prenatal care, which I’m sure didn’t help.”
The need to know more about the situation is unbearable. I need more information so I know what I can do to help. “What exactly is wrong with your sister?”
Maren’s eyes flash as they snap to my face. “Nothing is wrong with her. She’s more perfect than you will ever be.”
I stepped right into that. “I’m sorry. I should be more careful in how I phrase things.” I clear my throat, before trying again. “What is her diagnosis?”
Maren glares at me a few more seconds, forcing me to hold my breath, wondering if my apology will be enough. It’s all I have right now, so hopefully it can carry me through.
Her expression is still displeased, but she does offer me the information I’m seeking. “She has cerebral palsy.”
I don’t know a lot about cerebral palsy. Yet. I fully intend to rectify that lack at the earliest possible time, but for now it limits the questions I’m educated enough to ask, so I switch gears.
“How long has she been with you?”
Looking around the trailer, it seems Zara’s life dominates the space.
There are toys in every available nook. A bright pink and purple backpack with tiny stuffed animals dangling from the zipper pulls is parked close to the front door.
Artwork stuck to the refrigerator and cabinets.
Tiny leotards and tights draped over a drying rack in the dining room area.
“Since she was a few days old.” Maren slumps back against the counter. “My mom showed up at the hospital in labor, delivered her, and then pretty much snuck out the back door, leaving a note that they should call me to come get the baby.”
That has my jaw dropping open. “And they just let you have her?”
“No, they didn’t just let me have her. I had to pay to legally adopt her, which took forever since we couldn’t actually find my mother to sign off on anything.
” The hard line of her mouth finally seems to soften a little bit.
“But they did just let me take her home. The hospital isn’t in the babysitting business, and children’s services would prefer to keep kids with family members if possible.
So she was able to be with me from day one. ”
I try to imagine what Maren’s life was like. How difficult it would have been for her to suddenly be caring for an infant with additional needs all on her own. How much she’s likely had to sacrifice.
I don’t fucking like it.
I need to know how long she’s been struggling to be a parent she didn’t sign up to be. “How old is she?”
“Zara’s five.” Maren’s lips seem to almost curve into a hint of a smile. “She starts kindergarten in the fall.”
“You named her.”
I’m back to making statements instead of asking questions. But this is another fact I don’t need to ask about. Because Zara is exactly the kind of name Maren would pick out. It’s unique. Pretty. Easy to pronounce and simple to spell. She puts thought into everything she does.
That’s why she was so great at the job that initially brought her to McKinley Security Systems. Our supplies were never handled as well as when she was the one in charge of them. And now she’s running Brooke’s days in exactly the same way.
At some point, she’s going to ask why I tried to ensure no one hired her permanently. Why I attempted to stand in the way of her becoming a constant fixture in my life. And I don’t know what in the hell I’m going to tell her.
I can’t imagine any good will come from attempting to lie about my reasons, but I’m absolutely positive admitting the truth will be even worse.
Because there is no way Maren will love hearing I tried to screw her over for my own benefit.
That I attempted to keep her sister from having fantastic insurance because I’m a coward.
That I didn’t want her to be on the payroll because, ultimately, I knew I would be standing here, in her home, invading her life.
Attempting to control her days. Paying for the opportunity to spend time with her on my own terms.
Because that’s all I have to offer.
Thankfully, Maren doesn’t ask me anything else. She doesn’t even confirm choosing Zara’s name herself. I can almost see the second she shuts down, realizing she’s accidentally opened up to me.
The instant it happens, the scowl that’s so often on her face in my presence is back in place. Her eyes narrow, and she stabs one finger toward the door. “It’s time for you to leave.”
She marches to the door, opening it and waiting as I pass her. Once I’m on the porch, she closes it most of the way, leaving me with nothing but a sliver of her face as she says, “And go home this time. If I wake up tomorrow and see you parked under that tree, I’m gonna lose my shit.”