32. Scottie
Scottie
“You missed the turn-off for the bypass,” I say, my voice clipped.
Cash doesn’t turn his head. His jaw is set hard, his large hands gripping the thin steering wheel at ten and two with enough force to turn his knuckles white.
The smirk he’s worn since the library is gone, replaced by the dark, hostile irritation of a guy who has spent six hours being poked with a stick.
“I didn’t miss the turn, Scottie,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “The GPS adjusted for a lane closure on the bridge. If you’d take your face out of your balance sheets for ten seconds, you’d see the orange signs.”
“The orange signs are for the northbound shoulder, Cash. I have the municipal transit layout right here on my screen,” I snap, tapping the tablet.
“But please, feel free to ignore the person whose entire job description is managing the logistical efficiency of your life. Let’s just wander through the suburbs until the rink closes.
I’m sure Coach will love it when we’re late. ”
“Shut up, Scottie.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up, Cash.”
“Then stop acting like a fucking hall monitor,” he barks, the volume making the small, boxy cab of the van feel suddenly claustrophobic.
I look out the passenger window, my chest heaving beneath my pullover, my throat hot and dry with an anger that has absolutely nothing to do with lane closures or traffic. It’s the kind of prickly, defensive rage that starts in the stomach and ends in the teeth.
The skin on the back of my neck is cold, a low, buzzing static crawling up my spine the closer the odometer gets to the city center.
Oklahoma.
The word has been sitting on my chest like a block of lead since we left the mountains.
I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter. There are three million people in this metro area. It’s a huge place. Hundreds of square miles of sprawling concrete, identical shopping centers, and pine trees.
There is absolutely no way she is going to be here.
She doesn’t even leave her neighborhood. She probably doesn’t even leave her living room anymore.
But my chest won’t loosen up.
All I can think about is one specific house. A house with three empty gin bottles under the kitchen sink, a layer of gray dust over the piano keys, and a woman who looks so much like me it makes my own reflection in the rearview mirror feel like a threat.
“We need food,” Cash says suddenly.
He hooks the steering wheel hard to the right, swinging the van into the entrance of a sprawling, brightly lit grocery store parking lot.
“We don’t have time for a grocery run,” I say, my voice rising. “The equipment manager needs those files, and—”
“The equipment manager can wait ten minutes,” Cash interrupts, his sneakers hitting the pavement before the engine has even fully died. He slams the door, the sound echoing through the rainy dark.
I let out a sharp breath. My heart is doing a fast, annoying rhythm against my ribs.
I can’t stay in the van. If I stay in the van alone with the engine off, the noise inside my own head is going to drown out the rain.
I open the door and step out into the drizzle, my flats sinking into a puddle of greasy water as I hurry after his long, broad-shouldered stride toward the automatic glass doors.
Cash is already three aisles deep, his massive frame crowding the produce section as he tosses four bunches of bananas and three plastic tubs of pre-cut fruit into a wire basket. He doesn’t look back at me when I catch up, his shoulders high and defensive under his shirt.
“Get some of those protein bars you like,” he mutters. “The ones that taste like cardboard and cost eight dollars. You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, my eyes darting toward the end of the aisle. Every shopper looks like a potential catastrophe.
“Excuse me.”
Fuck. This.
What are the fucking odds that she’s here?
I turn around.
She’s standing by the celery, wearing a beige trench coat, the hem dark with wet road spray, but it’s belted perfectly around her thin, skeletal waist.
Her red hair is exactly the same shade as mine, but hers is thin, dry, and pinned back with a tortoiseshell clip that’s missing two teeth. Her skin is translucent, pale as lard, with the same cluster of small, orange-brown freckles across the bridge of her nose that I have.
Her eyes are clear, wide, and glassy with that brilliant, terrible brightness that only comes after three highballs before four in the afternoon.
She is holding a small plastic basket containing three lemons and a single, large bottle of gin.
She looks at me. Then she looks at Cash.
“Well,” she says, her mouth curving into a slow, elegant smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I thought I recognized the posture from the window. You always did stand like you were expecting someone to hand you a subpoena, Elise.”
Cash stops. He looks from the woman to me, his dark eyes instantly tracking the red hair, the pale skin, the green eyes, and the uncanny physical symmetry between the two of us.
“Mother,” I say, the word feeling like ash in my mouth.
I haven’t seen her in over two years, but the script doesn’t change.
The immediate twist of embarrassment in my gut is familiar—a dull, tired ache rather than a sharp shock.
“Don’t use that tone, darling,” she says smoothly, taking two slow, calculated steps forward.
She turns her eyes to Cash, her head tilting with the grace of a predatory bird. “Hello. You must be the client. Finnian, isn’t it? I read the Boston papers when Elise still poured through them. You’re much larger than you look on the television screen.”
Cash doesn’t move, but his posture changes instantly. He drops the wire basket to his side, his broad chest flattening out as he steps six inches to the left, his shoulder subtly blocking her view of my face.
“Mrs. Reed.”
“Oh, please, call me Crystal,” she says.
She reaches out, her thin, pale hand with its chipped red fingernails resting lightly against the sleeve of his gray shirt for one long, aggressive second.
“Tell me, is she treating you horribly? She was always such an administrative child. No poetry in her at all. Just lists and small grievances.”
“She’s an excellent agent,” Cash says, his voice flat and dangerous.
Crystal smiles, unfazed. “Of course she is. Elise, sweetie, step over here for a second, would you? You have something on your collar.”
Before I can protest, her thin fingers catch the sleeve of my pullover. She doesn’t yank me, but the grip is firm enough that she guides me two steps away, behind the tall plastic display of organic tomatoes, effectively putting her back to Cash.
She looks me up and down, her voice dropping into a low, calm whisper that doesn’t carry past the display case.
“You look completely unraveled, Elise,” she says, her eyes raking over my face with cold, systematic precision. “The hair is a total bush. Look at your clothes. Is this what the law degree was for? To be a glorified nanny for a hockey player?”
The words don’t make me cry. I’m too tired for tears, too desensitized to the specific, sharp edge of her tongue after twenty years of hearing it.
But the sheer embarrassment of it—the dull, throbbing hurt of having my mother look at me like a failed investment while my client, my Cash, is standing ten feet away—makes my jaw tighten until my teeth ache.
“We have a schedule, Mother. We’re leaving.”
“You’re always running away,” she sighs, her expression untroubled as she reaches out to smooth down the collar of my sweater with a patronizing pat. “It’s why you were always so incredibly uninteresting to talk to at dinner.”
Cash steps around the tomato display.
His large, calloused hand comes down over my wrist.
“We’re done here,” Cash says.
He pulls. He doesn’t hurt me, but the leverage of his weight effortlessly breaks Crystal’s hold on my sleeve, hauling me behind him as he turns on his heel.
He leaves the basket of groceries sitting right there, his long, heavy strides dragging me down the aisle toward the front registers before my mother can even adjust her trench coat.
“Well, it was lovely to meet you, Finnian!” Crystal’s voice carries after us, light and airy, as if we hadn’t just been engaged in an emotional siege. “Do try to make her presentable before the season starts!”
The automatic doors slide open, and the cold, gray rain hits my face in a violent, wet smack.
I don’t say a word. I slide open the side door of the Volkswagen van, climb into the seat, and pull it shut with a clunk. I lean my head back against the upholstery, my eyes closed, my breathing slow as I wait for the heat in my face to die down.
I’m tired.
So incredibly, bone-deep tired of this shit.
The driver’s door opens, and Cash climbs in, sliding behind the steering wheel.
He doesn’t start the car. He doesn’t turn on the wipers. He just sits there in the dark, cramped cabin, his hands resting flat on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the wet windshield as the rain drums a frantic, relentless rhythm against the steel roof.
He looks across the narrow console at me, watching the way my shoulders are starting to drop from my ears. He doesn’t ask about her or why she looks like a mirror twenty years down the line. He doesn’t pry into the mess of my history.
He just reaches across the space between the seats, his large, warm palm coming flat against the top of my thigh, squeezing once—firm, grounding, and steady. He leaves his hand there for a long moment, a tether in the storm, before he turns the key to start the engine.