Ooh, John is grumpy today. “Why, got any better ideas, Johnny boy? If so, let me know.”
“Stay out of this, Hansen. I’ve got it.”
Yeah, sure. I get that he doesn’t like me butting in, but it’s not like he has turned up anything so far, and excuse me if I’m running low on fucks right about now.
It’s my family that’s at stake. My girl, too.
My girl… Fuck. There it is again, the admission, and with it the gut-clenching fear that something could happen to her, and then…
And then what the hell am I gonna do, and how will I go on living?
When Octavia arrives in the morning, in her pretty dress and heels, her dark hair tumbling on her shoulders like silk, a light in her eyes, I fight it.
It’s her own sake, her own safety. I fight what I want, what I need. I’m trying to do what’s best for her. I even think about firing her, but I can’t.
I fucking can’t. My kids need her. Love her.
I… Shit. What am I gonna do?
She comes close to me, smiling, and I inhale her sweet scent before I realize what I’m doing. I’m fucking reaching for her, about to draw her in my arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like I’ve been doing it for years.
But then I see the red mark on her pale throat, the scratch on her cheek, and all I want is to put my fist through a wall. Because otherwise I’ll go around punching random people, and that’s frowned upon in society, or so I’m told.
Hell.
So I just grunt at her when she greets me, and I’m out the fucking door before she has a chance to get closer.
Pretending I don’t notice the hurt in her eyes. It stabs me in the chest, twists inside my heart like a rusty switchblade.
So I throw myself into work, my cell phone stuffed in my pocket in case John calls with a breakthrough. I slide under the car I’m working on, losing myself in the intricacies of the engine, trying to fix it—since I can’t fix my life.
Since I can’t solve the riddle all the way, can’t reach the heart of the maze and catch the monster.
Capture it.
Punish it.
Instead I’m punishing myself, not that it’s anything new.
And I’m hurting her. For the thousandth time in these past weeks I wonder if she feels something for me.
Whatever that is. I can’t hope…
No, I fucking can’t. I’m seriously fucked in the head if I think she might feel anything for me. Yet letting her go hurts worse than a broken bone. If her life wasn’t in danger… That’s the only reason I’m not driving home right the hell now to take her in my arms.
As for what people must be saying behind my back, fuck, I’ve never cared about that. I’ve got that going for me. I don’t give a shit what they think about me.
It was the same thing when Emma died, when I couldn’t weep for her, couldn’t stay in the town we called our home, when I lost myself in medication and booze.
When I left and ended up here, without a job, or a goal, taking the kids with me. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt.
But what about Octavia? She has to care what the wagging tongues say behind her back. She has lived here all her life. Her family is here, her friends. The bullies that hurt her.
She doesn’t need more teasing, more bullying. It’s the last thing she needs.
I am the last fucking thing she could ever need. Just because I need her… just because she’s sweet and nice and curious about sex, that doesn’t mean anything.
Fuck. I slam my fist against the metal over my head, wishing I could go get shitfaced and forget this mind-twister.