How to Save a Life
Which leads me to think that maybe I imagined it––the warmth, the affection. I thought he cared about me the way I do him. No, that’s wrong. I don’t care about him––I love him. I’m completely undeniably in love with him…and silly me, I was hoping he could love me back.
Behind me footsteps approach and I wipe my face and eyes. At least under the cover of night I’ll be spared the embarrassment.
“Hey,” he says quietly, so quietly it brings tears to my eyes again.
My mother was right. I don’t know why it surprises me, but it does. I guess I’m still the fool who believed her father was going to get better and a family of magic dragons lived under the city streets.
I should leave. Tomorrow morning I’ll book a bus ride home. Vern would tell me to run. Besides, Maisie’s home, where she belongs with Eli. Tommy’s gambling debt will be paid off next payday. My work is done here.
“Hey,” I echo back. But it’s weak and falls flat. He’ll know something is wrong. I can’t even pretend right now.
“What are you doing out here? I thought you were going to join us.”
“My stomach is on the fritz. Go on without me.”
“Are you in pain? Can I get you anything?” There’s tension in his voice at the smallest sign of illness. Now I get it. It all makes sense now.
“It’s a stomach ache, Jordan. I’ll recover.” I can’t even look at him. If I turn around, he’ll see I’m lying.
“Then why won’t you look at me?” I hear him climb onto the boat, stopping right behind me. “Is something wrong?”
His powers of observation are really inconvenient at times. “Nope. Everything’s fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“Well, I am.”
“Riley…”
“I said I’m fine. Go back to your friend.”
He stands there silently for what feels like a short eternity. Then to add insult to injury he says, “Is this a female issue?”
I shit you not. I am barely holding it together and he wants to know if I’m on the rag. He needs to stop, or it’s going to get ugly.
“Am I supposed to guess why you’re suddenly in a bad mood?” he continues without a clue.
Have you ever been so mad you want to cry? So mad you’re positive the blood in your veins is turning into nuclear toxic sludge? Yeah, we’re at that part of the story. The part where I want to hurt him the way he hurt me. But I can’t do it. Something stops me. I don’t have it in me––that gene that allows a person to hurt the one they love. Because I do love him. It sucks but I do––I love him desperately.
“Riley?”
I won’t hurt him, but right now I’d settle for screaming into a pillow.
“You know what you know about females, Jordan? Zilch, zippo, not a damn thing––”
“Uhh, okay.”
“You sound confused so let me clear it up for you. You don’t know squat. If I had to write a book about what you know about females, it wouldn’t be worth the paper it’s printed on––”
“Riley––”
“––The audiobook would be white noise! Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzz!” Anger, white hot anger bubbles to the surface. There’s no stopping me now.
“Fine. You’ve made your point.”
“Good. Now get off My Laine,” I tell him, livid, the feeling running roughshod over me.
“Riley...”
“No.” Standing, I turn to face him, see the look of complete bewilderment on his beautiful face, and march below deck with a look of anger and resentment on mine. Into the back bedroom, I slam the door shut.
Ignoring my wishes, he follows naturally. The selfish jerk. Walking into the bedroom, he closes the door behind him and leans back against it.
“What’s going on?” His voice is forceful this time and it’s enough to drive me over the edge. What’s the point in keeping it to myself. I’m leaving tomorrow anyway.
“I’m leaving tomorrow.” The room is so small there’s nowhere to go, no escape. All I can do is sit on the bed legs crossed.
“Leaving?” He makes a face somewhere between confusion and suspicion. “Why?”
“You don’t need a babysitter anymore, and it’s time I get back to my business. Frankie and Fat Jesus need me. Tommy too.”
“Fat Jesus?” he echoes, thoroughly confused. “You’re my personal assistant. That’s what I hired you for.”
“I can’t be your personal assistant.”
“I’m sensing a lot of misplaced anger––”
Misplaced? It’s like he knows exactly what to say to piss me off. “I heard you.”
His brow wrinkles quizzically. “Okay.”
“No, I heard you talking to Eli about me.”
His body stiffens, his expression guilty. His chin tips down and he runs both hands through his hair, almost as if he’s searching for an answer. Or an excuse.
“What did you hear?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m catching a bus back to New York tomorrow.” I can’t look at him or I’ll cry.
His naked feet come into view. He sits on the bed next to me, his muscular thigh covered in navy deck shorts touching mine. I can feel his body heat, smell the expensive body wash he uses.