I am an emotionally scarred by-product of my parents. They’ve instilled in me that love hurts, betrays, will leave you broken, and flip-flops with the wind. It’s unreliable, and so have been most men in my experience. I don’t need to get neck-deep in a relationship to find this out; I learned this lesson from the masters. And then… I don’t trust anymore. After what happened at my old job, I’m terrified to trust anyone. I’m terrified to trust myself.
I snatch my phone out of my jeans pocket and, desperate to get out of my head, answer it without glancing down at the screen.
“Cypress?” Mom.
Oh God. Ice crackles through my veins, freezing the heat, replacing desire with dread. Not because it’s my mom on the other end, and it’s after two in the morning. It’s the thin, reedy, and oh-so-damn familiar note of despair in her voice.
Closing my eyes, I clutch the cell so tight, the casing bites into my fingers. “Mom. What’s wrong?” Because there’s no question. Something is wrong.
“I just…” She trails off, but her low sob echoes through the line like a thick heartbeat. “Your father called, honey. To check on me. He said you told him about my heart attack, and he wanted to see how I was feeling.” Another half-hidden sob, this one heavier, rougher. “I haven’t talked to him in so long. What does this mean? Do you think…?” She doesn’t finish the question. Not through the now-furious and heart-breaking weeping.
Dammit. Just… I press a fist against my forehead, tipping my head back, fighting back my own tears.Dammit.
“Mom, listen, I’ll be right there, okay? I’m on my way over,” I assure her, though I’m not certain if she hears me. “Okay? Mom, okay? I’m on my way,” I repeat, urgency raising my voice, hardening it.
Finally, her fragile, small “Okay” comes through, and I hang up, fear and worry pounding inside me, propelling me out of Jude’s room and to mine. Tugging on underwear, a bra, and a T-shirt and jeans that don’t smell like smoke and beer, I race from the room and out into the living room. It’ll take about twenty minutes to get from Andersonville to the Northside, and God, so much can happen in twenty minutes… My stomach lurches, and I snuff out those possibilities.
Keys. I need my keys and purse. Damn, where did I leave them…?
“I got your keys.”
My head jerks up. I’d been so frantic, I didn’t notice Jude standing by the front door, completely dressed and holding up my car keys.
“Wha-what are you doing?” I stutter, halting feet from him. Coat, sweater, jeans, and boots. “You can’t—”
“You’re right,” he interrupts, handing me my purse that I missed. “I can’t let you drive upset. Let’s go.” He unlocks the door and pulls it open.
I shake my head. “No, Jude, I’ll be—”
“I know because I’m going.” He steps out into the hall. “Let’s. Go.”
I don’t have time to argue with him. And from the implacable, move-your-ass growl in his voice, he’s not budging.
Goddammit.
Charging out of the apartment, I bolt past him on the landing and down the stairs.
Dreading what waits for me across town.
Chapter Eleven
Jude
Jesus H. Christ.
“Don’t say anything. Please,” Cypress quietly pleads without glancing over her shoulder at me as we move farther into the living room of her mother’s small Northside apartment. I don’t reply, but I stroke my hand up her spine and curve it around the nape of her neck.
Not too long ago, in a pit of a motel room, I asked her why she didn’t stay with her mother. I also remember her vehement answer of that not being an option. Now I get it. God, do I get it.
Only the doorway of the kitchen and a dark hall are visible from the living room and tiny foyer, but it’s enough to see the place is a time capsule from damn near twenty years ago. A flimsy entertainment center that one stiff Chicago wind would topple like a house of matchsticks. An outdated television model with the built-in speaker and stereo underneath. A couch and loveseat are backed against opposite walls, both covered in faded, flowery upholstery that might’ve been fashionable before I was born. An old-fashioned dining room set crowds one half of the room, its long table and six chairs the only gleaming items in here, as if they’ve been freshly waxed in preparation for visitors to sit and enjoy themselves.
No, I take that back. There’s the mantel. Even in the dim light glowing from the one lone lamp in this sad room, it shines brighter than the polished table and chairs. There’s not a speck of dust on its cherry wood surface…or the mass of framed pictures assembled on it. And those pictures…
Dan in a blue, red, and white Chicago Cubs jacket.
Dan, grinning and proudly standing next to a classic Ford LTD.
Dan and a pretty woman with an astounding resemblance to Cypress posing in front of the building I entered with Cypress just moments ago.
