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Before we can dig too deep, a bell rings and it’s time for him to hit the halls and change lives. I assure him I’ll be back to visit again before leaving town, but as I walk out of the room, I feel like my duty has been done. I thank him, shake his hand and give him credit for the changes he made in my life, and that was the sole reason for my visit.
I commend the man for sticking around and wanting to make a difference in so many kids’ lives. He’s one of the few that has never given up hope, and that honestly makes him a better man than me.
Lunch is fast food eaten in the parking lot of a strip-center filled with a check cashing place, a nail salon, and a discount store. Thinking of going back to the hospital makes my stomach turn, and I’d do anything to avoid going back to my grandfather’s house, even though getting a jumpstart on cleaning it out would probably be the best course of action.
So, I sit and people watch, keeping an eye out for any person who thinks it would be a good idea to try and jack my truck. My vehicle isn’t the only one parked in the lot, but from the looks of the two guys that got out of the BMW earlier, I don’t imagine they acquired the luxury car through honest means. That thought makes me feel like shit because I’m judging them without knowing them. Then again, there’s that saying about looking and acting like a duck. Those two quacked the entire way into the nail salon, eyes darting every which way like they were anticipating trouble. It heightened my own senses until my eyes fell on the one person I truly never thought I’d see again.
I scrub at my face, blaming my lack of sleep and frustration over being back in town on the illusion before my eyes.
Long golden hair tied back in a ponytail, legs that have been wrapped around my body more than once, plump lips made to be kissed. I’ll be damned if it isn’t Tinley Holland walking across the parking lot to enter the discount store.
I swallow, the lump in my throat winning out over the urge to race out of my truck and approach her. As if she can sense my eyes on her, she looks around then back at her car, a run-down looking number with a rusting dent in the driver’s side door. Guilt swims in my gut. She was supposed to get out. She was supposed to move to Dallas with her family and the new job her dad got. I never saw her after that night. I purposely avoided graduation the next day.
A week after Tinley Holland climbed out of my truck that final time, I was swearing an oath to my country, and I never looked back.
What the hell happened? Did she not leave? Is she back visiting?
I follow her eyes back to her car, and my fucking heart stops.
The same little jerk that shoulder-checked me in Mike’s office is sitting in her car, a scowl across his face.
“Now,” she mouths, her finger pointing to the spot right at her feet.
I can’t hear them, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to imagine the shit spewing from that brat’s mouth as he climbs out of the car and slams the door.
I watch him approach her, his head hanging low as she leans in close and speaks with him.
His golden skin.
The mop of unruly curls on the top of his head.
Jesus. It’s not possible. There’s no damn way.
I’m doing crazy math in my head, trying to remember how old I was in junior high, but I’m so distracted I end up having to use my damned fingers to count out the years.
By the time I’m certain I have the math right and I look up, the beater she pulled up in is gone. I grab my phone, knowing exactly who will have the answer to every question I can ask, but the damn thing rings in my hand.
“Yeah,” I snap, answering the call without looking at the screen.
“Mr. Torres?”
“Yeah?” I hiss again, ready to tear this person to shreds if they even mention consolidating student loans or my vehicle warranty.
“This is Dr. Bishop from the hospital. It may be best for you to get back up here.”
“It’s time?”
“I believe so.”
The call doesn’t last much past that, and although I have even more shit on my plate right now, I need to close this one door once and for all.
Chapter 2
Tinley
“I do,” he mumbles from the passenger seat.
Taking a long, slow breath, I let my anger and agitation flow through the tight grip I have on the steering wheel.
“I don’t think you do. If you knew how hard you’re making things, you wouldn’t do them.”
