Page 118 of Unmanageable

“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.

33

Cash