Page 28 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

“Did you have gambling or money issues or get up in her face about her spending habits? Because seventy percent of couples fight about money and—”

“I was shoved into witness protection for ten years and left her without a word.” I slam to a stop and almost puke out a lung. And yeah, this face I’m making isn’t pinched and glary. I probably resemble a terrified cartoon sketch of myself: bulging eyes, paling skin, the edges of my lips dragging my mouth open into a silent scream.

“Ha ha,” I say. My impression of a strung-out comedian. “Just kidding.”

I pick up the pace, nowhere near as fast as my pounding pulse, intent on losing my shadow.

“Holy.” She jogs, catching up with me. “Were you seriously in witness protection?”

“Nope.”

“Oh my God. Is Daniel even your real name? Or is it an alias? What was the program like? Did you kill someone? Were you part of a mafia? Did you get caught hiding a body? Did you—”

“Look.” I give up speed walking. There’s no escaping her inquisition and the truth bomb I exploded. The only option is damage control. Ensuring the group is still far ahead, I lower my voice. “Yes, I was in WITSEC. No, I didn’t kill anyone. My father laundered money for a drug cartel and ruined all our lives. While we’re in the clear now, I’m still using my alias, Daniel, not my real name. And this topic is not up for discussion. Do not breathe a word of it to the group.”

She stares at me, her dark eyes wide with . . . wonder? Shock? Villainy?

I rub the back of my sweaty neck. “Are we clear?”

“I thought my dad cheating on my mom with her best friend was bad.” She blows out a kind of whistle sound. “You got me beat.”

I wince at that sad peek into her life. Unfortunately, I’ve got most people beat on degenerate dads. While Raymond S. Bower and I had what I thought was a normal, although distant, relationship growing up—tossing the occasional ball around outside, laughing together when I made fun of my brothers, fighting over my curfew—he lied and schemed for a solid portion of that father-son time. My family tolerated him for the first six months of WITSEC. Me? I opted for volcanic rage, spewing my hate as often and as loudly as possible.

The day he took me aside and said, “If you want the family to get through this, you better get your attitude in check,” my inner volcano had an extinction-level event.

“I need to get myself in check?” I shoved him. Screamed. A feral roar without words as my face nearly exploded from my fury. “You are a disease. A fucking cancer, and the sooner we cut you out, the sooner the rest of us will start to breathe again.”

I was twenty-three and wrathful. He was a lowlife who laundered money, but he dropped his head, wouldn’t meet my eyes. The first hint of remorse I witnessed. That was the last time I saw my father. Mom said they fought that night and she kicked him out. I think he put us first for once and realized staying was slowly killing us.

“Sorry about your dad,” I tell Olivia. My father may beat hers in a scumbag contest, but I’d bet the bulk of her sarcasm and prickliness comes from hurt. “Must’ve been rough.”

“Fifty percent of couples divorce. No biggie.” Her tone is as cavalier as ever, but a sheen glosses her eyes. She looks up at the bird’s nest above us and crosses her arms. “You know what would make me feel better, though?”

When I don’t reply, she shifts her focus back to me, the sadness in her eyes replaced with craftiness. Not good.

I resume walking, unsure how to regain control of this volatile situation. “Whatever it is, the answer’s no.”

She meets my quickened pace. “But I have so many questions.”

“That’s nice for you.”

“How about one per hour, and you have to reply with more than one word.” Her words are a mile a minute now, higher pitched, and bursting with glee.

I step over a fallen branch, wondering what would happen if I dropped to my knees and crawled into the thick underbrush. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

“I mean, it kind of is. You don’t want me telling anyone about your secret seedy past, so . . .”

Of all the kids in all the world, how did this Tasmanian devil wind up invading my life?

Maintaining my determined pace, I say, “One question a day. That’s it. Take it or leave it. But you can’t ask my real name, and it starts on our next hike.” Once I’ve had the chance to come up with all possible questions she might ask and all neutral replies I can muster.

“Deal,” she says, practically skipping now.

The group is waiting for us around the next bend.

I’m not sure how my current face looks, but when Sadie sees me, she laughs and says, “Let’s break for a drawing exercise, shall we?”

EIGHT