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“Then what? Small talk? Entertainment?”
“I don’t expect you to entertain me, and I don’t like small talk,” she said. Manuel had cut her off from everyone and everything, except the faces she passed in the grocery store or on the street. She was sick of meaningless smiles and nods and comments on the weather. She craved real friendship, deep conversation. She doubted she’d get that from a brief encounter with a stranger, but connecting with someone for even a few moments was better than more isolation.
“Fine, then here’s the truth,” he said, a shrug in his voice. “I can’t trust myself enough to buy sleeping pills.”
“Because…”
Smoke curled from his lips. “What do you think?”
He was intimating that he might hurt himself, of course. But something about his words didn’t ring true. She was fairly sure he was just trying to shock her. “What am I supposed to say to that?”
“Nothing. You’re supposed to realize I’m probably unstable and scurry back to your room.”
“What if the fact that you’ve considered suicide doesn’t scare me?”
“It should.”
He liked playing the part of an I-don’t-care-if-I-live-or-die badass, she thought. “Maybe I understand how you’re feeling. Maybe I’ve been there.” She’d once sat staring at a bottle of sleeping pills for three hours. Taking them would have been the easiest way to escape Manuel. He made her feel so insignificant, so angry and helpless. It was the defiance suicide represented that had appealed to her, the dramatic final exit. Control that, you bastard.
If not for Max, she might have done it.
The wind blew Preston’s hair across his forehead as he flicked his ashes to the ground. “You’re telling me you’re nuts, too?”
She toyed with the mace behind her back. “Feeling desperate isn’t the same as being nuts.”
“It can be.” He scowled, studying the cigarette pinched between his fingers. “Anyway, you don’t know me. And you’ve got a kid in there.”
His eyes held too many secrets. She gazed out across the lot. “Maude seems to think you’re okay.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. You barely met her,” he said, bringing the cigarette back to his lips.
“Are you telling me I can’t trust either of you?”
The cigarette moved as he talked. “I’m telling you that you can’t trust anyone.”
“You have some serious issues.”
“We all have issues.” The way he looked her up and down would have made Emma nervous, except it was so…orchestrated. “You’re not even dressed,” he added.
She arched an eyebrow at him. “I’m well covered.”
“Those pajamas aren’t the most attractive pair I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m not trying to impress you, so quit trying to intimidate me.”
He crushed his cigarette beneath his heel and didn’t respond.
“Do you want to talk about it or not?” she asked.
Shoving off from the post, he rounded on her a little too quickly. She hopped back out of reach—and dropped her mace on the ground in the process.
He eyed it for a second. “There you go. Now you’re using your head.” Picking it up, he gave it back to her. Then, with a humorless chuckle, he disappeared inside his room.
So much for starting a Tortured Souls Club, Emma thought as she looked down at the small canister. But it was just as well. She was never going to see Preston Whoever-He-Was again. And she had enough problems of her own to worry about. She needed to get some sleep. The more states she managed to put between herself and California tomorrow, the better.
WAL-MART WAS BUSIER than Emma had anticipated. Evidently it paid to be the only superstore in town, even in a town the size of Fallon.
Max helped her push a shopping cart down the aisles as she looked for the bottled water. She’d planned to be on her way by now—hours ago, actually. But she’d been exhausted. When Max had slept in, she did, too. And by the time they’d showered, dressed and packed, the stores were open. So she’d decided to take advantage of the local Wal-Mart to stock up on bottled water before venturing any farther into the desert.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t been the quick stop she’d anticipated. First, Max needed to use the restroom and took so long, complaining of a stomach ache, she was afraid he was getting the flu. Then she had to feed him, so they ate at the Mc-Donald’s in the store. At that point, she couldn’t put off his insulin injection, which necessitated another trip to the restroom. And on the way back, he’d spotted the toy aisle and insisted he be allowed to choose a toy as his reward for being so good while the police officer talked to Mommy yesterday. Because Emma didn’t have the heart to tell him he hadn’t been as quiet as she’d requested, she’d given in and let him pick out a magnetized game designed for travel. But now she was getting nervous and more than eager to leave.
“Hey, Mommy, they have gum,” Max said once they’d found the water and were finally standing in the checkout line.
Emma thumbed through the latest issue of People. “I’ve got some sugarless gum in the car.”
“I don’t like that kind.”
She glanced at the candid photos of various stars. “It’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”
“How ’bout a sucker?”
Emma looked over the top of the magazine, wishing the checker—a gray-haired man with wire-rimmed glasses—would hurry. Checkout was never fun for the mother of a diabetic child. Everything Max loved but should avoid was displayed at eye level. “I don’t think so, honey.”
“Please? It could be my emergency snack.”
Except that his emergency snack never lasted until an emergency. “I really want to keep your blood in its zone, okay, baby? You had that candy bar the policeman gave you yesterday, which didn’t really fit into your meal plan.”
“What if I take an extra shot?”
“I just gave you your insulin.”
His shoulders drooped and his bottom lip came out. “What if I eat only half of it?”
Emma picked up the sucker and checked the carbohydrate totals on the back—twenty-one grams. “I guess you could have it for your afternoon snack,” she said, although she knew Max would start begging her for it the moment they got in the car.
All too familiar with their typical negotiations, he began to press her even before that. “You mean for lunch?”
