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Robbie: Lucy?
Robbie: Are you two, okay?
Robbie: LUCY?
Robbie: LUCY!
“Momma?”
I look down at Harley.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
Chances are the house we’re being sent to isn’t furnished. Chances are all the things I had shipped here last week have either been stolen or sold. Chances are Robbie’s choices have screwed me over again.
“Are you ready?”
Everything in me is telling me to use every penny I have to head to the ticket counter and buy us plane tickets back to New Mexico, but I know for a fact the landlord already has tenants lined up to move into the house we vacated. I doubt Micah will ever look at me again, and I’m not even sure the money I have is enough to get the both of us home.
I huff a humorless laugh as I grab the handle to my rolling carry-on and shove my phone in my back pocket. I’ll think about messaging Robbie back when I calm down. I slip my other hand into Harley’s.
“Ready?”
He shrugs. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not really?” I scrunch my nose at him, a little hint that I’m not as excited as I’ve tried to pretend recently. If anything, we’ll still be on the same team. If we get to that new address and there’s an issue, I’ll just turn around and leave. I won’t put Harley in a bad situation. If I can walk away from a good man because I feel like it’s in his best interest, I can walk away from his father if it’s in his best interest as well.
Our checked luggage is already circling the carousel when we approach, and a nice gentleman helps me pull it off when he notices me struggling. I thank him and walk outside, smiling at a man in a suit when Harley points, noticing him holding a sign with our last name on it.
“Harley and Lucy?” the man asks as we approach.
“That’s us!” Harley says, sounding excited for the first time in weeks.
Weirdness settles in my bones. I wasn’t looking forward to the expense of taking a cab for the hour-long ride from the airport to Galveston, but Robbie doesn’t have a car. Being driven in a hired car must be even more expensive, and it makes me wonder if my ex is actually working for an offshore oil rig or he’s gotten tangled up in something a little more sinister.
Did he get involved in something terrible while he was in prison? I’d like to believe he wouldn’t let Harley get involved in something like that, but at the end of the day, do I really know the man? We were high when he was on the outside, and I only got to see what he wanted me to see while he was locked up.
The man places our bags in the trunk of the car and holds the back door open for us. Whoever hired the company was thoughtful enough to have a booster seat installed in the back, and Harley wastes no time settling in and pulling the seatbelt so I can lock it in place.
“Ready?” the driver asks when he takes a seat behind the wheel.
“Yes,” Harley answers.
“Ma’am, your seatbelt?”
I rush to put it on, pulling my phone from my back pocket before snapping it into place.
“You have the new address?” I ask, pulling up the text thread with my ex.
“5609 Crescent Square,” he confirms.
I nod.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He pulls away. My mind is racing as we drive toward the ocean. Harley seems content to watch the traffic, and I’m grateful he didn’t ask questions when I confirmed the address.
Me: You have a lot of explaining to do.
Robbie doesn’t respond, and my mood is more than sour as Houston starts to fade behind us and things turn more industrial.
The air in the vehicle is thick, and I’m sure that’s all my fault, but there’s no conversation, and the radio isn’t even on. I’m doing my best to determine if the man driving seems like a hired car or if he’s the type of man to work full-time for a drug cartel. I don’t notice any neck tattoos. His hands are free of ink, but then I feel like a jerk. Micah is covered in tattoos, and he’s not a criminal. I don’t think Robbie has any ink, at least he didn’t before he went to prison, and he’s got numerous offenses on his record, so judging books by those covers doesn’t always pan out.
Robbie: I’m doing paperwork for human resources, but the key will be under the mat.
We cross a long bridge before taking an exit. Harley gasps at the ocean, but I know from doing research on my phone that it’s not the real ocean. Galveston, on most days, isn’t what he’s probably imagining. It’s not pristine beaches with sparkling blue water. It’s the gulf and always a little dirty.
