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“But what?”
“This makes two women asserting their son’s death had something to do with Davis.”
“Yeah,” I scoff. “I thought that was established…”
“Have you called your attorney?”
“I’m waiting for him to call me back.”
“You should put in another call. I wouldn’t wait.”
“This isn’t Davis’s fault. None of it.”
“Hey, I said that already,” he tells me, holding his hands up in defense. “Now we’re just talking in circles, and besides, I’m not the one you need to convince.”
I look at him, tilt my head, and narrow my eyes. “There’s something you’re not saying.”
He hesitates for several long beats before he says, “Bobby’s mother called Gina again.”
I down my glass in two quick gulps and then slam it on the counter. Cole didn’t want to have this conversation because he knew if he did, he wouldn’t get laid. And this is why we can’t have nice things. This is why I can’t have a child that shares half of his DNA. I can’t trust him. “How much does Gina know about you and me?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it means.”
“Why are you asking me that?”
“Why are you evading the question?”
I cross the kitchen, take the bottle of tequila from the counter, and refill my tumbler. “I’m just wondering why she might have a reason to have it out for my family. Now, it makes sense.”
“I’m not the enemy here, Ruth. And believe it or not, not everyone is out to get you.”
“So you’re defending her then?”
“I’m not defending anyone. Gina’s a member of the press. She has a story to tell.”
“Never mind if it’s a lie.”
Cole places his glass in the sink and turns on the tap. It’s his way of checking out of the conversation. It’s his way of telling me he’s about to walk in and out of my life.
I grab the bottle of tequila from the counter and take a long pull on the bottle. “Tell her she can have you, I’m done.”
“I think you’re overreacting. This isn’t about me.”
“Sure it is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t know women at all.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Ruth
Days go by, each one passing like molasses. Festival weekend comes and goes, and each day thereafter feels pretty much like the one before it. Little is said about Danny Vera. The Holts delay a funeral for their son, although eventually the gossip and speculation around that dies out, too.
As for me, I seem to get a little less jumpy and a little more melancholy with each passing day. I become less concerned that someone is going to pop up out of nowhere and shoot me dead or run me off the road and more concerned with the fact that I’m probably never going to be a mother. All of a sudden, I become more comfortable with the idea of dying. It hardly feels like I have a lot to live for. And at any rate, all I know is that I can’t live at that level of alert, or stay on edge like that forever. Not without going crazy.
