AllFreeNovel
Share Us
She hangs her head, and I wish I could retract that last part. Probably she didn’t need me stirring up the detritus of our introduction. “But, we’ve charted a course now,” not one that, for a single second do I understand, “so I think from this point onward, honesty is essential. I’m not big on lies.”
Her arms fold. “I thoughtliespretty well summed up your whole career.”
Back to that, are we? Now here is a moment I should be angry, but not only is anger difficult to muster with her challenging me from beneath pretty, upswept lashes, her snotty version of pluck resonates with me. Also gives me hope that this recent barrage of calamities hasn’t shattered her backbone.
It’s just a defense mechanism anyhow.
She droops. “I’m sorry, Marco. You’re right—about lying, that is. But you’re wrong about the best foot thing.”
This I gotta hear.
She stares for a moment at her hands. “You’ve been great since the start. Helpful and…kind.”
Yikes. Kindness is an adjective that can make us tough guys cringe.
Meh. Who cares? Toughness is overrated—outside of work, that is.
I try not to let it show, but being raised in a house full of women had an effect, and by the time little Rachel came along, I pretty much melted. Perhaps that’s why I went into a macho career, to preserve my manhood and all.
Or to make the world a safer place for the weak and vulnerable. Kind of a tossup which, at this point.
Oh, and I like puppies and kittens, and I roll on the floor at funny cat videos, too.
Secrets I’m taking to the grave.
I clear an itch from my throat. “Oh yeah, picking up my best friend’s little sister was real cool.”
“You didn’t know who I was.”
“And that makes it better?”
She glances up. Down again. Shrugs.
I’m glad I have the road for a distraction, a reason not to search her face, or worse, have her search mine.
Last fall, Marisol, my middle sister, excitedly told me about the new man in her life. Given that they met in a club, I was less than impressed. Ever the skeptic when it comes to men—I wonder why—I told her not to get too invested. I set her off bigtime by asking if she was giving the milk away for free. Yeah, I probably did deserve the month-long cold shoulder I got for that question. The point is, weeks in advance, I saw the writing on the wall, the shattered heart, clear as if I’d stared it down through the giant lens at the McDonald Observatory. I mean, I know men.
I know men like me.
A clammy film erupts across my forehead, the back of my neck.Lord, it’s bad enough I may have littered a trail with wounded hearts, but please, please don’t let me have littered it with fatherless children.
See? Annalise is way…way…off base about the best foot thing. No feet involved here. I virtually slithered into her life.
CHAPTER 22
Annalise
Sadly, with every mile we drew closer to Marco’s hometown, the scenery grew less inspiring. Now, as my gaze sweeps the barren panorama about me, I recoil at the tortilla-flat, rain-forsaken, not-a-tree-in-sight landscape, and also, shamefully, at the rusty singlewide smack dab ahead.
I shoot a strained smile at Marco, hoping he didn’t notice the grimace I’m certain I didn’t tame in time. I admit it. I’d expected more.
No, I had been utterly without expectation, and yet, even without prejudice, the reality has caught me by surprise. The trailer must be at least as old as Marco, and I never would have thought rust to be a problem in the desert, but this one has its fair share, the worst of which is probably due to the dripping AC unit propped in the window nearest the front door.
Suddenly, I want to be anywhere but here, and while I’m debating whether I’m a total snob or just belatedly considering the decency of inflicting myself on a family I don’t know, a petite Hispanic woman appears on the small, weathered deck that some amateur tacked on at some point over the years. A wide smile lifts her face, but other than the joy of a mother welcoming a chick back into the nest, nothing about her is at all what I pictured. I admit to succumbing to stereotypes, which made me look for a round Latina, bustling about with dramatic hugs, kisses, and exclamations. And yet, when through Marco’s open door I hear her break into fast and fluent Spanish, I’m startled.
While she is short, she is far from round. She’s toned and spry and…young. My own mother—adoptive mother—is seventy, and occasionally I forget how much she is the outlier when it comes to my friends’ parents. This woman doesn’t look fifty.
I swallow hard. Her youth makes her more intimidating.
