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Is there even a reason to feel guilty? I need the truth out of Mom, but life keeps getting in the way.
“Did he tell you anything?” she says quietly.
“Somebody was shooting at us. He doesn’t know who. I guess he wants to take us to a safe house to keep us safe. I don’t know what other choice we have.”
“There’s a word for that, Lena. When somebody does something just because they don’t have a choice. It’svictim. We don’thaveto do anything.”
This is such a crazy position to be in, convincing my mom to be a prisoner, but what else am I supposed to do?
“I know, Mom, but I think it’s for the best. He saved you, didn’t he? He clearly wants to protect us.”
I’m doing this for us. But when he said that, I didn’t get the sense he was talking about me, Mom, and him. It was justhim and melike he was hinting at the future I know I shouldn’t want, but I can’tstopwanting.
She looks around, biting her nails. “What do you think we should do?” she asks.
There’s something in her tone, almost defeated. I don’t have to ask to know that she’s angry with herself for asking for my opinion. She feels she should be in charge, and I get that. I’d be the same as a mother, but it’s not our usual dynamic.
“Go with him,” I say, with maybe too much conviction. “It’s our best choice. He’ll keep us safe. I know he will.”
Mom looks past me, past the car, at Jamie walking with Demon at his side. Jamie is scanning the area as he walks. He catches us looking, turns, and heads back. He looks at Mom, not at me. It’s like he can’t look at me. Guilt, or will he lose control again?
“What’s the plan?” he says.
Mom laughs humorlessly. “You say that like we have a choice.”
Jamie sighs. “This is the best option. Believe me.”
Believe me, he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, choosing whose story to accept, his or Mom’s.
“Fine,” Mom huffs, “but we’re not going in the trunk.”
“That should be okay from here on,” he replies. “The tinted windows will be enough. Hopefully, we can get to the safe house without needing to switch cars. It’s not too much farther.” He frowns at the bullet marks on the splintered glass in the window. “It wasthis close.” He measures maybe half a foot with his hands. “Luck. Instinct. I don’t know what saved me.”
I bite down. We’ve been so selfish, not even considering how this affects Jamie. I want to reach out, touch his arm, and hold tight. Let him know he’s not alone and will never be again.
Mom steps forward as ifshe’sgoing to offer him some comfort. I need to untangle this strange web they’re weaving together. It’s not“will they/won’t they”like on some sitcoms. It’s“did they/didn’t they.”If Mom lied, though, then she must’ve had a reason. I’ve already told her if it was about that surreal whalebone wallet, I don’t care. Whatelsecould it be?
Eventually, Mom looks at the ground. She doesn’t reach out to him. Maybe I’d be able to keep myself composed if she had. Maybe I wouldn’t go into complete freak jealous mode, but I’m not sure, and that’s scary.
“Let’s get going,” Jamie says, all tough again, shield back up. “My closest safe house isn’t too far.”
“Yourclosestsafe house?” I ask.
“A man like me has to have contingencies,” he replies.
“Have you made lots of enemies?”
He looks off toward the trees, but it’s really like he’s staring into the past. “I’ve been careful to avoid it. Some people might want me dead, but they’re already dead.”
He speaks coldly, not looking at us. Mom gives me a look of fear. Maybe there’s some judgment in there, too, as if she’s wondering how somebody could be so coldly casual about taking a life or multiple lives. I don’t judge him. Even Mom said he’s a good man, but when she’s faced with the fact of it, she cringes away. I won’t. I can’t.
“But maybe there’s one,” he says, his tone getting darker. “I never would’ve thought it, but yeah, maybe.” He walks toward the driver’s side door with Demon at his side. “Let’s go.”
Mom throws her hands up and looks at me for an answer, but I have nothing to offer. Sadly, that feels as if it’s been the story of my part in this—nothing to contribute. I don’t like not feeling useful. This isn’t my world, but I wish I coulddosomething.
I open the back door, but then Jamie grunts from the front. “Demon needs space. Sit up here.”
It’s the same tone he used in the bedroom. It sets my body alight despite the smell of vomit that fills the car when Mom climbs into the back beside Demon. Despite the fear and the paranoia, I’m burning for him as I remember that commanding, unflinching tone.
