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“What?”
“Please, if you’re going to do this, mean it. Commit to it. This company means a lot to me, and it meant a lot to Pop.”
Brett sticks out his hand. “I swear it, Cash. This is what I want.”
I’mstillfeelingunsettledhours after my meeting with Brett. He seemed sincere, but it’s hard to look past the years of dishonesty and deception. The years of getting called to post bail, or to wire money to some new place he just moved to.
Five years ago was the worst. He showed up at the house, strung out, cocaine residue under his nose, yelling and threatening if I didn’t give him money. That’s when I finally cut him off, years later than I should have. I called the cops on him when he wouldn’t leave. And I fenced in the entire property, installing cameras and alarms, so Brett couldn’t come back again.
Ari talked me down that night, after Brett had left. Dragged away screaming, actually. I still remember the conversation I had with her.
Ari was in Chicago, and she’d just gotten back from an evening event at school. It was late, and I only texted her at first, but she called right away. “Was I wrong?” I asked her, feeling sick to my stomach. “Should I have given him the money?”
“No.” There was no hesitation as she answered. “You did the right thing.”
“But what if he gets into even worse trouble now?” Then I voiced my worst fear. “What if some drug dealer kills him? Or a bookie? What if I turned my back on him, and he ends up dead?”
“Don’t you even think that.” Her voice was so sure. “Whatever happens to Brett is on him. Not you. Giving him money is enabling him. You know it, and that’s why you stopped. You did the right thing, Cash. I am one hundred percent sure of it.”
And in the years since, I’ve called back on those words. On Ari’s assurance that I did the right thing.
Hopefully, I’m doing the right thing this time.
But now I’m home, and I can focus on something far more pleasant. Like my new housemate, who I’ve already grown accustomed to living with. In just four days, I’ve gotten used to having dinner with Ari, instead of staying late at work, or coming home and eating over the kitchen counter.
I enjoy sitting in the TV room watching a movie with Ari, instead of going to my home office and working until I’m dozing off at my desk. And I like having someone to talk to when I get home from work, especially someone who smiles at me like I’m the best part of her day.
It’s only temporary. As I walk through the front door, I remind myself,it’s only temporary. The police will find this asshole and put him in jail and then Ari will want to go back to her own house, her own routine, and I’ll be back to spending my nights at the station or at my desk.
It didn’t feel lonely before, but now it does.
Ari isn’t curled up on the living room couch—the same place I’ve found her the last three days after work—and a little sliver of worry jabs into my chest. There are dozens of other places she could be in the house, but this was her first day back to work and I’m worried it may have been too much for her.
I think she should have waited, gone back next week instead, but Ari insisted. “It’s a new job, Cash. I’ve only been there a few months. I’ve already missed too much work as it is.”
But she’s not sleeping well—I requested the week off from the station to stay nights here with Ari—and I’ve heard her tossing and turning the last few nights in her bedroom. She slept okay that first night, on the couch with me, but every night since then she’s gone to bed once the movie we’re watching is over.
Which is probably better for my mental well-being, but not so good for her sleep.
I check the kitchen, the TV room, the library, the solarium—nothing.
The early November weather makes it too cold to sit outside, but I check the back patio, anyway. No Ari.
She got home two hours ago—I saw the security system notification when she let herself in—and I knowshe didn’t leave.
Is she in the shower? The bedroom? Is she in pain? A full day of teaching and moving around, with her still-healing abrasions and bruises couldn’t have been comfortable. I’m working myself into a small panic, envisioning Ari hurting, in tears, all alone—
I don’t want to intrude on her privacy, so I knock lightly at her bedroom door, even though I really want to burst inside.
What is wrong with me? I’ve never felt so over-the-top protective before.
There’s no answer, so I knock again, a little louder this time. After a few seconds, Ari calls out softly, “Cash?” But there’s a little tremor to her voice. Which means she’s scared it’s that piece of shit, which makes me so damn angry.
But I shove my anger down and open the door, hoping I’m not met with Ari in tears, white-lipped, her features pinched in pain.
Oh. Something is happening in my chest.
Ari is sitting up, her long hair all tousled, groggy-eyed, her cheeks flushed from sleep. A throw is puddled around her waist, exposing a thin T-shirt that clings to her slight curves. Curves that may not be large but are perfectly formed. Curves I shouldn’tbe noticing right now.
