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"Scar, please," I beg.
"No, Maverick," she says, sounding defeated, and ends with, "Just leave me alone."
Her words are like poison that rots my insides.
She walks away from me, and this time, I let her go…for now.
TWENTY-FOUR
SCAR
On the drive back, Shaun's chatter provides a welcome distraction from my tense encounter with Maverick. Though my mother doesn't say anything, her silence speaks volumes—she's aware that Maverick's presence tends to stir up intense emotions.
"Are you going to be alright?" Mom asks. I glance in the rearview mirror to see Shaun has fallen asleep. "Can you take him?" I request, ignoring her question. "I'll be right behind you." Without a word, Mom exits the car and takes Shaun with her. As I sit alone in my car, I reflect on seeing Maverick.
God, did he look good. His broad shoulders, triangle-shaped face with strong jawline, and the same bright blue eyes. His gentle smile definitely comes from his dad, triggering a small dimple on both cheeks.
I’ve managed to suppress my emotions, but as soon as Mom carries Shaun inside, a sob tears from my throat and all the pain of the past comes rushing back to me like a tidal wave.
Encountering him today served as a reminder of why I chose to let him go. A rush of nostalgia swept over me, reminding me of the good times. However, his mere presence now causes me distress and confusion. Being in his company fogs my thoughts, and my body reacts to his proximity. My little monster’s happiness is my number one mission, so it's time to leave the past behind me and move forward. Looks like we're closing that chapter once and for all.
After taking a few deep breaths, I climb out of my car and walk up to the house.
* * *
When I left the house this morning, Mom was still in bed. I made a fresh pot of coffee and set her favorite banana nut muffins beside her coffee mug with a note letting her know I’d be back in time before her shift begins.
“Your destination is on the right.” My GPS led me to a tall building thirty minutes outside of town. Kenny, owner of Kenny’s Café, offered me a part-time delivery position a few days a week after my shift at Dottie’s. It isn’t my dream job of being an artist and opening my own gallery, but for now it has to do, and I am grateful for the opportunity.
My first delivery stop was to Cabot Pharmaceutical, a company owned by Mason Cabot. Mason is the son of the late Gerald Cabot and a close friend of Seth's. After Mason's father passed away last year due to cancer, Mason took over the business. Although I haven't seen Mason in the past few years, I was actually excited to see him.
I park my little Fiat company car on the side of the road, grab the delivery bag from the front seat, and stare up at a building with glass windows. I walk through the tall rotating glass doors and get checked in by security.
“Wow,” I say breathlessly.
I’ve never seen a lobby so beautiful. The bold colors bring life and energy into the open space. My eyes travel to the floor-to-ceiling tinted windows to a diamond globe-shaped light fixture that hangs over a black curved sectional near the windows. As I stand there lost in a daze, my gaze drifts to the fancy coffee table that sits on a black area rug with a silver abstract design.
I walk up to the front desk and am greeted by a beautiful woman with wavy, dark chestnut hair and a round-shaped face covered in heavy makeup. She looks to be around my age.
“Hi. My name is Scar, from Kenny’s Café, and I’m here to deliver food to the fifty-fourth floor.”
The receptionist gives me a fake half-smile and makes a call.
“What is your name?” she asks.
“It’s Scar, just like it was a second ago,” I say under my breath.
She rolls her eyes and says, “Go toward the elevator. Once you reach the fifty-fourth floor, stop at the front desk first. Rebecca will take it from there.” She hangs up the phone and points toward the elevator with her perfectly manicured nail.
With my delivery bag in hand, my Converse smack against the shiny marble floor and the blue stone and glass rainfall chandelier lights up the hallway toward the elevators.
I press the up button. The stainless-steel doors open and I step into the elevator. Once I reach the fifty-fourth floor, I walk toward a woman who looks like Margot Robbie with double D’s who is glaring at me.
She gives me a disdainful look. "You must be the food delivery girl," she says, eyeing me from head to toe.
Yep. I’m the girl who delivers food to people who are too fucking lazy to get it themselves, I want to say sarcastically, but instead I nod. “Yes, I am.”
She picks up the phone, and says, “Sir. Your food delivery is here.”
