“For now,” I repeat, knowing I’d be grateful whethernowlasted five minutes or five years. And knowing I’d still want more either way.
“Should probably find a place to lie low,” he continues, mercifully interrupting my thoughts again. “You got any ideas?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” I stare up at the clear morning sky, finally giving into my body’s insistent request that I lie back down in the patchy grass. “Think we ought to go see an old friend.”
I have been looking for him forsolong.
So long I can’t think of a time when I wasn’t anymore. So long I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the lion’s share of what keeps me going.
I can’t fucking remember. I can’t remember my life before this. Beforehim.
I can’t remember what it was like not to feel this unending, all-consuming determination. This single-minded, relentless pursuit of theonething I believe might bring me peace.
Hell, that might just let me sleep.
Thishasto be what helps me breathe again. Ithasto, because I don’t know what I’ll do if it doesn’t. I don’t have anything else.
If I do this, will the other stuff come back? The good things? It’ll probably hurt if they do. But I’m already hurtin’, so what does it matter?
I can hear his voice from here. I thought he would sounddifferent. Bigger. Tougher. Meaner. I thought he would sound like my nightmares.
He’s asking for another drink but the bartender is shaking his head while my hands are shaking beneath the bar, my own drink untouched because I want to be clear-headed. Because Iwantto remember this.
He asks again but the bartender waves him off before turning his back on him, and I watch as the thief waits less than a minute before pinching the bottle from behind the counter and heading toward the door with a sway in his step.
I thought he wouldlookdifferent, too. Bigger. Tougher. Meaner. I thought he would look like the devil. But he doesn’t.
He’s just a man.
“You know who I am?” I ask him, still trembling as I aim my gun at him. He sits against the decaying wall of the deserted building I followed him into, and I hate the sound of the door clicking closed behind me, wondering if I’ll make it back out. Wondering if I want to. “You remember what you did?”
He laughs, a hollow and whiskey-soaked sound. “Out past your bedtime, ain’t you, son?” He takes another swig as he eyes my weapon. “Put that thing away and go on home. Your mama’s probably calling.”
It’s like a punch to the gut. A twist of a blade that I only drive deeper as I step forward, my hand no longer shaking. “She isn’t.”
“That’s far enough. You stop right there.”
I follow orders, putting my hands up at the sight of the second shotgun in two weeks that’s come far closer to me than I would prefer. Although, even as close as we are standing, I have my suspicions that the person holding the gun can’t actually see us.
“Ma’am,” I say to the woman who makesold friendseem like a vast understatement. She stands in the front doorway of her two-story farmhouse in the early evening light, a floor-length blue dress on beneath her apron and her gray hair in long braids that shift over her shoulder as she adjusts her ancient grip on the gun that’s nearly as big as she is. “If you would be kind enough to put that down, I think we—”
“Afraid this is not akindhouse for trespassers.” Her dark brown eyes narrow as she tries to peer past me. “Who is that you have with you?”
“Told you I should have gone first,” Cypress mutters, and I sighas he sidesteps out from where I’d put him behind me. “How you been keeping, Dolly?”
Had I not seen the transformation myself, I would never have believed the woman threatening to gun me down a moment ago was the same one that smiles radiantly as soon as Cypress makes his appearance and starts confidently walking up to the house. Nor would I have believed she could move as fast as she does, exchanging the shotgun for a cane before hustling to the weathered porch railing.
“Cypress, as I live and breathe,” she says, pulling him in for a hug when he meets her at the bottom of the stairs. “How haveyoubeen keeping? That’s the real question.” She frowns, studying his face, including the faintly visible bruising still around his eyes. “You look like you got caught up in something.”
“Might be putting it lightly,” he replies. “I want you to meet Aiden.”
He pivots to the side so that I’m in her view again, though as soon as he does, her happy expression fades to something far more critical. “Aiden, hm?” she asks, still eyeing me warily even after I’ve stepped forward and given her hand what I hope is a gentle squeeze.
“Handshake needs work,” she says in return, refusing to let go of as she uses the end of the cane in her other one to push up the brim of my hat and get a better look. “You know, your face is liable to get stuck in that scowl if you aren’t careful.”
Beside me, Cypress snickers, and I shoot a glare his way, wondering if we’re going to break what has been our longest stretch to date without some sort of dispute. Only because this is also the longest stretch of time where he hasn’t insisted on talking my ear off, since I had insisted he keep his mouth shut while we approached the house, unsure what he was getting us into this time.
Otherwise, heneverstops talking. From the moment he getsup in the morning to the moment he finally falls asleep on the other side of the campfire, his mouth is runnin’. Half the time, I’m not even sure what he’s going on about. Books he’s read, songs he likes…which fuckin’starsare his favorite.