Actual Stop (14 page)

“Don’t trust me not to screw it up?” I flashed her a grin. I was purposely trying to lighten the mood. If she continued to press the issue, I was afraid I’d blurt out that I really just wanted to go home, and some small part of me really didn’t want her knowing that. It was as if admitting that would be admitting to every other outrageous thought that had recently cut jagged trails through my tangled little mind.

Sure, I recognized that one had absolutely nothing to do with the other. And regardless, Allison couldn’t read minds, so it shouldn’t make a difference. Besides, did it matter what Allison thought? Unfortunately, the rational part of me was nearly silent at the moment. So I went with misdirection.

“Well, there is that. But we’re a team. I don’t want you to think I’m not doing my share.” Allison’s expression was serious, and she was staring at me with an intensity that made me vaguely nervous.

The idea that she cared what I thought touched me and warmed my soul in places it probably shouldn’t have. That was a surefire clue that I needed to get going. Like now. Because having feelings like these was only heightening my confusion and, by a directly proportional degree, my guilt. So, yeah, the sooner I made my grand escape, the better.

Despite myself and my nearly compulsive desire to run from the room, I softened my smile and couldn’t resist squeezing her forearm. “I promise you I won’t think that.” As she opened her mouth to protest, I went on. “Look, you’re already showered and dressed for bed. It makes no sense for you to go back out now. Not for something this trivial. It’ll take me fifteen minutes, tops.”

Uncertainty flickered behind Allison’s eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” I hastily gathered my belongings and shoved them haphazardly into my bag, grateful for a legitimate excuse to divert my attention. It was a relief to escape her gaze, if only momentarily. I slung my bag over my shoulder and took a deep breath before I looked at her once more.

“What time do you want me to pick you up tomorrow?”

“That depends. Do you want to grab breakfast first?” If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought she was afraid I might decline. But that made no sense.

I pretended to consider her question. “That depends.” My use of the phrase was deliberate. I was teasing her, but her expression made me wonder whether she knew it.

Allison folded her arms across her chest, her countenance cool now. “On?”

“On whether you agree to split an order of chocolate-chip pancakes with me.” I grinned at her and waited to see whether she’d pick up on the reference to one of our old breakfast rituals.

I don’t know what reply she’d been expecting, but the surprise on her face told me it wasn’t that. She threw her head back and laughed. “Only if you promise to actually share them with me and not eat them all before I can grab a bite.”

We meandered to the door still chuckling at the inside joke and said our good-byes, agreeing that I’d pick her up the next day at seven and let her have at least five bites of our pancakes before I even waved a fork in their direction.

It was only after the door was safely shut behind me that I quietly responded to the innuendo I imagined her statement about sharing had held.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Human beings obviously aren’t perfect, and I can easily admit I probably have more flaws than most. I’m stubborn. I can be overly emotional at certain times yet oddly cold and detached at others. I’m a pro at using humor as a tool for avoidance. And I’ll procrastinate with my vacuuming until the end of time. Just to name a few.

At the moment, the fault giving me the most trouble was my ability to obsess over a situation until it was resolved. No matter how much I tried, it was tough for me to push specific things from the forefront of my mind.

My dad always told me never to waste time or energy worrying, especially about things completely out of my control. He’d always said situations had a way of working themselves out and my constant fretting wouldn’t affect the outcome one way or the other. Best to just concentrate on the parts I could influence and deal with the consequences.

I envied him that particular ability and had wished more than once that I could adopt that outlook. Though I’d left the desire unspoken. I’d wanted to avoid being hit with his second favorite piece of advice, which had something to do with wishing in one hand and spitting in the other to see which filled up first. That one had always irritated me a little. It was human nature to wish for things, and I didn’t appreciate being told otherwise. Also, once he trotted out that adage, he soon mentioned if his grandmother had wheels, she’d be a wagon, and I never knew what to say to that one. Best to completely elude that pitfall altogether by just keeping quiet.

Not that I needed him to have a full-blown conversation about worrying or wishing or even wagons, apparently, because I’d heard his voice inside my head doling out all sorts of less-than-helpful advice since I’d left Allison’s hotel room. That I could still hear him was grating, and my sour mood and blatant annoyance with myself certainly weren’t helping matters.

Huffing in frustration, I slapped the newly printed copies of the site diagrams down onto my coffee table and flounced back on the couch. My fingers tapped out a nervous, restless rhythm on the tops of my thighs as my eyes ricocheted around my living room. After a slightly schizophrenic car ride home, I’d forced myself to focus on work just long enough to accomplish the task I’d told Allison I’d perform before my brain rebelled and refused to be coerced any longer.

Now my mind was racing back and forth between Lucia and Allison, past and present, guilt and anger, sadness and pain. My thoughts crashed violently only to bounce off one another and zoom crazily in another direction like pin balls in a pin-ball machine at some sort of fucked-up carnival. I was about ready to tilt.

I reviewed the situation and ran through my reasoning for what must’ve been the fifteenth time since I’d walked out of The W. While I’d pretty much made up my mind, and it was difficult to dissuade me once I reached a firm decision, I couldn’t shake the doubts that danced inelegantly at the dark edges of my thoughts. I poked at them the way I’d worry a loose tooth with the tip of my tongue, almost perversely enjoying each dull throb of discomfort.

Allison had shattered me once upon a time, and though I’d never denied that fact, it was about damn time I confronted it, got the hell over it, and moved on with my life. I couldn’t hang on to the hurt and anger forever. If I couldn’t learn to let it go, I’d never be able to build a life with anyone else. Not a whole one, at any rate, because I couldn’t give myself completely to anyone as long as any part of me still belonged to her.

How, then, could I make a break? How did I reclaim that part of myself I’d allowed her to retain even after she’d made it clear she didn’t want it? Maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe I didn’t really want it back. Because if she had it, if I kept it “safe” with her, then theoretically I couldn’t be hurt again. Perhaps I simply didn’t want to risk living through that kind of agony another time by falling for someone else.

I blinked slowly and frowned as I considered. Was that what I’d been doing all these years? Making sure no one else could ever break my heart by refusing to wholly give it to another? Surely even I couldn’t be that messed up. Could I?

So, how to fix this, then? That was the question. How could I completely eradicate any and all feelings I still had for Allison Reynolds? I wasn’t sure, and my overtired brain wasn’t helping a whole hell of a lot. It just kept spinning, like tires slipping on an icy road, unable to gain traction.

Lucia was the key. She had to be. I might not be ready to say I loved her quite yet, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t someday. She was the only woman since Allison I’d even considered having any type of relationship with past three or four dates. That had to count for something, right? I hoped so. Because if it didn’t, I was screwed.

I crumpled, bent at the waist, and rested my elbows on my knees, lightly clasping the back of my neck. I studied the wiggling tips of my toes peeking out from beneath the cuffs of my slacks. It was as if the feet I was looking at were completely detached from my body. I wished I could disconnect my mind that easily. I simply didn’t have the energy to try to solve this puzzle tonight.

A quick glance at the clock told me it was rapidly approaching eleven. I doubted I’d be able to get any sleep. My thoughts were too fractured, and I was still too wound up.

I wouldn’t be able to keep this up much longer. I was terrible when I was tired. My emotions were more raw and closer to the surface than they’d otherwise be, and my normally tight grip on them was noticeably looser. It was a recipe for trouble and most likely would make me make an ass of myself. Probably more than once and possibly in front of a small crowd.

I pushed myself awkwardly to a standing position and turned toward my bedroom, flipping off the table lamp as I went. I intended to cuddle up in bed with a favorite book and read until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I hoped that wouldn’t take all night. The sound of a key in the lock on my front door stopped me, and I froze. Who even had a key to my place? I eased my right hand toward the butt of my pistol and prepared to unsnap the retention strap.

Lucia let herself in and quietly closed the door behind her, sagging against it after it’d shut. Her eyes were downcast, and she looked miserable. I tried to rein in my wildly galloping heart and scolded myself for having forgotten I’d given her a key a few weeks before so she could pick up some USSS swag she’d asked me to get for her.

I allowed my hand to drop to my side—telling myself not to freak out because I’d almost just drawn down on her—and gave her a careful once-over. As I took in her expression, my pulse resumed its previously racing tempo. Last I’d heard, via a recent text message, she’d planned to spend the night at her place. It’d been the only time she’d contacted me all day. What could’ve happened?

“Luce?”

Lucia dragged her eyes up to meet mine and simply stared at me as an ever-changing array of emotions paraded across her features: dejection, anguish, fury. Others I couldn’t begin to put a name to. My fear ratcheted up a few more notches, and my hands trembled.

“What happened?”

I immediately thought someone was dead. Once that idea had solidified, my brain glommed onto it and ran. A million different scenarios burned hot trails through my consciousness, each more gruesome and heartrending than the one before it. I had to force myself to stop jumping to conclusions before I drove myself mad. My father’s calm voice sounded in my head, a variation on a theme, reminding me not to invent things to worry about.

I took a tentative step forward and reached out, the gesture careful, hesitant. I didn’t want to do anything to spook her. But I wouldn’t have the first clue how to comfort her if she didn’t tell me what was wrong.

Lucia zeroed in on my hand as it approached her and allowed me to touch her lightly on the shoulder, but she stiffened, and the muscles under my fingers tensed and held as if my touch hurt her. Or was unwelcome.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” I made sure to keep my voice low and calm. I’d had a lot of practice managing emotionally disturbed people in the past few years. I’d just never thought I’d need to rely on those skills when dealing with someone I cared about.

I scanned Lucia for any outward signs of injury, relieved when I found none. Whatever was bothering her, it didn’t appear to be physical. I was glad she wasn’t in pain, but afflictions of the heart or soul weren’t much better. I’d rather she wasn’t distressed at all. My father’s adage about wishing in one hand flitted absurdly through my thoughts, and I pushed it away.

I trailed my hand down her arm and threaded our fingers together. Tugging lightly, I led her toward the sofa. She followed silently, not putting up any resistance, for which I was grateful. I sat down on the couch, and Lucia sat beside me, depositing the cell phone in her hand on the coffee table next to mine. Then she sat back, stiff and still. I cradled the hand I was already holding in both of mine and waited for her to speak.

Lucia continued to look straight ahead, her eyes glassy, her expression dazed, broken only occasionally by brief flashes of other, darker emotions. She took deep, controlled breaths, inhaling for a four count and exhaling the same, and I deliberately timed my own breathing to match hers. This seemed to go on for an eternity, but the calming technique appeared to have the opposite effect on her. Every muscle in her small frame was taut, and her jaw was clenched so tightly, I was positive she might shatter her molars.

To say that I was uneasy with the situation would have been akin to remarking that the ocean was wet. But this wasn’t about me or my state of mind. It was about her. I didn’t know what to do. She was obviously extremely distraught about something, and instinct told me not to push her, yet obeying that impulse was killing me.

When I shifted a bit closer so I could put my arm around her, a strangled sound somewhere between a moan and a wail wrenched itself from her throat, and she shook me off. She whipped her head around and, for the first time since she’d arrived, looked me square in the eye. Her naked feeling made me recoil before I could stop myself. Lucia was upset with me.

My insides lurched, and I mentally ran through all the things I could’ve done to put that look in her eyes, completely ignoring any advice regarding inventing things to worry about. It wasn’t her birthday. I hadn’t broken any plans that I could recall. And I didn’t think forgetting to pick up something from the store would garner what I was seeing in her eyes.

It took a while, but finally I reached my own breaking point. I couldn’t stand Lucia’s calculated silence any more than I could bear her accusing glare. Frankly, both were starting to piss me off. I’m all for owning up to my mistakes and taking my lumps if I deserve them. But you have to at least tell me what I did wrong.

“What?” My tone was snappish, my voice harder than I intended, and I immediately regretted it. I ran one hand through my hair, tugging viciously at the snarls I encountered, knowing my frustration would continue as long as Lucia wanted it to. She was keeping me trapped there on purpose.