“The burden of what?”
“The burden of trying to be their son,” he tells me bitterly. “One who couldn’t finish college. One who wanted to work on motorcycles rather than go to school for business or law.” I have a flash of memory of Cross working on the bike outside the house where we took shelter that first day on the run. “Then when I found out… When I got on my dad’s computer one day and saw the e-mails about…” he swallows, “Missy King.” He shakes his head, and I understand what he’s implying.
“Your finding out just made everything with your family worse.”
“It had nothing to do with you, Merri. My father…we just never bonded. I don’t bond with people,” he whispers.
“Yes you do.”
Moving quickly, before I startle him away, I scoot close to him and wrap my arm around his back, lying my cheek against his unhurt left shoulder. I shut my eyes for a second, relishing the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
I’ve really missed you. Those are the words that get hung up in my throat. What I actually say aloud is: “Why did you decide to come get me?”
Under my arm, his back stiffens. I pull away to give him space, lean back in the grass so I can see his face as he says, “In January, Priscilla kidnapped Lizzy and me and tried to sell us…to Guapo. Because of what we knew.” He rubs his eyes, like just the memory is exhausting. “Hunter West came and saved the day, and that’s how Priscilla and Jim Gunn got arrested. We were lucky, and I know we were. I couldn’t stand to think you had gone through that and…not been found.”
I’m reeling from the news that Priscilla and Jim Gunn actually did get busted, when another thought occurs to me—one that makes my stomach flip. “Do you still have the e-mails? The ones you found?”
He nods, and I wonder what they say about me. I try to picture his face when he first read them. What he was thinking, to do what he did. Was it guilt? I guess it was. He said he knew, but he didn’t do anything. So he felt guilty. That’s why he came.
Guilt. That’s why he hauled me across the border.
Not because he loves you. Not because he likes you.
I cover my face with my hands and Cross is there, pulling me against his chest with his right arm.
“I’m so sorry, Merri.”
I start to cry, and my thoughts are so jumbled, I’m not even sure what has set me off. Why can’t he just be Evan? I loved Evan. I was able to love him. I think about giving Drake blow jobs, about being down on my knees in the brothel. I think about what happened with Jesus, at the end. I pull away from Cross’s embrace to look at him, and I know he knows this about me. I sucked his dad’s dick. I was desperate enough to be a whore, and in my lowest hour, I was.
Cross’s lip is white from where he’s biting it.
“You didn’t care that you were rescuing a whore? Your father’s mistress?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “I just thought that no one deserved what you got. And then I met you and I knew you didn’t.” He sighs. “Jesus, Merri. What are you thinking about all this? How do you feel?”
“I don’t know what to think. I don’t know how to feel. I care about you, Cross…but this is really hard.” A tear spills down my cheek—just one hot, lone tear. My last shred of dignity. “I just…I don’t think I can talk about this anymore with you.”
I turn to go, hoping he’ll let me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
It’s because I’ve been drinking that I follow her. Even as I tromp along the pebble trail that leads to the pond, I know how wrong it is. Merri ran away from me. Going after her is like telling her I don’t give a shit how she feels. But I just can’t help myself.
I give her a minute or two lead and as I walk, I try to get my head on straight. I shouldn’t have had so f**king much to drink. It’s hard to figure out what to do, what to say, when I’m this wasted.
I’m being optimistic—foolishly so. I focus on how she said she cared about me, not the fact that she ran. If I remember right, she was pretty damn quiet about what I knew and what I didn’t do about it. I know it has to bother her. It has to bother her that I’m my father’s son. But maybe I can get her to overlook that.
I follow her toward the shiny circle of the pond, feeling like I want to throw myself at her feet and beg for forgiveness. I’m taking long strides, but Merri is running. I’m halfway around the pond before I start to close the gap between us. I focus on her bouncing, flowing hair and don’t allow myself to think.
Out in front of us, on the right, behind a row of big oak trees, are a bunch of little cottages. She turns toward them. She cuts close to the first, but doesn’t stop till the second, which is nestled a little farther back, and is surrounded by trees.
I follow around it, and find her sitting on her butt, her knees drawn up, her back against a quaint wooden door. She’s not crying. She’s just breathing hard.
When she sees me, she goes absolutely still.
I look up at his face and feel a vice around my heart. He’s Drake Carlson’s son. There’s no way he can ever really care for me. Men aren’t like that. They’re territorial. He knows what I did with his father. Drake cheated on his wife, Derinda, and for at least a little while, I was the ‘other woman’.
Tears fill my eyes, so he and the trees behind him are smeared, but I still can’t look away. I feel my mouth tremble. I’m too upset to even be embarrassed.
Cross is watching me like he’s watching his life pass before his eyes. Having him right here in front of me, looking at me that way, is too much at this moment. It’s like I’m on one island and he’s on another. I don’t think the water that runs between us could ever dry up. Not unless one of us becomes someone else.
I wish I could. I wish we’d met some other way. I wish he didn’t know about my past.
I wipe my face with fingers that feel numb, and when I speak, the words sound thick and muffled. “What are you doing here?”
The expression on his face remains the same. Blank. Almost stoic. His eyes roll over me and then he looks away. “Can you tell that I’ve been drinking?” he asks softly.
I nod. I could smell it earlier.
“I’ve always been a rash drunk. Doing things I shouldn’t.” He sinks to the ground in front of me, making a face as he uses his right hand to balance. I lean forward, wishing I’d thought to help him.