Harder (Caroline & West #2)(25)

His hands are folded in his lap, his gaze on the middle distance. It takes him another mile to speak. “I had another question I wanted to ask you.”

“Shoot.”

“It’s about Rita.”

My arms are made of lead. My foot’s a block on the gas pedal.

“I noticed at the funeral,” he says, “and after the funeral when I tried to speak with her … but I’m not being honest if I say it’s the first time I wondered.” He pauses. Flashes me a quick, uncomfortable smile. “I’m concerned she might be somewhat obsessed, I guess. With you.”

Obsessed with me.

Is that what you call it?

“She talks about you a lot. We talk about you, of course, in the usual way, but since you’ve been back in town, her interest seems like … too much.”

He wipes his hand over his mouth.

“I know this is an awkward question, but has she behaved in any way that’s inappropriate? That might cause concern?”

He wants me to reassure him.

He’s scared, because he’s figured something out, but he won’t let himself see the real shape of it. He doesn’t want to add one and one and get two, so he’s looking at me to tell him, Hey, no worries, it’s three. Look. I’ll show you the math.

I flip the signal and turn the wheel. The truck bounces into the middle school parking lot.

“No,” I say. “Nothing to be concerned about.” And then I manage a smile. It takes everything I’ve got to make it look real, but I give it everything, because I don’t want Dr. Tomlinson to know what his wife is like.

It’s bad enough that I do.

“Nothing at all.”

Scrutinizing my expression, he brightens. “Oh. Okay. Good. Well, look, if you’ll do me a favor and let me know if there’s anything I should be concerned about, I’d appreciate it.”

“Will do.”

I slow. Brake. Put the truck in Park.

School kids are streaming from the building, running, laughing. I see my sister come out the door alone with her head down, hair hanging in her face.

She doesn’t look like a kid. Not when I see these other ones. She’s different from them, marked, like there’s a line around her.

New clothes will help.

Maybe we can see about getting her hair cut.

“And just to go back to the scholarship for a minute,” he says. “Promise me you’ll at least think about it. The semester’s already rolling, but the person I talked to said it won’t be too late if you hustle out there.”

I open the door. Hop out of the truck.

“West.”

“Sure. I’ll think about it.”

I say it just to shut him up.

When Frankie arrives, I make the introductions, load her into the back, drop him off at the lot, and keep going, toward the strip where Ross’s is.

“Who was that guy?” she asks.

“I used to caddy for him.”

“What’s he want?”

“He wants me to go back to Putnam.”

She’s quiet for a while, looking out the window. “Caroline’s at Putnam.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Where would I go if you did that?”

“I told him no, Franks.”

“But if you did.”

“You’d go with me.”

“Without Mom?”

“Without Mom.”

“Isn’t that against the law? Like, since she’s my mom?”

“I could take you if she says it’s okay.”

“Oh.”

That’s all she’s got to say on the subject. Oh.

She tries on jeans. I get angry and then angrier until I’m incapable of producing any response to her fashion show that satisfies her. She gets pissed at me for not being excited, and I guess that’s fair, because I’m pissed at her for saying Oh.

I’m pissed at myself for wanting her to say something different.

Want is a bottomless black hole, sucking at me. Tentacles of faith and hope and trust, wisdom, good judgment, principles, pride—everything I don’t have—pulling me down.

I can’t. I f*cking can’t.

I pick up a bottle of whiskey on the way home.

Ten minutes after Frankie goes to bed, I pour myself a glass.


“Hey, Joan.” I grab the bag with my lunch out of the fridge. “What’s up?”

“Are you at work?”

“No, I’m on my way in.”

I pull the apartment door closed most of the way with my foot, dangle lunch from a few fingers so I can use the rest to snag the knob and operate the key in the lock.

“You’re going to be late.”

“I’m never late.”

I hear her exhale. Blowing smoke out on the porch. “No, I don’t guess you are.”

Stepping up into the truck, I glance at the glove box, but I leave the pack where it is. I’m trying to cut back. Caroline wants me to quit.

Again and again, I come back to Caroline.

Come back to her accusations. Come back to the sight of her in her funeral dress and muddy feet, shoveling dirt.

I come back to Caroline’s laugh, Caroline’s mouth, Caroline’s body naked against mine.