Everything I Left Unsaid(46)

She’d eat the dead thing.

And then she’d throw it up and then, if Smith wasn’t around to shout her name in the serious threatening way he had, she’d roll around in that.

On Friday morning I couldn’t tell if I was Queenie, or the dead thing she’d rolled around in, eaten, and thrown up.

That’s how bad I felt.

I made my way, hours past dawn, in the bright, sticky heat of the day toward the field, unsure if I was going to be able to work. Or if I would even really survive the day.

Stepping across the bridge, I caught sight of the tractor in the far corner where it had broken down yesterday.

Shit. I’d forgotten.

I was supposed to ask Ben if he could fix it.

Ben.

Forget it. Forget all of it. I turned around, ready to head back to my trailer, where I could pull the blankets up over my head and die in peace.

But there, like he’d been summoned. Standing on the bridge, in a gray tee shirt and a pair of khaki pants, toolbox in hand. Like a regular guy. Just a regular guy who’d never planned to kill two men and accidentally killed a little girl, was Ben.

He looked old. And frail. His skin was nearly gray. White around his mouth.

He was a sick old man who’d been kind to me. Very kind.

And I was scared of him.

I couldn’t stop myself from stepping back. Reeling back, actually, I was so startled. So off balance.

And all I could think of was this guy tying two men to a chair, leaving them helpless, and then starting a fire for them to die in.

Did you know about the girl? The question surged, angry and righteous, to my lips—but I swallowed it back, where it smoldered in my belly.

Was Dylan somehow related to the little girl? Was that how this man f*cked up his life?

“Hey, girly,” Ben said. He was smiling. Actually smiling. And it somehow made him even more menacing. “You all right?”

“Hung over,” I said, grateful for the rock-star sunglasses so he couldn’t really see my eyes.

“I like your hair.”

I’d forgotten. I lifted my hand to my hair, which felt unbelievably dry and stiff. Like a head full of hay. “Tiffany thought it would be a good idea.”

“It’s better than the black.”

I was silent. Lost and shaky in the hangover and what I knew about him. What I thought about him now and what I’d thought about him yesterday morning.

“This is where you say thank you,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He walked past me toward the tractor. “Come on, now show me what’s wrong with the engine.”

I shouldn’t, I thought, standing still, unable to move. Dylan…that article…even Joan had said stay away. My gut was screaming stay away, now.

And I had to listen to my gut.

“Annie?” he asked. “You coming?”

“No,” I said. “I’m taking the day off. I can’t…”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “I can see that. I’ll see what I can do about getting your tractor fixed.”

And then he was gone and I…Christ, I was in ruins.

There was no chance of my going to the strip club that night. All I could do was lie in bed, eat chocolate chips by the handful, and look at that picture of Dylan in a tux. I could just see a slice of his chin, pink skin with a shadow of darker scruff. But the chest beneath that white shirt with the small black buttons looked wide. Solid.

The fact that Dylan went to parties in tuxes was mind-blowing in about a million different ways.

He goes to parties in tuxes and I go to parties in double-wides.

But he sent me that picture and that seemed…like something. Like…trust. I didn’t know. I didn’t have any kind of context for this f*cked-up relationship. All I had were a million questions.

Starting with who the hell was Dylan?

When the phone rang, I was dozing but I woke up in a heartbeat, reaching for the phone.

“Layla?” Oh that voice, that eager jump in my heart, in my body at the sound of it.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

I smiled at his familiar opener. “Why do you always ask that?”

“Because that’s the only thing that matters. Did I wake you up?”

“Not really. What about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t get to the strip club.”

“I guessed. Too hung over?”

“I feel like part of my soul is dying.”

He laughed. “You’ll get over it. Was that your first hangover?”

“No, actually.” I shifted on the bed, pushing the chocolate chips away. Who needed chocolate when I had him on the other line? “I got very drunk at a wedding when I was a kid. While everyone was dancing I drank all the half-full glasses on the table. Amaretto stone sours were big.”

“You barf?”

“Big time. What about you?”

“I don’t drink much anymore,” he said. “I used to.”

“When you were wild?”

“When I was the wildest. Too many mornings with my head in a toilet.”

“Now you’re a man who goes to parties in tuxes.”

He was silent for a minute. “I guess so.”

The silence was thick. Telling. He did not want to talk about this. But I didn’t really care.