Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths #3)(59)

Pressing my forehead to the steering wheel, I let the tears pour freely.

“Ginger?”

Her eyes flash open. “Yes?”

“Did you get locked out of your apartment?”

“No. Why?”

“Well . . .” I do a cursory glance around the commons to see that no one else is outside. “Because it’s two a.m. and you’re sitting outside my apartment door, asleep.”

Making a point of stretching her arms over her head, Ginger lithely climbs to her feet and moves away. I unlock and open my door. Without invitation, she’s trailing me in.

“Did Cain send you here to check up on me?” I toss my keys onto the end table and turn on the only lamp in the living room.

“Why would he do that?” she asks coyly, averting her eyes to a chipped nail. Ginger would lose her shirt in a game of poker.

With a sigh, I flop down onto my couch, my focus on the stippled ceiling. I’m drained. Emotionally and physically drained. “Because you should still be at Penny’s and yet you left early to sit outside my apartment door.” I can’t ignore the twinge of disappointment in my stomach that it wasn’t Cain waiting for me. I know I told him to leave me alone and it’s for the best, but . . . still.

I feel Ginger’s eyes on me, on my bloodshot eyes and the streaks of mascara I’m sure have gathered. Two hours of crying will do that. She finally settles on, “How’s your cheek?”

“Fine.” As long as I don’t touch it or smile, or vomit on the side of the road, I barely notice it.

With the tiniest sigh, I hear her nimble steps as she strolls over to my fridge. The clanging sound of glass tells me she’s pulled out two bottles of beer. “Here.” Handing one to me, she grabs the remote and flicks on the television, quickly scanning the channels. I instantly know what she’s searching for. We discovered early on that we share a love of Seinfeld. There doesn’t seem to be an episode on at this time of night, though, and so she lands on the tail end of Seven. “Oh, I love this part! Gives me chills,” she exclaims, exaggerating a shudder as she tucks her legs up under herself on the opposite corner of the couch. We settle into silence as we watch Brad Pitt open up a box to find Gwyneth Paltrow’s head inside.

I can’t say that being around Ginger is completely comfortable, with this cloud hanging over us. But I’m pretty sure she’s not mad at me. If anything, I think she’s worried.

I don’t remember what it’s like to have someone worried about me. Sam never worries, period. And my mom? Well, I remember her fussing over her fitted clothes in front of the mirror a lot. She was young and blond and beautiful. She wore a lot of makeup and a sweet-smelling perfume, and put a great deal of effort into her appearance. I remember her smoothing her clothes over and over again when we went out, even at gymnastics, while she talked to the fathers and I worked on my balance and my basic beginner moves. I remember her brow knitting tightly as she sat at the kitchen table, sorting through what I assumed were bills. I remember her worrying about not ever finding a good husband with all her “baggage.”

But I don’t ever remember her worrying over me.

Then, when Sam came along, I’m pretty sure all of her worries vanished.

Ginger finally breaks the silence. “Cain seemed pretty spooked tonight.” Her gaze never leaves the television as she sips her beer.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he had said. Do what? Have a relationship? Is that what Cain thinks is going to happen between us? It can’t! And yet when he said it, I can’t pretend I didn’t feel a burst of warmth in my chest, radiating outward to my limbs, my desire to curl into him overpowering.

“I’ve never done this.” If that’s true, then I can’t help but wonder . . . what was Penny to him?

“Did you ever meet her?” I ask. “Penny?”

Ginger sighs. “Oh . . . yeah. I started working at The Bank about two months before she died.”

“What was she like?”

“I didn’t know her well. She was gorgeous. Blond, brown eyes, like you. So many customers came in just for her. She seemed nice. Not catty, like some of the other girls.” With a chuckle, she admits, “She was a pole dancer as well. You remind me of her. Your style, I mean. You’re classy and kind of artistic, if you can use the word artistic to describe that sort of thing.”

“And her fiancé? You said he killed her?”

She takes a long sip of her drink as her head bobs up and down. “Yeah . . . their relationship was all a little bit fast and strange. I think Penny had really low self-esteem and was just looking for a nice guy who’d want her. She wasn’t the kind of girl who ever took school seriously or had a lot of ambition. More the type to pop out a baseball team and bake pies for the rest of her life.” A quick hand goes up. “No judgment here! That many babies is ambitious. And I plan on baking pies too. Only I’ll be doing it for customers at my high-end wine country inn. But . . .” She pauses. “The guy was a customer. A quiet, balding man. Nothing special. But one private dance from her and he was sunk.”

I wonder if that’s why Cain won’t let me do private dances.

Ginger nods slowly. “He came in to visit almost every night. Took her out to dinner and sent her flowers a lot. We weren’t too surprised when she showed up at work with a rock on her hand after only a few months. He didn’t want her dancing anymore, and I remember her saying that no one other than her husband could tell her what to do, so . . .” Ginger’s shoulders lift and drop.