The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1)(47)

My eyes flickered back to Tag briefly, and then I shrugged as if it wasn’t important.

I’d been here for months. Through Christmas, through New Year’s, and into February. Three months in a mental institution. And I wished I could stay.

“Come with me,” Tag said, tossing down his napkin and pushing his tray away.

I reared back, stunned. I remembered the sound of Tag crying, the wails that echoed down the hall as he was brought in to the psych ward the night he was admitted. He’d arrived almost a month after I did. I had lain in bed and listened to the attempts to subdue him. At the time, I hadn’t realized it was him. I only put two and two together later, when he told me about what brought him to Montlake. I thought about the way he’d come at me with his fists flying, rage in his eyes, almost out of his head with pain in the session with Dr. Andelin. Tag interrupted my train of thought when he continued speaking.

“My family has money. We don’t have much else. But we have tons of money. And you don’t have shit.” I held myself stiffly, waiting. It was true. I didn’t have shit. Tag was my friend, the first real friend, other than Georgia, that I’d ever had. But I didn’t want Tag’s shit. The good shit or the bad, and Tag had plenty of both.

“I need someone to make sure I don’t kill myself. I need someone who’s big enough to restrain me if I decide I need to get shitfaced. I’ll hire you to spend every waking minute with me until I figure out how to stay clean without wanting to slit my wrists.”

I tipped my head to the side, confused. “You want me to restrain you?”

Tag laughed. “Yeah. Hit me in the face, throw me to the ground. Kick the shit out of me. Just make sure I stay clean and alive.”

I wondered for a moment if I could do that to Tag. Hit him, throw him to the ground. Hold him down until the need for drink or death passed. I was big. Strong. But Tag wasn’t exactly small. Surprisingly, the idea didn’t really appeal anymore. My doubt must have shown on my face because Tag was talking again.

“You need someone who believes you. I do. It’s got to get old always having people thinking you’re psychotic. I know you’re not. You need somewhere to go, and I need someone to come with me. It’s not a bad trade. You wanted to travel. And I’ve got nothing better to do. The only thing I’m good at is fighting, and I can fight anywhere.” He smiled and shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t trust myself to be alone just yet. And if I go back home to Dallas I’ll drink. Or I’ll die. So I need you.”

He said that so easily. “I need you.” I wondered how it was possible that a tough kid like Tag, someone who fought for the fun of it, could admit that to anyone. Or believe it. I’d never needed anyone. Not really. And I’d never said those words to anyone. “I need you” felt like “I love you,” and it scared me. It felt like breaking one of my laws. But at that moment, with the morning looming large, with freedom at my fingertips, I had to admit, I probably needed Tag too.

We would make an odd pair. A black artist and a white cowboy. It sounded like the start to one of those jokes about three men going into a bar. But it was just the two of us. And Tag was right. We were both stuck. Lost. With nothing to hold us down and no direction. I just wanted my freedom, and Tag didn’t want to be alone. I needed his money, and he needed my company, sad as it usually was.

“We’ll just keep running, Moses. How did you say it? Here, there, on the other side of the world? We can’t escape ourselves. So we stick together until we find ourselves, all right? Until we figure out how to deal.”





Georgia



I DIDN’T KNOW HOW to break the news, and I didn’t know how to admit to my parents that they were right and I was wrong. I wasn’t an adult. I was a helpless little girl, something I’d never wanted to be. Something I’d always laughed in the face of. I had been tough all my life. I had reveled in being tough, in being as strong as the boys. But I hadn’t been as strong. I’d been weak. So damn weak.

I had been weak, and my weakness had created a child, a child who had no father. Maybe Moses hadn’t abandoned me—how could he when he’d never belonged to me? I felt abandoned, though. Abandoned and so very alone. In his defense, maybe he was more alone, maybe he was the one who was truly abandoned, but I couldn’t think about him, and when he didn’t come back, it was easier to be angry.

Moses became a faceless man. It was the only way I could cope. I erased his image from my mind. And I refused to think about him. Unfortunately, the faceless man and I had created a faceless child that grew and grew inside of me until it was impossible to keep him hidden anymore. And I broke down in tears, something I’d been doing a lot more of, and told my mom what had happened between me and Moses. She sat on my bed, listening to me talk, the Georgia Shepherd I’d always been—tough, determined, and opinionated—turning into a waffling, quivering woman-child. When I finished, my mother was so still. Shocked. She didn’t put her arms around me. When I dared look in her face she was just sitting, staring at the wall where Moses had painted a man transforming into a white horse. I wondered if I had just become something else before her eyes too.

Even with her shock and her cold reception to my confession, it was a relief to unburden myself. After months alone with my secret, months that had been the most terrible of my life, months of fear and despair, of worry for Moses, for myself, and mostly for a child I refused to give a face to, I laid it all at her feet and selfishly didn’t care whether I was turning her world upside down. I just couldn’t carry it anymore.