Instead, I amble over to grab my smokes off the table. I lip one, light it and, finally, she opens her eyes. She props herself on her elbows, not the least bit modest in the wake of our sex. Her eyes slip to the cigarette in my hand, then back to my eyes.
I huff through my nose and hand over the smoke. She makes a one-sided smirk and accepts. I retrieve another, light it, and inhale. My throat's so dry I'm sure my tongue will split open. The only thing close is my beer. It's not a good remedy, but it'll do, so I swipe it off the table and take a swig.
Maria sits up and back and pulls her legs up so that her heels are perched on the table's edge. She takes a hit off her cigarette, staring blankly at the room. She wraps one arm around her legs and swivels her eyes toward me.
She says, “It's always been your choice if you want to leave. But if you really want to, please, do it before this shit with Gram goes down. There's no good reason for you to die. This isn't your fight.”
Instinct says to argue, but my drowsy thoughts question it. She's right, in a way. She said it herself. Charlie is dead. No actions will bring him back, nothing in the whole world can. How is dying in his name honoring him? But, then, what is she doing? She's not avenging him anymore, she's seeing to the future, and she's playing innocent with me, this shrewd and ruthless bitch. Charlie would be proud.
I hold her gaze, let her project that mask, and take a drag off my cigarette. She is at least patient as she waits for my response. She won't rush her next move. She won't have one.
“Bullshit,” I say, scooping my clothes off the floor and turning toward the stairs to go take a shower. I pause just before leaving her and add without looking back, “The debt was mine, too. You know damn well this is my fight.”
Chapter 25 Picket Fence
Maria
Dawn has just broken. I'm watching the sun's brilliant ascent spread across the sky in pinks and purples. I sip at a mug of steaming coffee. This time of morning is the only time I can stand coffee, before the humidity rises for the day. Swamp bugs are waking and the workers are beginning their tasks.
Izzy is still asleep upstairs, or if he's awake he hasn't come downstairs yet. He's barely spoken to me since he turned his back on me after his loss of control yesterday. He's all but avoided me. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. That's the way he deals with everything, by avoiding it.
His kiss has been heavy on my mind, though, and the fire in his hands. I've always known there was a more primal side to him, a side he didn't want to show me. Why he didn't want to show me, that's what I never could figure out. Try as he might to pretend I'm just a girl, I'm not naïve enough to believe he is in love with me, or that he'd be my white picket fence and two and a half kids. Neither of us wants that shit, but we are adults who have been mutually curious for quite some time. Sexual attraction is just science, right?
The anger that rose in him was intoxicating, to see him finally stop evading and step up. The fight he put up was epic, but it just stoked the flames higher, made the fall sweeter.
The sound of a car rumbling along the dirt driveway perks my attention. I listen for a moment of anticipation. That's not the sound of Abuela's fancy new Caddy. No, that's my car. Frederick.
Nerves and relief blossom in my chest. Relief because he's alive and nerves for the information he brings back to me. I stand, leave my coffee mostly untouched and walk around to the front of the house in time to watch the dirt-coated car roll to a stop. The door swings open and Frederick steps into the morning like a movie villain, dark hair tousled from the drive, shades covering his eyes. His black button-up flutters in a lazy breeze, and his pale skin is covered in a sheen of sweat.
He hesitates when he sees me, hand on the car door. That's when I see it, an ugly purple bruise peeking from beneath the left lens of his glasses. My shock must show on my face, because he curses as he slams the door closed.
I meet him at the bottom of the stairs, invade his space before he can protest. I gently pull the glasses from his face and eyeball the shiner. He pulls away from my touch, catches my hands in his to stop my inspection. For a moment, we just stare at each other, questions heavy on the silence.
“I'm fine,” he says, as soft as the rising morning.
Our faces are only inches apart and I search his gaze for some truth. I can see the plea there in his gray eyes for me to leave it be. But now is not the time to dodge me. Surely he can see that I don't quite believe him when he says he's fine.
“I promise, I'm OK,” he says, squeezing my hands in his.
My brow furrows anyway, but I step back, pull away from him. What a strange reversal of roles. Usually he's the one withdrawing from physical contact and I'm the one soothing him. I turn away toward the house and say, “What happened?”
He lets me have my retreat, stays where he is. There's a sadness in his gaze this morning, something I didn't expect and don't know if I can handle.
“Just a little something I had coming,” he says to my back. His tone is some strange
