“How do you know that?” I asked, voice flat, finding that strange calmness come over me in the face of Heath’s anger as it had with Craig’s.
But Heath’s anger wasn’t the same as Craig’s. It wasn’t full of menace, of the desire to hurt.
Well, not physically at least.
“How do I know?’ he repeated as if I was a little slow and should’ve realized he was all seeing and all knowing. “I’m in the business of security, and about six different people posted the fucking whole thing online. We got our Amber Alert within fuckin’ minutes.”
I screwed up my nose. “Amber Alert? That’s only with kidnapped kids.”
He continued to glare. “And for three women from Amber who have a habit of gettin’ kidnapped, shot at and stabbed,” he bit out. “We’re not too keen on havin’ that shit become somethin’ of a general occurrence, no matter how determined Rosie and Lucy seem to be about that.” His face flickered. Something soft, something almost tender lay underneath his fury. For a moment at least. Like sun glare on a road, when you stared at it for too long, you saw it was an illusion. “But not you,” he said. “You’re not getting caught up in that shit. You’re not like Rosie and Lucy.”
I resisted the urge to flinch at this.
But he was right.
I wasn’t like Rosie and Lucy. They were fighters. They were their own knights in shining leather—in Rosie’s case, and in Manolos—Lucy’s.
They were definitely my knights on occasion.
I’d always known this was true. I’d been okay with it. Because I knew it wasn’t in me to fight like they did, not in my DNA. I’d accepted that.
Until I heard it from Heath’s mouth. Until he faced me with the fact I was helpless.
Or at least in his eyes.
“I thought you never wanted to see me again,” I shot back, impressed I was able to talk through the pain. I was using my yoga breathing. And sheer force of will.
His eyes emptied. “I didn’t,” he said flatly, the words themselves had enough of a point. “But I was the only one in the office when I got the alert, and Keltan is my friend. Didn’t need him having to see this shit, having to deal with his pregnant wife dealing with it. You know who I’m talking about, right? Your sister? Don’t you fuckin’ think you’ve put her through enough? Gettin’ married to some asshole after knowing him a couple of months, getting involved in a drive-by, divorcing that asshole then disa-fuck-appearing for a year.”
He paused.
I struggled not to double over. He was hurling the truth at me like bombs. His aim was true. And fatal.
“I missin’ anything?” he asked, voice cold.
He was.
He was missing a couple of huge fricking things. Some of those things Rosie knew about. And the worst of it, no one knew about.
Because he was right. The people in my life didn’t deserve another Polly disaster on top of everything else. Lucy had almost died a couple of years ago. Rosie ran off too, but I doubted it was to volunteer on an olive grove like me. Considering it chased her back here and kidnapped her.
Now they were happy.
Getting shot at a lot less.
Pregnant.
Heath was right, they didn’t deserve more of the kind of thing that got them to their happiness. That wasn’t going to lead me to mine, considering he was glowering at me with electric hatred.
He was right, but it didn’t mean it was right to say.
“That’s cruel, Heath,” I whispered. I just didn’t have it in me to raise my voice. To yell like Rosie and Lucy would have. I knew that they did a lot of yelling throughout their heartbreaking courtships.
They still yelled now, of course.
But it wasn’t to disguise their pain.
But they were stronger than me. Heath was right.
So the whisper was almost beyond my strength.
He folded his arms, his eyes not betraying an inch of reaction at my broken tone. “The truth is cruel, Polly. You should know that better than anyone. You sure as fuck taught me that.”
I flinched.
He didn’t react.
Silence was heavy and uncomfortable in the small space between us.
“He hurt you?” he finally snapped, eyes roving over me, searching for injuries.
He wouldn’t find any, of course, unless he had an emotional x-ray machine.
“I thought you didn’t care,” I replied, my response childish and voice much the same.
I hated that I was being reduced to such petty remarks. That whatever we had between us had been whittled, carved, broken and disfigured by time and circumstance. By my actions. The ugliest thing in the world is whatever love turns into when it doesn’t work out. Something more than hatred. Something less.
I wondered if there was some weird parallel universe where all of that organic, lost and original love went. Where it flourished and didn’t rot like it had here.