I quickly withdraw my hand when she whirls around, those brown eyes, shiny with unshed tears, flashing unexpected anger.
“You’re an idiot, you know that? It’s not because of Nicky…it’s because of you.”
I’m still standing there slack-jawed well after I hear the door to her bedroom slam upstairs. I guess I am an idiot because I’m utterly clueless what just happened.
I dump the rest of my coffee in the sink, quickly call the school, and leave a note confirming she was already on the list of approved visitors for Taz, and dart out the back door.
Animals are a fuckofalot easier to understand even without the ability to talk.
Taz
I inwardly wince at the curious glances when I walk into the school. I’m sure most of these people were at Nicky’s funeral, and this isn’t the first time they’ve seen me, but I was preoccupied and didn’t notice then.
I’m convinced it’s partly because half the town is wondering where I was, while the other half wants to know what I’m doing back here. The dreads don’t help either, I’m pretty sure I’m an oddity here in Eminence with this hairstyle.
An oddity, an interloper, a troublemaker, as I’d been before I left.
I felt like one too. Especially as an interloper. I’d been wanted—needed—when Nicky was still here, but in the weeks since her death, I’ve felt more and more out of place. I look after her kids, live in her house, drive her car; I’ve all but slipped into her life. I’m not fooling anyone, though, except maybe myself. If not for the promise I made her, and the love I have growing for her children, I wouldn’t have stuck around.
Especially not after the almost embarrassing scene in the kitchen earlier this week. I’m not sure what I was thinking. Actually, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t thinking at all. If that alarm on my phone hadn’t gone off when it did, I’m afraid to think what might’ve happened.
It would’ve validated everything my mother holds over me. Home-wrecker would probably fit on the list as well. It’s what she accused me of when she caught me in that same damn kitchen, throwing myself at my pregnant sister’s boyfriend. At least that was her interpretation of the situation. She’d missed the difficult discussion which preceded that mostly innocent hug.
“I can’t think straight when you look at me like that.”
My breath sticks in my throat at his declaration. Since coming home a few weeks ago, I’ve tried hard to avoid him, but whenever he walks into a room my eyes lock on him. I can’t get enough, registering every move, every gesture, every sound. It’s been agony observing him with Nicky, and I didn’t think he’d noticed me.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m ripping your heart out.”
“You’re not,” I lie, and he looks at me like he knows it.
“Taz…If I’d met you—” he starts, and I rush to cut him off.
“But you didn’t.” I realize I’ve admitted to more with that simple statement than I’d intended to, but so had he. “She’s perfect for you.” I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince, but even as I say it, I know it’s the truth. I don’t want to stay in Eminence where I know I’ll end up living the life my parents envision for me: with a suitable husband, two-point-three kids, and a welcoming home. It’s not that I don’t want those things; it’s just that it’s not all I want from life.
“She is,” he echoes, but I recognize regret in his eyes even as he pulls me into his arms.
“Taz!”
It takes me a moment to realize that it’s not the memory of my mother’s shocked voice calling my name, but Kathleen’s from the other side of the gym. Of course she also draws the attention from the other three women helping out, who turn as one in my direction.
Kathleen meets me halfway and wraps me in a hug. “I’ve been meaning to call you, but the whole house was down with the flu this week. The kids are over it, but now Brent is home.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “He is the worst patient of them all, which is how I ended up here. Normally I wouldn’t be found dead volunteering at the kids’ school. Heck, I practically vibrated with glee when that damn school bus left this morning. Then that big galoot was whining and calling my name all morning.”
I bite my lip trying to hold back the smile at her rambling. This is the Kathleen of old, the one whose mouth always ran a mile a minute, without the benefit of any filters. She’s a little more reserved now she has kids, but clearly my old friend is still in there. “I’m sorry,” I manage, sympathetically.
“Don’t know how you do it; nursing. I don’t have the patience for it. All these needy people.” Kathleen isn’t nearly as cold-hearted as she pretends to be. “Anyway, enough about me, what brings you here?”
“Pizza lunch.” I indicate the cafeteria tables stacked with boxes, and notice the three women still watching.
“Ah, right. Come meet the girls.” She drags me unceremoniously to where the three are still ogling me with curiosity. “Sheila, you remember Taz, don’t you?”
I thought she looked familiar. Old feelings surge to the surface, but I plaster a smile on my face and hold out my hand. “Sheila Mantle, right? How have you been?”
“It’s actually Sheila Quinn these days. I’m well, but you…you poor thing.” She clasps my hand between hers and tilts her head, a fake look of sympathy on her face. “Such a horrible loss.” I finally manage to get my hand back and resist the temptation to wipe it on my jeans. “We should do lunch soon,” she titters on. “Catch up on old times.”
Not a fucking chance in hell I’m going down memory lane with her. She was a snake in high school, and I get the feeling that hasn’t changed much. I pointedly turn to the other two women and introduce myself.
“I need a job,” I tell Kathleen forty-five minutes later when we walk onto the parking lot. “I need a job and a place to live.”
“O-kay…” she drawls, looking at me quizzically. “I’m thinking I need a little more information than that.”
I stop and turn to her. “I have some money set aside, but I haven’t exactly been raking it in over my years in Africa, and I need to contribute to the household until I find a place of my own.”
“Why?” Kathleen seems genuinely stunned. “I mean, I figured you’d live at the house. Easier with the kids and all that. Did Rafe say something?” Her tone turns fierce on that last question.
“No. It’s not Rafe. At least, it’s nothing he said. The kids are at school, Rafe works all day, and I’m wearing spots in the furniture because cleaning is all I do to keep me busy. I feel like a poor replica of the real thing, but I’m not Nicky. I need to feel useful.”
“What does that have to do with the price of lemons? A poor replica? No one is expecting you to take Nicky’s place, but have you considered maybe it’s only you who thinks that? By all means get a job—nothing wrong with wanting to feel useful or paying your way—but why does that mean you have to move out? It just doesn’t compute.”