Page 116 of What's Left of Us

What had she meant when she said things don’t always work out? Was it about the job or something deeper?

Climbing into the truck, I slam the door shut and call Georgia, listening to the phone ring until her voicemail picks up.

She’s supposed to be at work.

I hang up before I can say anything.

Rolling the windows down to get rid of the scent lingering in my truck, I drive to the apartment and try to think of where she could be.

When I see her car absent from the driveway, I call her again. It goes straight to voicemail. Where the hell could she be during the days when she was supposed to be at work?

That night, I sit at the end of the couch with a glass of scotch. I call her twice more, and she picks up the last time to tell me she’s on her way home from work.

From work.

When she walks in, she glances at where I sit stiffly and stops with the door half open.

“Where were you?” I ask quietly.

She stands taller. “At work.”

The lie grates on my nerves. “Georgia,” I say slowly, clenching the fabric arms of the cushion until my fingertips hurt. “Where were youreally?”

All she does is stare at me, the color in her face paling when she realizes I know something.

“I went to the library,” I add, before she can lie to me again.

Her shoulders tense as she drops her things onto the table we keep by the door. “It’s not what you think.”

The truth is, I don’t know what to think.

“Then tell me what it is. Because I have no idea why you wouldn’t have told me that they fired you when it happened.”

She shifts on her feet, toying with the buttons of her coat. “I lost my job at the library,” she admits, not looking at me.

I already know that. “When?”

She pauses, settling by the wall as if she’s afraid to come near me. “Four months ago,” she whispers.

My eye twitches.

Four months…

Four. Months.

I take a deep breath. “You’ve been lying for four months?”

“I…” She stops herself, her lips parting and closing twice before she sighs. “You were going through so much at work andcoming home stressed all the time. And you kept talking about the future house we were going to buy and the dog we would get, and it made me feel…” Shaking her head, she lets her words fade. “I didn’t want to tell you that I couldn’t contribute to that dream. You would have told me it was fine and then worked three times as hard to make it work on your own.”

I make enough to get us by. She knows that. I’ve told her that before. It was she who wanted to work, and I encouraged that because it was her choice. But it wasn’t detrimental. Not like lying about it is. “Where do you go when you’re supposed to be at work? Who are you with?”

Her lips curl into a frown at the accusation spoken between words. “Idogo to work. At the bookstore on Main Street. It doesn’t pay nearly as much as the library did, but it’s something.”

I watch her carefully, wondering if she’s being honest this time. I hate that I can’t tell—hate that she thinks she has to keep secrets from me. When did she start doing that?

“I promise,” she whispers. “I just didn’t want to put pressure on you to figure things out on your own.”

Looking away from her pleading eyes, I collect my thoughts. A nagging feeling in my stomach tells me to question her, but my brain convinces me to let it go. For now.

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