Page 2 of The Thief

My gratitude evaporates in a rush. Who is he to judge me? What the hell does he know about what I’ve been through? He can have his stupid jacket back.

“Thank you for your help,” I say frostily, taking it off and holding it out to him. My parents have taught me to be polite, and annoyed as I am, the good manners they drilled into me won’t allow me to tell him to fuck off. “I’ll be going now.”

“You’re welcome.” He ignores the jacket. I hold it out for another long second, then shrug and let it fall to the ground before walking away.

He mutters something under his breath as he picks it up and then falls in step with me.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“Escorting you home,” he says, as if it were obvious. “This is a bad neighborhood, and I would hate for you to get hurt again.”

Home is filled with memories I’m trying to obliterate with a bottle of vodka. “I don’t want to go home,” I mutter sullenly. “And I don’t care if I get hurt.”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “What’s the matter? Your boyfriend broke up with you, and you’ve decided that alcohol is the only way to cope?”

Boyfriend.He thinks I’ve fallen apart because of a failed relationship? “I buried my parents today,” I say flatly. “Both of them. And yes, this bottle is the only way I can cope.”

“Ah.” There’s a long pause. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have leaped to conclusions.”

I didn’t expect him to apologize, and I don’t know how to react. I take another deep drink of my vodka and, out of some strange impulse, offer the bottle to him.

I expect him to turn it down. I’m even prepared for him to do something dramatic, like fling it into the canal. But shockingly, he does neither. He pries the bottle gently from my fingers. His lips wrap around the mouth, the way mine did a second earlier, and he drinks. Then he hands it back to me, his fingers brushing mine.

Heat blossoms in my chest. A distant part of my brain registers it, but I’m so numbed by grief that it feels like it’s happening to someone else.

We walk in the darkness, taking turns drinking from the steadily emptying bottle, neither breaking the silence. I wouldn’t have sought out company, but I’m grateful he’s there. I don’t want to be alone tonight.

“I’m not sad,” I finally blurt out.

“About. . .?”

“That they died.” It’s not exactly a lie. Sad is too simple a word to describe the emotions churning through me. “I’m angry.Furious.My mother hid her illness from me, and when she died, my father went and shot himself.”

He doesn’t say anything, but he squeezes my hand, a silent gesture of support.. Somewhere along the way, he’s draped his coat around me again and, caught up as I’ve been in my own misery, I hadn’t even noticed.

“It wasn’t just my parents who lied,” I continue bitterly. “They all did. Even my best friend didn’t tell me.” I pour some more booze down my throat. “Did everyone think they were protecting me? Because I don’t feel protected. I feelabandoned,and I hate them for that.”

Once again, he stays silent, but this time, it prickles at me. “What are you thinking? Are you going to give me the same advice the priest did? Are you going to tell me that I shouldn’t feel betrayed and that I should forgive them?”

“I would never presume to tell you how to feel.”

I’m not looking where I’m going, and I stumble over a coil of rope. I’m about to fall, but his arms are around me before I do. His touch feels solid and reassuring, a portal into a fantasy world where I’m not suddenly alone. A world in which there’s someone who cares for me. Someone who will catch me before I fall.

Then he yanks me to his chest. My breasts smash into the hardness of his torso, and another wave of heat surges through me. This time, I’m very aware of him, of his scent and his nearness, of the steel in his muscles and the strength in his arms. I want. . .

He pulls away.

If it weren’t for the numbness in my heart, his rejection might hurt. Tonight though, it’s just another hit in a series of hits, and I’m too bruised to care. “You’re avoiding my question.” I still can’t see his face and maybe that’s what loosens my tongue. Or maybe it’s the vodka. “You don’t have any advice for me?” I keep stabbing at the open, bleeding wound. “If you were me, if your parents abandoned you the way mine did, what would you do? What would you be feeling right now?”

“I didn’t know my parents,” he says without inflection. “I was left outside a church as a baby.”

Oh.Oh.“I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t need your pity,” he says stiffly. The easy, relaxed set of his shoulders is gone, replaced by tension. This is clearly not a welcome topic, and it’s obvious he’d much rather talk about my problems than his own.

Fair enough. “Give me advice, then. Tell me what to do. Tell me how to move forward from this.”

“Did your parents love you?”

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