Page 102 of Going Deep
She walked slowly back to the house, eating her scone and sipping her latte. The day was already uncomfortably hot, the light rain that had come and gone overnight adding a sticky humidity to the air. By the time she’d made the walk back to the house, she had a line of damp down her back, and her hair was clinging to the back of her neck.
She climbed the three steps to the kitchen door, noting that her mother hadn’t left for work yet as the interior door still stood open. She shifted her cup so she could grasp the handle.
“Mama, you really are going to be late,” she called out as the screen door slammed behind her, then froze.
Geraldine still sat at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee steaming in her hands. And across from her, his long length folded into the delicate cane-backed chair, was Michael.
He rose slowly, his eyes shadowed. “Hello, Ginger.”
“Michael.” Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, her lips oddly numb. “What are you doing here?”
He took a step toward her, and she flinched. He stopped, his eyes going carefully blank. “I came to see you.”
“Oh.” Her hungry eyes drank in the sight of him. He had a layer of thick stubble on his jaw, like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and his eyes were red-rimmed, like he hadn’t slept. His t-shirt was wrinkled, with a stain down the front, and the jeans she recognized as his favorites looked like he’d picked them up off the floor. “Why?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
The silence grew thick, the tension in the room building until it was almost palpable. The scrape of a chair made both of them start.
Geraldine smiled serenely and carried her coffee cup to the sink. “Well. I’m going to be late.” She walked to Ginger, brushing her lips over her daughter’s cheek. “He drove all night,” she whispered, “but don’t let him off the hook too easy.” She pulled back to wink, then continued out the kitchen door.
The slam of the screen door echoed in the small room, and Michael cleared his throat. “Can we talk?”
He looked so good, was all she could think, even with stained, wrinkled clothes and bloodshot eyes. Damn him, why did he have to look so good? A nasty little spurt of anger reared up through the pain. “Why would you want to talk to me? I’ll probably just lie.”
He flinched. “I guess I deserved that.”
She was already regretting having said it. “Michael, I don’t think?—”
“Give me ten minutes, and then if you want me to go, I will. Please,” he said, and with that one word knocked her completely off kilter.
He never said please.
She wanted to say no. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to say no, to get away. She didn’t want more pain, and this would surely hurt. But her sense of fair play kept the word from leaving her lips.
“Ten minutes,” she repeated. “Then you leave.”
He nodded. “I promise.”
“I don’t want you to touch me.” If he touched her, she’d be lost.
His eyes went bleak, but he nodded. “If that’s what you want.”
She hesitated, searching his face, then nodded. “Okay.”
He exhaled. “Thank you.”
She pointed to the room behind him. “Go into the living room and have a seat.”
She waited until he complied before releasing a shaky breath. She started forward, then realized she still held her latte and scone. And the scone was crumpled to mush.
With a grimace, she tossed what was left of the pastry in the garbage and quickly washed her hands, then picked up her coffee and followed him down the short hall to the tidy living room.
He was standing in the center of the room, frowning at the stack of boxes waiting by the front door. “Is someone moving?”
“I am.”
“To where?”
