Page 40 of Wild Side
My mouth gets drier the closer he gets, and my plan of what to say to him evaporates when he takes a seat beside me on the front step. He lets out a heavy sigh as his body folds down.
“You must be tired. Getting here from Florida has got to be a pain in the ass.” I don’t know why I say it. He just looks worn out today, and it tugs on my heartstrings. I doubt there’s a direct flight to Alberta. And then it’s another flight to a small city about an hour away or a three-hour drive across the provincial border from Calgary.
“We need to talk.”
I swallow and stare down at my purple toenails, trying not to focus too much on his nearness. “I’m starting to hate that sentence.”
“I got hung up at the border today. One of the officers finally called me on overstaying my welcome. Had to call my lawyer and explain the situation at border services.”
My stomach drops, and my hands grip my bare knees to keep from shaking, because I don’t like where this is going.
“Okay,” I say hesitantly.
“Tabitha, he’s recommending I take Milo with me when I leave this time. If I leave him here, he has no legal guardian.”
“I—”
His large hand falls over mine. And this time, I don’t shake it off. I let him steady me.
I’m out of time.
“Listen. I know. I know you are capable. Hell, I even know here is the best place for him. I’m not saying I’m going to keep him from you. But changing the name on that form isn’t going to happen overnight. And if something happens to him and I’m not here, then social services will get involved.”
My heart beats deep in the pit of my stomach, that sensation of life not being real overtaking all my senses. “Youcan’t.”
His fingers tighten on mine, and I hear a pained groan rattle around in his chest. “I’m sorry, Tabby. It won’t be forever.”
It won’t be forever.
The idea of being alone with my thoughts, with my guilt, with my grief—it’s just too much. And there’s something about the wordforeverthat sparks an idea in my head.
In this instant, I know that I’m about to make a very, very bad decision. But I figure that after being the sister who carefully thought out every choice in her life, I’m due to make a colossally stupid one. And if nothing else, at least being willing to do anything for my family is consistent.
Which is why I blurt out my totally absurd idea before I can think it through with my usual level of care. “Marry me.”
I swear the birds stop chirping. The world stops turning. Rhys stops moving. And I want to dig myself a nice big hole and crawl into it.
“You and me?” is the first thing he says, rearing back to look at me as though checking to see if I’ve got the vapors.
I grimace and avoid making eye contact. We can pretend I never said that at all. A perfectly forgettable moment of inexplicable hysteria.
“Yeah. No, of course not. That’s absurd. We hate each other.” I slap my hands together like I’m clearing dust—and all my dignity from them—before I get up, turn away, and take the steps toward the house. “I wouldn’t want to marry you,” I mumble as I open the screen door and pad inside. “Even if your dick is huge,” I add once I clear the doorway.
Rhys doesn’t follow me. One look back at him over my shoulder, and I see his hulking form slouched on the front steps, eerily still.
I wonder how he feels about those murder jokes now. Perhaps he’s considering the validity of those options. Getting rid of me would make his life a lot easier. I can’t imagine a worldin which he likes coming all this way to see Milo, or one in which he enjoys spending time around me with how things are between us.
No, I bet a world without Tabitha Garrison to terrorize him and turn his life upside down is mighty appealing right now.
His silence stresses me out, so I decide to wipe down the kitchen cupboards. They aren’t dirty—in fact, I did this exact thing two days ago—but it gives me something to do that doesn’t involve facing him.
I scrub frantically and act like I’m removing a stubborn spot when he enters the house. He props a shoulder against the rounded entryway, crosses his arms, and stares at me.
I fucking hate when he stares at me. It makes my stomach flop over on itself. The same dropping sensation you get on a thrilling carnival ride. Except those are short-lived. Those end.
Rhys Dupris is the carnival ride that I just can’t manage to get off of.
“What are you doing?” he finally asks.
