Page 29 of Collision
“I found you outside, alone with him, inches from his face. Tell me, what am I supposed to think?”
“It wasn’t what it looked like. He was—he was just pulling a bugout of my hair,” I explain guiltily, tugging the sleeves of my jacket over my hands. A nervous tic.
Sighing heavily, Travis runs his hands over his face, like he’s trying to get his mind back in order. There’s a sad look on his face, which is still swollen from Thomas’s punches.
“I know you, Vanessa.” He shakes his head and rests one hand on the steering wheel. His gaze out the windshield is resigned.
“Excuse me? What does that mean? If you know me, then you should know that I would never do anything to hurt—”
“You don’t understand!” he interrupts, slamming his hand on the steering wheel.
“What? What don’t I understand?”
“He…” He shakes his head knowingly. “He’s after you!”
I stay staring at him without saying anything for a good handful of seconds, merely blinking. “That’s nuts. He’s not after me. Besides, even if he was, I’m the one you need to have faith in. I forgave you for Friday night, can’t you let one innocent conversation go?”
Travis laughs bitterly. “Just know that he doesn’t give a damn about you. I’m the one he’s trying to get at.”
“Why would he want to get to you?”
“That’s not the point!” he shouts, making me wince. I want to tell him that, actually, I have every right to know the reason for their bizarre hatred, but his anger is scaring me. Instead, I give up and remain silent.
“I expect you to be more careful from now on. Now go,” he orders without even looking at me.
“Okay,” I whisper. I get out of the car with a heaviness in my chest; I have never seen Travis so angry. Yet, as I watch him drive off into the night, it is not his feelings that I’m lingering on. It is the hurt that Thomas inflicted upon me with his words, which keep swirling relentlessly inside my head.
Ten
When I cross the threshold of the house, I can smell roasted chicken and potatoes, my favorite dish. Mom always prepares it with a ton of aromatic herbs from her garden. She grows all kinds. It’s one of her passions after mud baths at the spa and good wine.
“I’m home,” I announce as I take off my shoes. I hang up my jacket and put my bag on the dark wooden bench in the hall. I feel the urgent need to dash into the shower, but first I have to say hi to my mother. I quickly tidy myself up in the mirror, not wanting her to notice how disheveled I’ve been by the confusion of the past few hours. She would surely start asking questions that I wouldn’t know how to answer.
I stare intently at my own reflection. I am pale. My gray eyes are overlarge, and even I can see the wounded, exhausted look in them. The long black hair makes me look even gloomier. Maybe I should stop dyeing it and go back to my natural blond? I sigh heavily and give my cheeks a little pinch, hoping to give the appearance of color. Then, I paste on a fake smile and make my entrance.
From the living room, I can hear the buzz of the television. I head there and find my mother on the sofa with her legs bent to the side and one elbow resting on the armrest, as she flips through one of her back issues ofVogue. Her hair is up in its usual chignon, and she’s wearing the vintage-style eyeglasses she uses only at home, because, accordingto her, they age her. She already has her pajamas on, a beige satin set, one of Victor’s latest expensive gifts.
The more I look at her, the more I wonder how she does it. How can she so effortlessly exude elegance from every pore?
“I’ve been waiting all day for you. What happened?”
“Travis’s practice ran long. I’m going upstairs for a minute to wash up,” I tell her, leaning on the doorknob.
“Hurry up, dinner will be ready in forty minutes,” she answers, never taking her eyes off her magazine.
“How come you’re not with Victor tonight?”
“He had some urgent work to do.”
I can’t help but smile a bitter little smile. We have reached the point where she only thinks about me when Victor isn’t available. I go up to my room, quickly shed my filthy clothes, and dash into the shower. As the hot water washes over me, I try to let it wash away the bad mood that’s been keeping me company for a while now.
I step out of the shower and gather my hair into my usual turban before slipping into my bathrobe. In my room, I put on a clean and nice-smelling pair of pajamas before returning to my mother on the couch.
“Were you watching something?” I point to the television set with the remote.
“No, go ahead.”
While channel surfing, I make an effort to strike up a conversation with the woman next to me, who bears only a slight resemblance to me.
