Page 70 of Loss and Damages
She was right, too. I was the one who left.
When she disappears from my sight for the last time, presumably going to bed, I trudge toward the road.
“Put your hands where I can see them.”
I pause and do what he says, raising my hands and showing him my empty palms. A man wearing jeans and a t-shirt steps out of the gallery’s shadows, his hand resting on his weapon.
“What’s your name and what are you doing out here?”
It’s the cop who spoke with Jemma while the medic bandaged her hands, though tonight it looks like he’s off duty. I can’t be angry he’s checking on her. It’s what I wanted when I called the HLPD. It should be a relief they’re doing what they said they would, and this guy’s doing it on his own time, but his possessive air grates on my nerves. He doesn’t belong here. I do.
“Dominic Milano. I was making sure Jemma’s okay.”
“She’s fine. This isn’t the first time I’ve driven by here tonight.”
“I’m grateful.”
“I’m not doing it for you, Mr. Milano.” He steps closer, pretending to be nonchalant, but his muscles are tense and anger radiates off him. Not much, just enough to let me know he doesn’t like me here. “Jemma’s never been a target. Her gallery,and when it belonged to her grandmother, has never been hit like it was last night and that’s your fault. You start hanging around and look what happens. You’re lucky she wasn’t hurt.”
“I am.”
“Don’t come out here again. There’s nothing for you here. Keep your filthy business in the city and we’ll all be a lot happier.”
I have to swallow down a lot of pride to say, “Thank you for keeping her safe.”
“I don’t need your thanks for doing my job. Get out of here or I’ll cite you for trespassing. I know that’s small potatoes compared to what you’ve got going on, but I’d feel damned good about it.”
He stares me down, and having nothing else to offer besides guilt and apologies, I walk to my car. His gaze doesn’t waver as I climb in and start the engine. When he knows I’m going to leave without causing trouble, he heads toward Jemma’s cottage.
Will she let him in? Will she let him take her to bed?
Slowly, I drive off the narrow shoulder and into the empty road. In the dark, I can’t see his figure in her yard. I don’t stop to search, and I keep going, rock crunching under my tires.
I drive into the city, my window open, the cool evening air keeping me awake.
I’ll never see Jemma again. Not as a friend, or a lover, or a wife. I smile a little at that. She’d proposed and hadn’t even realized it. The violence won’t end, or if it fades for a few months, it will start again once the eviction notices are issued. Then again when we raze the building. Then again when construction on the new building starts.
The protests won’t stop until the luxury high-rise is completed.
When they finally realize there’s nothing more they can do.
By then Jemma will have moved on, maybe with her cop, and she won’t remember my name.
It shouldn’t matter. I can have any woman in the city I want.
It shouldn’t matter.
It shouldn’t matter, but it does, with my whole heart, it does.
The highway is empty this time of night, and near the tree that took Leo’s life, I slow to a stop. I won’t be driving out here again, and I want to stay for a moment and pay my last respects to a brother I barely knew.
The skid marks are fading but are still visible on the road, and maybe they will be for a long time. How did Leo feel, slamming on the brakes, his car out of control? What were his last thoughts before everything went dark? The deer? Jemma? Our mother?
I get out, the evening air cool, but damp. A storm is coming.
The tree Leo crashed into is strong and still stands straight and tall, but his bumper damaged its trunk. I kneel on the grass and rub my hand along the chinks in the bark.
He drove out several times a week. To paint, to spend time with a woman who would understand that deep, sensitive, melancholy side of him.
