Page 84 of Resisting Isaac
I reach for the doorknob. “No time for coffee. I’ve got to go freshen up and check in with the crew. Ivy’s probably already wondering where I am.”
“I texted and told Ivy you were down for the count today,” he says with a frown.
“Well, I’ll let her know I’m all better now. Ready to get back to work.”
I trip over a stray boot, stumble, and am inches from face-planting when he catches me around the waist.
“You need more rest,” he says gently.
“I was just testing gravity,” I say as I right myself. “Still there. Still works.”
When he speaks, his voice is low. Serious. “You don’t have to rush out. No one’s expecting you to?—”
“Iknow what they’re expecting,” I interrupt, too fast, too sharp. I soften my tone the best I can. “I really appreciate everything you did. But I’ve taken enough of your time—and your bed. Promise I’m good.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me, likely seeing more than I want him to.
“Thanks for taking care of me. Super sweet of you. But I’m fine now. Just a blip. It’s passed.”
I open the door before he can reply, the heat of the afternoon sun hitting my cheeks like a slap of reality. My stomach threatens to turn again.
I practically sprint to my cabin before I reenact the scene from this morning on Isaac’s flowerbed.
Before I change my mind. Before I say something dangerous. Likethank you for making me feel safe. OrI wish I didn’t have to go.
Letting myself want this—him—means giving up control. And I’ve fought too damn hard, for too damn long, to let someone else write my ending.
Even if part of me might always imagine what it might’ve looked like.
After texting backand forth with Ivy for ten minutes and failing to convince her I can work this evening, my phone buzzes in my hand.
The second I seeMamápop up on the screen, my stomach sinks faster than it did when I lost my breakfast in Isaac’s yard.
I hesitate before I answer. But not answering will only make it worse.
“Hola, Mamá.”
There’s silence for a beat too long.
Then, “So youdoremember how to use a phone.”
I exhale through my nose. “Sorry. We’ve been blocking all hours of the day this week and?—”
“I’m not calling aboutthis week, Elena.” Her voice slices, low and measured in that particular way only mothers can manage. “I’m calling aboutlastweek. You missed your father’s birthday.”
Shit.
My throat tightens. “Wait—what?”
“You didn’t call. You didn’t send anything. Not even a text message.”
“Mamá, I—I thought?—”
“He waited for your call all day.” Her voice falters for the first time. “He didn’t say anything. Just sat in his chair and kept glancing at the clock like maybe your fancy people in Montana are on a different calendar.”
Guilt rips through me.
I close my eyes and press a hand to my forehead. “Did you at least get the money I sent?”
