Page 22 of Bringing Home the Bacon
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Before we get ahead of ourselves…” Trent puts down his fork, reaches across the table, and takes my hand.
“Um. What the hell, man? Why are you holding my hand?”
Trent draws his hand back like it’s on fire. He stabs his fork into his eggs and resumes talking with his mouth full. “Forget it. I just… I have something potentially hurtful to say to you, and my sister says I need to be more sensitive to other people’s feelings. I was trying to be kind or whatever.”
“By holding my hand?” I scoff.
“I said forget it.”
We eat in silence for a few seconds until I break it.
“What’s the ‘potentially hurtful’ thing you need to say?”
He waves me off with his fork.
“We always give it to each other straight. Trent, whatever it is, just say it.”
Trent swallows his food and lets out a deep breath. “Look. I love seeing you this excited about a woman. I can’t even remember the last time that happened. But…”
“But…?” I try to pull the words out of him.
“Have you considered that she doesn’t want to be found?”
My stomach drops. Of course I’ve considered that.
“What, um. What makes you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Bacon. Maybe the fact that she escaped from your bed while you were sleeping? Used a fake name? Lied about where she lives and what she does for a living?” Trent winces. “Sorry. That was sarcastic. My sister also told me I sound like a dick when I lead with sarcasm.”
I take a breath, clear my throat, and speak calmly. “She could have had an early meeting the next day and didn’t want to disturb me.”
“Could’ve left you a note,” he counters.
True.
“And Cookie is probably a nickname,” I continue. “That’s why we can’t find a New Yorker with that name who works in advertising. Also, it was my fault for not getting her last name. And you know what?” It feels like I’m trying to convince myself at this point, but I can’t stop coming up with explanations for her absence. “Maybe she wanted to put the ball in my court. I mean, she pursued me initially, right? So maybe she wanted me to reciprocate and pursue her.”
“Without leaving you her real name. Or a way to contact her.” Trent squints out the window. We both watch bundled-up tourists trudging by. After a moment of silence, he says, “She spent the night at your place, right?”
“Right.”
“So she knows where to find you.”
“I suppose so.”
He reaches for my hand again. “It’s been four months. If she wanted to, she would.”
I take one last gulp of my coffee and place some bills on the table. I slide on my coat.
“Come on,” Trent protests. You told me to give it to you straight. That’s what I did. Now you’re gonna leave?”
“Yeah, I am gonna leave. I’m not mad at you. I’m just…” God, I don’t know what I am. “Look, I hear what you’re saying, and I appreciate the sleuthing you did for me, but… you weren’t there that day, Trent. You didn’t see our chemistry. What I felt for this girl that day was real. There’s a reason—a good reason—she went missing. And I’m going to figure it out.”
He shakes his head. “She played you, man. Forget her and move on.”
“Fuck that.” I grab the woolen bra and clutch it to my chest. “I’ll see you at the finale tonight, then I’m catching the first bus out of here tomorrow morning. I have a grandma to find in Fork Lick.”
Chapter 8
