Page 99 of Who I Really Am

“I found them out back, tongues down each other’s throats. People are waiting on them, and they don’t have the decency, the restraint…”

I don’t have to guess who the other half oftheyis as Marco starts talking with his hands. “And Mom, been up since before sunrise, standing around, waiting…” Freshly stirred anger punctuates the long pause. “Needless to say, Rachel chose to ride home with her.”

I’ll bet she did. “I’m sorry.” Sounds empty, but I am. “What are you going to do?”

His palms turn up. “What can I do? She won’t listen, and Mom coddles and makes excuses and enables her.” His mouth works mutely. “And then there’s this falling-apart house. I should have come sooner. I’ve abandoned them.”

“That’s silly, Marco. You have a job. And you’re here now, but, if you feel you could make a difference…is there any chance you could take a leave of absence?”

In profile, his jaw solidifies. “Not possible at this point.”

A thought that’s been playing hide and seek in my brain pops its head out. “When is your vacation over anyway?” He must have been gone two weeks already, at least.

The way he looks at me, I feel uneasy. A little silly, like I’m missing something I should already know. Sighing, he takes the cap off and taps it in his hand. “Annalise—”

A sedan, a nice new one with those super bright headlights, pulls into the driveway, spotlighting us in its beams. Marco makes a sound, of disbelief, I think, and stands, straight and square, radiating negative energy. Angry energy.

For the briefest moment, fear grabs me—but then I remember who I’m with.

Setting the cap aside, he steps to the bottom plank, wearing the look of a man not to be messed with. The driver’s door opens, and Tanner gets out, hand on the top of the door.

“Little late for a visit, Romeo.” Marco’s tatted muscles bulge as he crosses his arms over an equally buff chest.

I’m not sure how I ever thought, even for a minute, that Tanner-whatever-his-name-is was a nice kid. The cocky smirk dripping disrespect makes me—yes, outsider me—want to scratch those beady eyes clear out of his head.

“Don’t worry. I’m not allowed to come inside. Mom’s afraid you’ll shoot me too.”

Now that was uncalled for and major hyperbole. Like Marco would ever shoot a kid—but it does tell me the confrontation at the school was an ugly one.

Marco tenses, whether from the nasty taunt or caution when Tanner reaches back into the car. “Rachel left her backpack this afternoon.” He drops it unceremoniously on the gravel. Marco makes no move to retrieve it. “Oh, and here’s her shirt, too.” This Tanner balls and tosses hard toward Marco’s chest.

I reach for him, wrapping my fingers around his wrist. He must want blood right about now.

As quickly as he came, Tanner is gone, leaving Marco staring, poised like a hulking lion ready to pounce, until the BMW’s taillights turn onto the state highway. As my fingers fall away, he steps onto the driveway. I assume he’s going for the backpack, but he passes it by and paces at the end of his pickup. His hands go to his head, I think fighting hard not to lose it. I itch to go to him, but he’s spitting-nails angry, and when I’m like that, I need space. I'm not afraid of him—he’s never once given cause. Frankly, I admire his restraint. I don’t know that Tripp would have let Tanner walk without taking his pound of flesh, figuratively or literally.

It’s moments like this I’m finding it increasingly difficult to remember that I’m a stranger in this place, to these people. This man. Although…convoluted as our time together has been, I’m thinking it’s fair to say we aren’t strangers anymore. “Marco?”

Hands to waist, his dark shadow ping-pongs across the end of the drive. I sit a couple more minutes, just in case—and yes, hoping a little—he decides he needs me. When he finally stops, lowers the tailgate, and hops onto it, staring into the night, I have my answer. But when I turn for the door, he motions me over and I join him, sitting close enough that our clothes brush.

He gazes up at the stars, so I do too. Little manmade light and clear, dry air make for stunning stargazing. I swing my feet and wait patiently for what may—or may not—come. This is his show, and he needs someone in his corner right now.

An old pickup passes, turning into the driveway of the dumpy fifth-wheel that receives enough visitors to arouse suspicion in typically not-so-suspicious me. If I’m not mistaken, Marco stiffens, too.

But the truck comes, goes, and the quiet between us stays uncut. Maybe all he needs right now is to not be alone.

Finally, I hear a long sigh. “You know why there’s a fence around the trailer?”

The question feels flung from left field. “Not a clue.”

“We had a pit bull once.”

Sigh. Someone should buy me a muzzle. “Marco…”

He holds up his hand. “After Dad died, I took my role as man of the house seriously, and I figured there was no telling who’d come sniffing around with all these women everywhere. Mom didn’t want a gun in the house, so she let me choose a dog. I picked one I thought would be tough and mean—turned out he was the sweetest dog ever. But he died after a couple years, and we haven’t had use of the fence since.”

Bunches of things run through my mind, mostly shame for my faux pas, but my heart nearly melts at the image of Marco, a gangly teen, bearing the weight of keeping his grieving family safe. I shove down another apology. Mysorrysare getting old. “That must have been a very hard time.”

“It was.”

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