Page 80 of 1 Last Shot

She sees my hesitation, but must not see the mess of thoughts in my brain, because she's still bubbly as she asks, "What if we go for a ride? There must be a scenic road around here somewhere."

I'm deflating in relief, opening my mouth to tell her that yes, spending an hour with her arms wrapped around me, trusting me and just being with me, sounds like paradise. But then my phone beeps with a text message.

I pull it out with a frown. I never get texts.

Mom: Change of plans. I'll be in your area sooner than I thought.

The text drops a brick of dread into my stomach.

"Who is it?" Isabella asks. She's not accusatory, she’s just worried, if the look on her face is any indication.

I debate swallowing the truth and brushing past the moment with a white lie, but one look at this sweet, kind girl beside me has me deciding against it. Taking a deep breath to gather my nerve, I admit honestly, "It's my mom."

Isabella squeezes my arm, silently encouraging me to continue.

I take another deep breath. "Remember how I told you I was bouncing around from place to place and job to job after I left home at sixteen?"

She nods silently.

"It wasn't because I couldn't hold down a life. It was because of my mom. She used to randomly show up in my life, begging for money and threatening me when begging didn’t work."

I think back to the very first time she tracked me down. It had been six months since I'd run away from home, yet she looked like she had aged ten years. She was skinnier and had more wrinkles, but she still had that same dead look in her eyes. She was clearly the same person I grew up with. There was no reason I should have let her in.

Looking back, sometimes I wonder why I didn't feel any hesitation before I did.

Maybe that makes me pathetic. I never felt any love for her, never had any good memories of her that weren’t tainted by her manipulations that always became apparent afterward, and yet Istilltreated her like my mom. I still made her dinner that night and slept on the floor so she could take the couch. Still handed over half my cash as soon as she told me she owed somebody money.

And when I woke up the next morning, all my cash was gone, and I got kicked out of the apartment a week later when I couldn't pay rent.

Isabella shakes me out of the memory when she gently urges me to continue with a soft, “So the last time you saw her wasn’t when you ran away from home?”

I shake my head. "She developed this routine over the years. In the early days, I'd live in my car until I could save enough money for a new apartment, then I'd move in and live there for a while. And then she would find me. I have no idea how; it almost felt like she had a sixth sense for ruining my life. Because she'd show up—sometimes at home, sometimes at my work—and she'd work me until I eventually gave her the time of day. If I was lucky, she just needed a place to stay. But most of the time she wanted money. After a while I stopped giving it to her, but then she'd get crafty. She'd find my hiding places for my cash, or she'd get me fired at work, and she wouldn't leave me alone until I gave her the money. And she made me caveevery single time.” I pull in a shaky breath. “She was both predictable and not, because I knew she would find me, but I could never guess what she would do, or how she’d play me."

"God," Isabella mumbles. "That sounds exhausting."

I only nod. I don't add that it also drove away every piece of pride I'd ever felt for finding my own independence. Because I knew I wasn't, not really. Not with her still in my life.

Isabella hesitates before she asks, "So what does she want now?"

I let out a tired sigh as I tuck my phone back in my pocket. "I don't know. She's never given me a heads up before showing up in my area." I don't vocalize that it's likely part of a new psychological manipulation tactic. Opening up to Isabella is one thing, but involving her in my bullshit life is a whole other. One I'm not willing to entertain even the slightest.

"When was the last time you saw her?" Isabella asks, wrapping an arm around my waist. I wrap mine around her shoulders with a grateful squeeze.

"Three years. Longest she's ever gone without popping up in my life." The last time I saw her, she had broken into my apartment and stolen everything—literallyeverything—out of my apartment: my furniture, my cash, even my clothes. I had to sell my car just to keep from becoming a homeless beggar on the street. That day, I jumped on a train and left Baltimore for good. And in the three years since I've seen her, I’ve finally allowed myself to start to build a shred of self-confidence. That and hope, that I could actually move past the years I'd much rather forget.

I feel Isabella hesitate. "So what are you going to do about her?"

I shrug and nudge her in the direction of my bike across the street. "Nothing. She doesn't exist to me."

Maybe if I repeat that enough times, I can will it to be true. Because for the first time in my life, I actually have a life I want to protect.

25

ISABELLA

I'm standing in the middle of a grocery store, staring at a wall of sauces, when I realize that I have no idea what I’m doing.

My gaze flits between a standard, original tomato sauce, and a higher-end, flavored organic sauce. I have no idea which one to buy. No idea which one Ineed.

---