Page 98 of 1 Last Shot

And then she brushes past him and walks out the door. And the fact that she doesn't slam it makes her exit all the more haunting.

I'm rattling with nerves as I turn back to Kane.

"Kane, we can talk about this—”

"Don't worry about her, I'll take care of it," he says sharply. He checks the time before saying, "We missed our reservation at the restaurant, but I don’t feel like cooking. Let’s just go to a bar to grab food."

I study Kane's demeanor. In only ten minutes, I watched him go from a happy, grown man, to a panicked and scared little boy, and now to a completely blank and frozen human being. I can't read anything on his face. He's very obviously overwhelmed by what just happened, and his reaction is clearly to just… shut down.

He must notice my hesitation because he steps forward to cup my face, giving me all of his attention as he says, “I’ll take care of it, Isabella. I promise.”

And even though his words are comforting, I canfeelthe distance in him. Kane would do everything to protect me, but I’m not the one I’m worried about.

I don’t get a chance to respond because Oscar lets out a whine from where he's still sitting in the living room. Kane and I both turn our attention to the dog, and I'm relieved to see Kane's shoulders relax a fraction. I hold my breath as he walks over to his friend and pets his head.

"Sorry, buddy," Kane murmurs. "I know she scared you. But she's gone now." When Oscar settles at his touch and his slightly-less-tense demeanor, his tail giving a small wag, Kane turns back to me.

He's still frozen, still numb to reality with a twinge of panic threatening to overtake him at any moment, but he looks slightly more in control of himself than he did a minute ago. Enough that it makesmerelax a little bit more.

"Are you good if we go out? I could use a drink, to be honest. There's a bar down the street from here that has good food, if you still want to eat."

I nod immediately, desperate to put Kane at ease. If hot food and a drink will do that, I'll do it happily.

"Sure, let's go," I tell him with what I hope is a warm smile.

30

KANE

The second the door shuts behind my mom, I feel a door shut inside me, as well.

With the sound of the lock clicking shut, I go from burning with rage and terror, to numb and frozen with disbelief.

It’s been three years since I’ve seen my mom. Three years of silence, of learning how to bury my childhood fears deep enough that I’d be unaffected by any memory involving my mother. I worked hard to wipe her from my mind, and up until her phone call last week, I was convinced that I had done it, and that I’d continue to remain unaffected, even if she appeared back in my life. That if shedidshow up, I’d be able to trample any emotion she might evoke in me.

It took less than sixty seconds for that idea to crumble.

Mentally, I think I black out after she leaves. I'm so desperate to shove those feelings of pureterrorback where they belong, that I start fumbling to rebuild that wall of numbness. I think I ask Isabella a question, but I'm so overwhelmed by the terror tickling at my subconscious that I'm not fully aware of what I'm saying. I just know I need to getout.

"Sure, let's go," comes her melodic voice. I watch as she grabs her purse and her phone from the counter, then she's standing in front of me with a tight smile on her face.

I hesitate for a moment. I know I need to saysomething, but I'm barely holding myself together, and I know that any kind of discussion about what happened tonight is going to lead to a crash and burn. I know I'm going to ignore any talk of my mother tonight.

And yet, I can't bring myself to do that until I tell Isabella just how fucking sorry I am that I brought her into this. That, because of me, she was anywhere even remotely close to the wildfire that is my mother.

So, I croak out a quiet, "I'm sorry." I'm sure the pain and terror are blazing in my eyes right now, but I don't care. "I'm just so fucking sorry."

Before she can respond with anything, I turn and lead us out the door.

* * *

Five minutes after we get settled at the bar top, I've already slammed a vodka double and am waving down the bartender for another.

Isabella studies me as she sips her mojito. She's visibly nervous, and I can tell she's working up the nerve to talk about what happened at my apartment, but there isn't an ounce of me that is strong enough to initiate that conversation.

"We should talk about what happened," she finally says in a quiet voice.

I nod my thanks at the bartender as he slides the glass of vodka in front of me. "Don't worry about what my mom said. I'll take care of it." Then I'm taking a big swig of my drink.

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