Page 54 of Dark Knight

A tear rolls down my cheek before I can catch it. “And now, I know what it’s like to feel better. He makes me remember how it was before Kristoff. He reminds me of who I was and want to be again. And then he takes it away.” I snap my fingers with a sinking heart. “And I’m back to square one. My whole life, I’ve been going through this endless cycle. I don’t know how to make it stop or even if it’s possible to make it stop. I don’t know anything.”

What would a mother — a loving, caring mother — say at a time like this? God, I wish I knew. I wish I had the first clue. Ultimately, I’m still the motherless girl, wandering around, wishing somebody would love her. Not because they have to, but because they want to.

Fuck, I’m a mess.

What would I want my mother to say to me now, if she was alive, if she cared? What would I need to hear? That I am lovable. That I’m worth loving, even when I’m bitchy and needy. Even when I’m at my lowest point. I would want her to tell me everything is going to be okay. Kristoff is gone, he’s never coming back, and the big bad wolf can’t get me because people are protecting me. Romero hinted at that. Whatever he’s doing now, it’s to get rid of Jeff. I have to believe it will work.

I would want her to remind me that I was safe at the club. Before all the craziness with Romero, I was really safe. The guy touched me, but he didn’t hurt me. He didn’t want to, either. We danced like I danced with so many guys before him, just a casual thing with no meaning behind it. And I lived through it. There is hope.

Thanks to Romero. Why does it always keep coming back to him? I actually shoot a dirty look at the urn like it’s the urn’s fault and not my tangled subconscious, throwing thoughts and ideas at me. I felt safe because he was there, watching. I felt safe because I knew he would kill anybody who put their hands on me. That might be a euphemism for some people, but I know better. He would literally have destroyed anyone in his path.

So the way it looks right now, I’ll be fine so long as he’s always with me. The man who punched a heavy bag until his hands bled, all because we had a fight. No big deal.

I might as well wish for a unicorn for my next birthday.

The sight of a girl walking down the sidewalk across the street catches my attention. I’m so bored; anything makes me sit up and take notice. What stands out most about her is how pretty she is — long, black hair with killer cheekbones that look like they could cut glass even from a distance. She wears the general neighborhood uniform of torn jeans, sneakers, and an oversized hoodie.

And she’s looking at this house like she’s waiting for it to burst into flames.

I’m off the sofa by the time she crosses the street, placing the urn on the coffee table and watching from the window. She’s not actually coming over here, is she? I don’t recognize her from that night at the lake or any other time I’ve been out around here. She tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, chews her bottom lip like she’s questioning herself… then walks up the steps and crosses the porch.

And here I am with my heart in my throat, all because of some strange girl. It’s almost depressing. By the time she knocks on the door, I shake off my flash of fear — but that doesn’t mean I fling the door open, either. With the chain in place, I open it just enough for us to come face-to-face. The surprise in her large, dark eyes says she wasn’t expecting to see me.

“Can I help you?” I murmur.

She blinks rapidly, her smooth forehead creasing in confusion. “Oh. I, um, I thought… I mean, is Romero around?”

Something hot and uncomfortable uncoils in my stomach. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m… a friend of his.” She’s just as guarded as I am, eyeing me warily. I’ve seen that look before. It’s just that I don’t understand why she looks this way. Like he means something to her.

“You’re the girl living here with him, aren’t you?” she asks. Her voice has nothing nasty or accusatory, but my defenses go up anyway. Hell, they were already up.

“I am, but I still don’t know who you are.” Or what the hell you think you’re doing here. This girl has barely said anything to me, and here I am, wanting to claw her eyes out. And why? For what? Over him? What a waste of time that would be.

“My name is Becky. And I really would like to see him. Is he here?” She turns slightly to the left, eyeing the SUV parked next to the house.

Before I can come up with a lie, or even politely tell her to fuck off, footsteps ring out on the stairs behind me. Footsteps that slow dramatically before picking up again. “Becky. What are you doing here?”

I don’t have to look at him. I can hear it in his voice, and now I remember hearing her name at the lake when somebody commented about Becky. They were wondering why he hadn’t seen her yet. Nobody has to explain who she is or, better yet, was to him. It’s all in the tone of his voice when he says her name.

And it’s in the way her face lights up when she spots him over my shoulder. Unexpectedly, I feel like I’m intruding, and the idea makes me sick. If anybody belongs here with him, it’s me, not this chick.

Suddenly, his hand is on the door, and I might as well not be here. He only has eyes for her. But as always, there’s nothing on his face to show what he’s really thinking. How he’s feeling. Why would he want to do that? Why would he want anybody to know what’s going on in his head? It’s fucking infuriating.

“I figured if you weren’t going to look for me, I’d have to look for you.” It’s obvious she wants to say more, but her wary gaze falls on me and she presses her lips into a firm line. Message received. Wouldn’t want to speak freely in front of a stranger.

“Tatum… stay here.” He talks to me like I’m a child. Or a dog. Wouldn’t want to let me out on the loose, would he? This is pathetic. I’m sure he sees it in the way I snicker and shake my head before going upstairs, while he steps out onto the porch and closes the front door.

It might look like I’m throwing a temper tantrum or whatever he wants to call it, but not quite. If I can’t listen from the living room – where he would be able to see me, of course – I’ll listen from upstairs in the bedroom. No way am I going to pass up the chance to hear what they have to say to each other.

I tiptoe across the creaky floor, then ease one of the front windows and open a crack before crouching there, straining my ears and breathing as softly as possible in the hope of eavesdropping. This is what my life has come to.

“You can’t just show up here,” he mutters. He sounds like he does when he’s pissed at me, and sadly, it sort of makes me feel good. I’m not the only one who gets this crappy, dismissive attitude.

“Is that all you have to say to me? Ten years, and I have to find out you’re back in town from Dex? What the hell?”

That’s right, girl. I don’t love the way you looked at me, but give him hell.

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