Somebody Else's Sky (Something in the Way #2)(25)

She nodded, slowly at first, and then a little harder. "I understand. It's like I do things to get him to notice, and . . . that's wrong. Once I move out, and he's not around all the time, I can start focusing on what I want."

"Yeah." I felt a strange sense of pride, like I'd gotten through to her a little bit. "You still want me to move in? Or you want to be on your own a while?"

"I want you there. I mean, geez. Can't you see how good you are for me?" 

For some reason, that dislodged something in my chest. Good. I wasn't good, but I wanted to be better. Better than the man who'd attacked a guard. Better than one who repeated his dad's mistakes.

"You were in that place for over two months," Tiffany continued, "but that counted toward your sentence. Grimes told me if you have no more incidents, you might still be eligible for early release."

I rubbed my jaw. I knew that, but I'd been so concerned about the fact that I was no longer getting out early, I hadn't paid much attention to the fact that I could get it back-but only if I stayed on track. "It's not as simple as just going home with you, though. I'll be on parole when I get out. They'll want to interview you. I'll be subjected to random searches. I could have a PO who's a dick and makes my life hell. You didn't sign up for all that."

"You think I would've visited just anyone every month for a year?" She opened her hands in front of her and counted off her fingers. "I went to your landlord, broke your lease, sold your stuff to help pay your fees. I got a job, and I've been working hard. You don't know since I haven't seen you, but I'm up for a promotion to assistant manager. For you. To show you I can be better."

Better. It was what both of us wanted. We had work to do, and somehow, lifting her up had forced me to up my game as well. I knew Tiffany had been trying, but she'd be twenty-one soon. I'd assumed that was part of it, getting older, maturing. I hadn't considered it might all be for me. "Why?" I asked.

"Why what?" She sounded exasperated.

"Why me?" As soon as I said it, I realized I'd been wanting to know since her first visit, but pointing it out to her would've only driven her away, and I'd needed someone then. "Why'd you go sort things with my landlord and take care of my shit and why do you still come around?"

She swallowed audibly, pulling her hands into her lap. "Because it's nice to feel needed."

The question was, who needed whom? "I didn't mean that the way it came out," I said. "I'm not sure who would've done it if you hadn't. I'm glad you did. I'm glad you're here."

"I know." Her expression eased. She did know. It was one of the things I'd always liked about her. Sometimes, her confidence wavered, but I liked that she faked it anyway.

"I'm just not sure I understand why."

"I don't think I know."

"And I think you do." I could see the wheels in her brain turning, but I let her off that hook to put her on another. "Have you fucked around?"

Right on cue, the CO got on his bullhorn. "Start wrapping up."

I'd heard the same question asked in here before by other inmates. There were stories, lots of them, about men accusing their girls of awful things.

Tiffany didn't react, which wasn't typical from what I'd seen or been told. "No," she said simply.

I wanted to believe her, but it seemed unlikely. I looked her in the eye. "I'd understand if you had, just tell me the truth. If I come out of here with you, it's a clean slate for us."

"I don't want a clean slate," she said. "You were good to me. I don't want to wipe that away. I haven't been with anyone else."

"But you could've been."

"Of course." She adjusted the sleeve of her dress. "I thought about it lots of times. I've had opportunities."

"I know you have."



       
         
       
        

"I guess you won't believe me, but I'm not a cheater. I think it's really low."

"Why wouldn't I believe you?"

"Maybe you think I'm, you know, slutty." She said it without flinching, straight up. "And, okay, I've been with some guys before you, but that doesn't make me a liar."

Well, she'd put me in my place, and she was right. "Okay, then tell me what you were thinking about just before this. Why me?"

Again, her eyes shifted, went a little distant. She was avoiding answering, like it was hard for her to say. "Look," she said. "I'm not proud of it, but at the courthouse, when Dexter gave me that bag of your things, the keys to your place and your truck, I was pissed. I didn't understand why, of all people, you thought I would know what to do with it. But the real reason I got mad was because I was scared. Nobody had ever just . . . trusted me that much. Your life was in that bag. I didn't know where to start. I was sure I'd fuck it up."