Real Ugly(37)

“I won't try to stop you if you're going to pursue him,” I tell her, and that's the God honest truth. I won't. Why bother? Even if I was interested (which I'm not), then blocking Hayden wouldn't do me any good. Turner has to learn to say no to temptation or that fantasy family he's dreaming about will never happen. He's weak willed, I think. That's his problem. He wants and wants and wants, and he gets so much that he's never figured out how to just say no. “But I'm kind of working some shit out, and he's a part of it.”

Hayden's blue eyes go wide and she crosses her arms behind her head, giving me a full body shot of her curvy figure, her trim waist, the little rose tattoo under her belly button. Even with me, she can't help herself. She has to flirt and flaunt because that's what she does best. Sometimes, I almost feel sorry for her.

“So he knows?”

“Goddamn it, Hayden,” I snarl, letting my temper slip a little. “Of course he doesn't.” She laughs, and the sound isn't pleasant, not in the least.

“Then you won't have a problem handing him over?” I make a face at her and cross one arm over my chest.

“Hand him over?” I say, disturbed that she even thinks I have that ability. “To hand him over, I'd have to have some sort of claim over the guy, and I can assure you that I do not. You want me to play handmaiden for you? Fine. I'll cut your steak into little pieces and wipe your ass, but if it's Turner you want, you'll have to figure out a way to get him yourself. Grow some balls, Hayden, and do your own dirty work.” I reach under the waistband of my jeans and snap my thong at her, spinning away without another word and storming into the front of the bus, frustrated that we're on the move.

I run my hand through my air and take a deep breath. One thing at a time, I tell myself, wondering if Eric really is going to get pinned with his parents' murder. It would be a load off my shoulders, that's for sure, and I wouldn't even feel all that guilty about it. He knew what was going on with his sister, and he didn't do a damn thing to stop it. I did. That was me. And if I had to make the choice again, I'd still do it. A good person escaped that situation and two bad ones died. Me, I consider myself a neutral, so I guess I'm still in the gray. I wonder if there will ever be a tipping point for me.

Thirty seconds later, I remember the date and my mouth goes dry and my throat closes up.

March 15th.

Shit. I was so preoccupied with secret number one that I forgot about … My stomach churns like crazy and my hands start to shake. Happens to me every year. I get overwhelmed with could-haves and might-have-beens and my whole life starts to seem like one big fraud, like I'm not really living it, like I'm just existing. And it's not just the baby, and it's not just Turner. It's everything. Just everything.

“Dax,” I say, and he snaps to attention like a shoulder. I realize then and there that he's really into me. It's hitting him hard, I see. Where before he tried to play it casual, now he's up in arms. He rises to his feet and takes a step towards me. When I spin to face him, I don't smile. Don't want him getting any ideas. “Can I borrow your phone?”

He frowns.

“To call Turner?”

“Does it fucking matter?” I snap at him, and snatch the phone away violently when he hands it over. I storm into the back, not caring that I'm probably waking Blair and Wren, and step into the second bathroom, plopping my ass down on the toilet lid. It's only then that I realize I don't have his number. That it was blocked, unlisted. Jesus Christ.

I slam the screen of the phone into my forehead, and let the empty beer can fall to the floor at my feet. Reaching behind me, I flush the toilet to get some privacy and practice the words that are floating around inside my skull. When we get to Reno, I want to make sure that I'll still be able to say them.

“Turner,” I begin, and I glance up sharply, seeing my reflection pale and frustrated in the mirror that hangs from the back of the door. My eyes are huge, not scared, but nervous maybe. Just a little bit. The question isn't why, because I know that answer somewhere, deep down. It's how come? How can I still be into Turner? How can I still care what he thinks about me or what he has to say? How? How? How? “Turner,” I start again, and I don't let my voice get dry or crack, don't let my emotions break through the perfect mask I've plastered over my face. “Turner, there is no kid because there was no baby. Six years ago to the day, I had an abortion.”



I spend the rest of the day moping around the bus, tapping my index finger to my lips, nursing a six-pack and an entire carton of cigs. Dax offered me some stronger stuff, but I don't think it'll help. Somehow, I imagine that any advanced narcotics I choose to partake in will only exemplify the feelings churning in my gut. Right now, I need to deal, and I need to do it with as little help as is humanly possible. I have to figure out how to get through this.