“What does?”
The air return flipped on, blowing thinly across the bed, across his skin. Scott started to get hard. All he wanted was to pull the covers off Tricia’s delicious body, roll over on top of her and just live.
He pulled the corner of the sheet over his thighs.
“I wouldn’t call it hurt.”
She continued to stare in his direction. Did she see him more clearly in the dark, without the distraction of light and color? Really see him? Or did the darkness allow her to pretend?
“What, then?” she asked.
He might as well tell her. It wasn’t like he had anything to lose. She was going to leave eventually anyway.
“I’m just curious,” he murmured.
“About what?”
“You.”
She rolled onto her back, her head facing up. “What about me?” Her voice had grown more friendly and that in itself rang as a warning to him.
“Your inconsistencies.”
“Such as?” He might have been responsible for some of the distance between them that evening. Right now, it all came from her.
“You speak as though this modest lifestyle is all you’ve ever known, but when you need to use the restroom, you go to the Hotel Del.”
“It was the closest—”
“No.” He turned his head, pinning her with his stare although he knew she couldn’t see that. “It wasn’t. There was a motel five minutes down the road with a public restroom sign in the window. It’s like you didn’t even see it. Which would often be the case with someone who’s grown up with only the best. Without even realizing it, you learn to disregard anything less as if it doesn’t exist. Because in your reality, it doesn’t.”
“Well, I—”
“It wasn’t just that.” Scott cut her off as soon as he heard the prevarication in her voice. “It was the way you moved at the Del. You demanded your share of space, as though you belonged there.”
She rolled over to look at him. “I walked out the door!”
“If I hadn’t lived an affluent life myself, I probably wouldn’t have noticed, Trish, but today wasn’t the only time. You get this…air about you. An air of privilege.”
She sat up until her head and shoulders were resting against the headboard. “So I’m a snob.”
“It’s not a snobbish air. More, it’s a sense of self. A natural awareness of worth. I think it’s something bred into wealthy children. Something they take with them wherever they go. Sometimes it’s as simple as the way you stand or the way you move about a room.”
“I had a persnickety aunt. She made me spend one summer at a camp where they taught tomboys to be ladies.”
He believed her. He also believed she’d been born wealthy.
“I told you about my past,” he said.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
She had him there. Still, it bothered him that she didn’t reciprocate. Was it pride?
He’d like to think so.
And feared not.
“You don’t trust me.” Trust could be freely given—at least the kind of trust where you could tell someone your secret and know it would be safe.
“I don’t trust anyone.”
He sat up, too, leaning against the headboard, taking the sheet with him. “It’s pretty obvious someone’s hurt you. Badly.” He was trespassing and knew it. The terror he’d felt that morning on the beach, when he’d known she was gone and had no idea where to begin searching, no idea if she was in danger or if she’d ever done anything like that before, drove him on.
“I’m guessing it had something to do with Taylor’s biological father.”
Her silence gave him nothing. It could indicate agreement. Or a refusal to be drawn into a conversation she’d asked not to have.
“But that doesn’t have anything to do with me. You’ve been here almost two years, Trish. I responded to your overtures of friendship in a bar, in spite of the fact that you were obviously pregnant and every other guy there was ignoring you. I brought you home and offered you a place to stay, no strings attached, no sex required. And when you let me know you wanted sex, that you needed a new experience to replace the memory of the baby’s conception, I was very careful. Hell, we birthed that baby together! I would think you’d know by now that you can trust me.”
When she turned her head, Scott could see the sheen of moisture in her eyes, reflected by a ray from the moon shining in the opposite window.
“It’s not you I don’t trust,” she whispered. “It’s me. And because I can’t trust myself, I can’t trust anyone else.”
He didn’t understand.
“I…made…choices. Bad ones. Really bad ones.”
Skin growing hot, Scott remained still. This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? To know?
“They affected not only my life, but others as well, and I never saw it coming. I had so much confidence, so much blind trust in my ability to make good decisions, that I almost died. Worse, I could have caused someone else’s death.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen her cry. And two of them had been within the past couple of days.
“That would be murder, Scott. And all because I trusted my judgment where other people were concerned.” She slid back down, pulling the covers up to her chin as she blinked away any hint of emotion. “I don’t anymore.”
She must, at least a little. Even if she wasn’t ready to acknowledge it to herself. She was here, wasn’t she?
And so was Taylor.
Tricia tried to sleep. She closed her eyes. Went to the safe place inside where, no matter what was happening on the surface of her life, things were exactly as she wanted them to be.
The place was always the same. A meadow. With cool grass, a light breeze blowing. The sun always shone in her meadow, no matter what time of day she went there. It kept her warm, but wasn’t hot. A brook trickled nearby. Birds sang there sometimes. Other times heavenly music played. It had to be heavenly because there were no electronics in her meadow—not even beneath the white canopy that had netted sides to keep out any bugs and a down floor upon which she could lie.
Tonight the meadow was elusive. She could get there, but kept popping back out, to an inexpensive mattress in a modest home in San Diego, lying next to a man who, in her meadow, would’ve been a fairy tale prince. But who, in real life, presented as much danger as he did safety. The biggest danger of all was making her want things she couldn’t have. Things that could endanger her life. Or Taylor’s. She couldn’t afford to become too soft. Or trusting. She couldn’t afford to feel secure.
That was when runaways got caught.
Still, she did want things. She wanted him.
He was still lying half-propped against the headboard and she knew he was awake.
Sliding one hand from beneath the covers, Tricia entwined her fingers with his. Many nights she’d fallen asleep with their hands interlocked.
“I want to stay.”
He didn’t react until, several seconds later, she felt the pressure of a light squeeze against her fingers.