“I was twelve living with an elderly woman in a retirement community. Not like I had much else to do.”
“Then maybe Roland knows something and is finally coming clean.” McQueen stood up and followed her to the kitchen.
“Maybe he is,” Allison said.
“Open it.”
“I will.” Allison turned to face him. “Soon as you’re gone.”
“Cricket...” He put his hands on her hips.
Allison touched his face, his five-o’clock shadow that always came in about an hour early every day.
“Goodbye, McQueen,” she said, taking his hands by the wrists and removing them from her body.
His shoulders slumped in defeat before he straightened up again and picked up his keys off the table and shoved them in his pocket.
“All right,” he said. “You win. But do me a favor, okay?” He went to the door. “Keep in touch.”
Allison opened the door for him and he started to walk out. Then stopped. Then turned back. She knew it was coming and she knew she could stop it. She didn’t.
He took her face in his hands and kissed her lips, a long lingering kiss, a kiss she returned. The kiss was a bad idea, a terrible idea, but at least it gave her the chance to pull away first.
“I always knew I’d regret getting involved with you,” Allison said.
“Then why did you do it?” he asked.
“Because I knew I’d regret not getting involved with you even more.”
He laughed and that was a shame because McQueen had a good laugh. Too good. He kissed her again.
“One more time,” he said against her lips. “Maybe that’ll make you feel better.”
Allison let him take her into the bedroom.
She didn’t want it, but she needed it.
Anything was better than being alone.
Last times were no time for anything fancy. McQueen stripped her naked, put her on her back in the bed and kissed every inch of her like he was kissing every inch goodbye. Allison sighed with pleasure when he entered her. It was either sigh or cry and she refused to give in to her tears again. McQueen kissed her neck and said into her ear, “And to think I always thought I was the first rich son of a bitch to take you in from the cold.”
“Oh, you were,” she said, almost smiling. “Dr. Capello wasn’t a son of a bitch.”
Dr. Capello was, in fact, an angel. At least, that’s how she’d once thought of him. Until age seven, Allison had lived in a little town called Red, where even the trees in spring were a dull shade of brown. High desert, they called it, past the Cascades, which might as well have been a sky-high wall for how well they trapped the rain on the other side of the mountains. Although Allison’s teachers had said they lived an hour’s drive away from mossy green forests and three hours from the ocean, she had never believed them. The whole world was high desert to her until that day the man with the brown beard came to the house where they’d taken her because she had nowhere else to go.
Allison lived in the single-story house with siding the color of desert sand, and shared a room with three other girls, all of them older. Older and terrifying. All three of them resented the intrusion of a “little girl” into their tween kingdom. It was 1997 and she had no idea who those boys were in the posters on the wall and not knowing who the Backstreet Boys were was apparently enough of a crime to render Allison unworthy of friendship or even basic kindnesses from anyone but Miss Whitney.
She’d gone to find Miss Whitney that day, because one of the girls—Melissa, the biggest one who called all the shots—had slapped Allison for daring to sit in the wrong chair. Allison had taken her tearstained red face to Miss Whitney’s tiny office in the hopes of being allowed to hide there and read all day. Miss Whitney had let her do that a time or two. Apparently Allison was “adjusting poorly” and suffering from “profound stress,” and she needed a “more nurturing environment.” Allison wasn’t sure what all that meant, but she’d heard Miss Whitney saying that on the phone to someone the day before. What Allison really wanted was her mother back, but Miss Whitney had reminded her—kindly and more than once—that her mother was never coming back. They’d been trying to find her long-gone father instead, or another relative for her to live with. No luck yet, except an aunt deemed too old to handle a seven-year-old girl.
The first time she’d seen the man with the beard he’d been hugging Miss Whitney in her office. Allison stood in the doorway and stared at the man who was tall and dressed in what looked to her like blue pajamas. He patted Miss Whitney’s back very hard as he hugged her, which made Miss Whitney laugh and wince, wince and laugh.
“My God,” the bearded man said as he pulled back from the hug. He’d seen her lurking in the doorway. “Is this her?” He turned to Miss Whitney, his brown eyes wide.
“That’s her. That’s our Allison.”
Immediately, he squatted on the floor to meet Allison eye to eye.
Allison took a step back, afraid she’d broken a rule.
“It’s all right,” the man said, and his beard split apart in a big smile that showed a row of bright white teeth. “Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not scared,” Allison said. “Are you?”
He grinned at that. “Surprised. You look a little like another girl I used to know.”
“I thought the same thing when I saw her,” Miss Whitney said. “Cousins at least. Should I not have called?”
“No, no...” the bearded man said. “It’s fine.”
“Why are you wearing pajamas?” Allison asked the bearded man. She knew they were pajamas because the pants had a drawstring on them like her pajamas. Zipper meant outdoor pants. No zipper meant indoor pants. That’s how her mother had explained it.
The bearded man laughed and it was a nice laugh and he had nice eyes. Nice, not like pretty, but nice like kind.
“These are called scrubs,” he said. “They’re not pajamas. Doctors wear them.”
“Are you a doctor?” Allison asked.
“I am.”
“Is somebody sick?”
“You tell me,” the bearded man said. “You don’t look too good.”
“I got hit.”
“Hit?” the bearded man said, and looked up at Miss Whitney.
“Melissa?” Miss Whitney asked.
Tears welled up in Allison’s eyes again and she nodded.
“I’ll be back,” Miss Whitney said with a put-upon groan.
“You go jerk a knot in Melissa’s tail,” the bearded man said. “I’ll get Allison here back in working order.”
He stood up straight and Miss Whitney patted him on the arm as she left the office. They were alone together now, Allison and the bearded man.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, his hand on his chin.
“A little.”
“It’s okay if you cry,” he said. “I can tell you want to.”
“Katie said I shouldn’t cry.”
“Why not?”
“They don’t