All Things Pretty (Pretty #3)(27)
Author: M. Leighton

“I’m not saying you can’t. I just don’t want to let you down. I know how important business is to you.”

“Not more important than you.”

Lie. I am part of his business. Part of the face of it.

I wipe my damp forehead with the back of my hand and stand, clutching my stomach for effect. “Okay. Well, if I’m not feeling better by morning, I’ll call. Otherwise, I’ll be over around ten tomorrow.”

He pats my upper arms, like an old woman might, and he gives me a tight smile. “If you need anything, let Sig know. I’ll have him stay close.”

“No!” I rush to say, then add more calmly, “that’s not necessary. I’ll be fine without anybody on hand. But I’ll be sure to call him if I need anything. I can wait until he arrives.”

“Regardless, he won’t be far. For my peace of mind.” Lance’s tone brooks no argument.

I keep my lips clamped shut. The more I resist, the more attention it will draw. “You’re so good to me.”

Vomit.

“Feel better.”

With that, he practically shoves me back onto the elevator and I’m free. At least for a few hours.

I rush downstairs, keeping an eye out for Sig as I make my way to my car. There is no evidence of him in sight and I made sure to steer clear of his truck was parked. I don’t know what he does for all the hours I’m with Lance, but it appears that he’s gone for the moment.

I take full advantage of my getaway, driving straight to a favorite Internet café of mine that’s all the way on the other side of town, near a boutique that I love, which is always good cover. I spend the next hour and a half on my computer and the following twenty minutes haphazardly picking out a dress and some shoes to cement my excuse. If Lance somehow finds out I didn’t go straight home and asks me about it, I’ll tell him that I needed some fresh air and my drive brought me here. I’ll have a receipt to prove it. And a new outfit. No big deal.

At least I hope not.

Some small part of my brain worries that one day I’ll get caught, but that part is quickly overridden and squashed. I can’t let that fear get a foothold or everything will be ruined. So I go through the days smart but brave, calculating yet casual.

When I get back home, I’m a little surprised to find both the street and my driveway empty. Sig won’t be happy that I left him in the dust that way, but I can’t be too concerned about what makes him happy. I just can’t.

Still, I feel guilty. I know he wanted to spend the day with me. The problem is, I wanted to spend the day with him, too. More than I wanted to do the things that I have to do. That’s what caused the problem.

I take my bags inside and change into more comfortable clothes–my clothes–before I tend to my mother. When I go into her room, she has turned sideways in the bed and one of her legs is hanging off the edge of the foam mattress.

“Feeling restless today, Momma?” I ask when I walk in, moving to her head to curl my hands under her arms. “Gotta get you back up here. Push with your legs, okay?”

I get no response, but sometimes when I ask her to do things, some still-alive part of her brain understands and complies. “One, two, three, push!” I say as I drag her toward me.

I see her feet scramble in the covers as she tries to do as I asked, but she’s not much help. It still takes me two more tries to get her back where she needs to be in the bed. Even though I’m out of breath by then, my heart is happy. Any time I see evidence of the woman who raised me, any time I see evidence of life inside her, it gives me hope. Hope that maybe one day…some how, some way…she can recover.

I feed her lunch and give her plenty to drink, all the while apologizing for my slack ways of the last few weeks.

“I know I’ve gotten off my routine, Momma. I don’t like going so long checking on you. I would never do this if I had another choice. You know that. I feel terrible, but Lance hired someone to keep an eye on me and I can’t risk him finding out about you. If he finds out about you, it’s possible that he could find out about everything else. And you know why I can’t let that happen.”

The weight of it all, coupled with the guilt of what I’ve done and what I still have yet to do, is suffocating. I wipe a tear from my cheek before it can travel very far. “I know if you could talk, you’d tell me I’m doing the right thing. You’d want me to take care of Travis the best way I know how, wouldn’t you?”

My mother’s vacant green eyes stare into mine. Something is going on behind them; I just don’t think that “something” is very often coherent or helpful. She grunts again and I see her lips move. Whether it’s because she wants more to drink or because she actually wants to speak, I don’t know. I choose to believe that if she could, she’d tell me that she understands and that she approves. But deep down, I hope that she has no idea what I’m saying, what I’m doing. I know that, one day, her out-of-it state will soon be a comfort to me. It will ease the guilt of what I may have to do when it comes time to run.

But that is another thought I refuse to dwell upon. I can’t give it room to grow. Or cripple me. Because that’s what it will do.

I’ve been at home for almost two hours and Sig still hasn’t shown up. That’s not like him. He seems very dedicated and, after this morning (and, even more, after the night at the club), I would’ve thought he’d be hard to shake.

As I pace through the living room, peeking through the curtains periodically for signs of his truck, I begin to feel the first stirrings of fear. And more guilt.

What if Lance found out that he lost me when I left? What if Lance, prone to dramatic mood swings, decided he wouldn’t give Sig another chance and fired him? All because of me. Or, worse yet, what if somehow Lance found out about our…relationship, whatever it is, and Sig is in trouble?

The mere suggestion of Sig getting hurt because of me twists my stomach into a sick knot. I pace faster, wringing my hands as I go.

After another thirty minutes, I get in my car and strike out to see if I can find Sig’s house. If he’s there, I’ll see his truck. Not many of the houses in this neighborhood have garages, so…

I go to the stop sign and turn left, like I’ve seen him do, and I prowl slowly along the street, looking for his big, black vehicle. When I reach the next stop sign, I take another left. No truck. At that stop sign, I make another left, which brings me full circle, to the crossroads of my own street. One block, no Sig.