Page 20 of Fly Back to Me
I yank a chuckle from both Alex and Emma, but my own amusement falls short.
Images of my attacker grate my skin. My throat rolls through the loneliness, and it dawns on me that it’s been a month since I visited the police station. I don’t know why I expected more, considering I understood that the man who rescued me wanted to keep his privacy intact. Regardless, I’m foolishly waiting for something beyond this silence. I’ve been given the cold shoulder before, but this one stings like dry ice on my bare skin.
Dry.
That’s probably the only word he used to describe my letter to him. Maybe I gave myself too much credit. I mean, I think I’m a decent writer. I was absolutely convinced I paid justice to the gratitude I feel.
But he couldn’t possibly reach out to me when he doesn’t even know my name. On the other hand, if he really wanted to find me, he’d rummage up a way to do just that. Officer Bellmont is a phone call away, and I guess that’s what’s bothering me the most.
I bend, trailing my hand down my left leg to brush my fingers against my leather ankle boot. He may not be physically near, but he’s with me.
All the time.
His protection is palpable, and as comforting as I knew it would be to wear this charm, I’m saddened at the same time. Because it’s just a souvenir.
A memento.
Not real.
Cade
The last two months have been haywire, given the official opening of Chrome Pipes Brewing. Business has climbed considerably, and now that I have a decent grip on my responsibilities, I’m quickly learning how to keep my head above water.
To celebrate the snowballing success, Jenna and I decided to create time for ourselves for a Sunday night dinner. She even offered to go to a steakhouse restaurant rather than the more recent excuse of being too tired to leave the house.
“What are you thinking of getting?” I ask.
My question is only answered by the distant clanking of ceramic dishes and metal utensils. I perk my gaze up from my menu, meeting Jenna’s golden locks at the top of her head. Then I drag my eyes to the tealight at the center of the linen between us, irritation traveling its way up from my stomach to my chest.
“I’m sorry,” Jenna finally answers, jerking her head up. “What did you say?”
My words falter for a silent beat as my mouth twitches. Then my stare lands on her pink lips, only to skate up to her sapphire eyes. “I asked what you were thinking of getting.”
“Oh.” She rests her iPhone face down next to her table setting, only to pick up the black booklet to sift through the pages. “I’m not sure. How about you?” Her fingers reach for the few loose strands framing the side of her face, tucking them behind her ear.
I’ve barely held her eyes tonight.
Jenna’s attention burrows in the menu, her chest pumping tentatively beneath her blush, satin blouse. My throat chucks up a wise response, but I swallow it down in the same breath. “I’m between the skirt steak and ribeye,” I simply say, my eyes connected to her.
She nods, her stare still chained to those damn pages. “Mm, maybe I’ll do the skirt steak too. I remember really enjoying it at the other steakhouse we went to.”
Maybe it’s a side effect from all the stress I’ve endured lately, but I’m beginning to place every single one of Jenna’s actions under a microscope. But even if it is paranoia, isn’t there a reason for it?
Throughout our entire three years together, Jenna’s never been more attached to her phone. It seems like an irrelevant detail in today’s world, but there’s been a shift in our relationship. One that’s too rocky for my liking.
I shut the menu booklet in my lap, laying it on the table as I opt to salvage my sanity. “If you don’t like the food, you can blame my employee, Jake, for the recommendation,” I joke.
Attention still averted, the corner of her mouth lifts. “Noted.”
Once the waiter comes over to drop off our drink orders from earlier, I lift my beer glass. “Cheers to finally getting a night alone.”
For the first time tonight, Jenna’s eyes hold mine longer than a couple seconds, and her lips twist into a small smile. “Cheers.”
When the tart liquid lathers my tongue, both our eyes drop to the vibration rumbling from her iPhone. I don’t miss how quick she is to place her hand over the device, and then she’s peeling the wine glass from her lips in the same instant.
She settles the drink on the linen, sneaking a peek at her home screen before flipping it over once more. I slump back comfortably in my chair, legs spreading as I rest the beer glass on the table. “Who is that?” I ask with a jerk of my chin.
Her eyes narrow. “Cade, stop.”
